It is amazing to me how easy it is to live as if this life is all there is. To forget the always-potentially-iminent arrival of Jesus because it is equal parts terrifying and breathtaking to think about, and I don't need that weight on my mind, thank you. The problem with routine and comfort, is that it numbs us to a point that our fire for the gospel turns into more of a votive candle in a decorative little holder.
I am the most guilty of all when it comes to living lazily. Especially recently.
It's not that I don't believe the wonderful news of Jesus' work on the cross is real, it's that I'm not living like I believe it's real. THAT'S the catch. It occurred to me recently that real, without-borders faith comes from the knowledge that Jesus and His love are r-e-a-l real. My response to that knowledge should compel me forward into whatever the heck it is I'm supposed to do. Which, ya know, is something I've always kind of known, but just recently hit me like a punch in the gut.
It punched me so hard, I went and got dunked in a giant tank of water. Yep. Like as in baptism.
And, OKAY, that was so not something I thought would happen when I randomly decided to go my boyfriend's church instead of mine for a week. Seriously, I am not super into altar call responses. Not that I don't believe their legitimacy, I just have never felt the need to prance my little tail in front of the entire church and be all, "cool, BAPTIZE ME". Plus, I pretty much handled that business at the age of six and got to wear a big white robe. And while I'm 100% sure I made a legit choice and meant it fully, as an adult I have felt a definite urge to revaluate and recommit. A lot has happened since age six. ALL THAT SAID, it never would have occurred to me to get re-baptized on a beautiful November day in front of probably a thousand people.
But when you get punched in the gut, you kind of have to respond.
Hilariously, right after that first little nudge to go, I thought about this post from last year. And how I said I wanted to live life to the fullest, taking every opportunity to grow in Christ. It was like 2012 me was holding 2013 me accountable to the commitment. Ha. Good one, self. So there I was, tearing up and terrified, thinking about YOLO and Jesus and how dearly I wanted Him and it was all just a little too much. And I went for it.
Now, twenty-four hours later, after processing (because it takes me a long time to process things, especially when they are big things), I am excited. I am nervous. I am ready. Ready for what? Heck, don't know. But, hey, use me, Jesus. I don't want the gospel to be contained in my heart like a votive candle, I want it to engulf my soul like a freakin' wildfire.
A song that has recently caught my heart is one by my new favorite group of worshippers, Rend Collective. It has become my chant, my cry, my JAM.
Come set Your rule and reign
In our hearts again
Increase in us we pray
Unveil why we're made
Come set our hearts ablaze with hope
Like wildfire in our very souls
Holy Spirit come invade us now
We are Your Church
We need Your power
In us
We seek Your kingdom first
We hunger and we thirst
Refuse to waste our lives
For You're our joy and prize
To see the captive hearts released
The hurt; the sick; the poor at peace
We lay down our lives for Heaven's cause
We are Your church
We pray revive
This earth
Build Your kingdom here
Let the darkness fear
Show Your mighty hand
Heal our streets and land
Set Your church on fire
Win this nation back
Change the atmosphere
Build Your kingdom here
We pray
Unleash Your kingdom's power
Reaching the near and far
No force of hell can stop
Your beauty changing hearts
You made us for much more than this
Awake the kingdom seed in us
Fill us with the strength and love of Christ
We are Your church
We are the hope
On earth
So, yeah. That's what I did this weekend.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Adventuring, Part 2: Antoine, Marva and La Bastide.
Train stations are not spaces with which I am super familiar. That might explain the air of romance and mystery that surrounds them in my mind. That, and the fact that I associate any and all train station situations (even those in Paris) with September 1st and the Hogwarts Express. At any rate, I find train stations fascinating. And running around them trying to find the right platform at the right time to be equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
After our Paris shenanigans, my best sister/friend/co-traveler and I jumped a train headed for the coastal town of Montpellier. I knew it was coastal because 1) the trams were neon colors and decorated with flowers, and 2) everyone was wearing a bikini. Unfortunately for us, the weather in Montpellier was much balmier than what we had left in Paris, so we were those losers in pants and boots half a mile from the beach.
Our orange tram dropped us off at a little stop not far from the train station, where we were greeted by our weekend hosts. Marva is my grandmother's stepmother's niece, who met and married her husband Antoine while working as a nurse in Europe. All we knew about them prior to this meeting at the bus stop was what our grandma had told us, which was that we had relatives in the south of France and wouldn't it be fun to visit them someday? It was. It was fun.
An hour's drive north of Montpellier, hidden in the hills of southern France, there is nestled a tiny little town called La Bastide. I don't even know if it's actually considered a town, because it's only residential. The next closest town that actually has businesses is a few minutes away, and the grocery store is an hour down the mountain. La Bastide's population is right around 35 during tourist season, and 20 the rest of the year. The sheep to people ratio is about 13 to 1. And that is a very modest approximation. In short, we were in a straight up provincial fairy tale. (SING ALLLLL THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST SONGS).
 |
| Standing at the edge of the village |
In the hustle and bustle of Paris, one is always checking the time, making a schedule, trying to stick to a plan. In La Bastide, there was no need. I forgot what day it was, didn't look at the time, and joined the quiet routine of the village. It was relaxed without being sleepy, because everyone was always doing something, but they were not in a hurry to do it. We walked with Marva down to her friends' barn to help milk the sheep (milking 450 sheep takes forever, but talking with the farmer in a jumble of English, French and Spanish helps pass the time), we stopped and talked with the neighbors (my favorite was the man Marva indelicately called the town dunce), and Antoine took us on a guided tour of the village (his accent made the whole affair every kind of ideal). The stars at night were magical. The four of us sat in the living room cuddled in blankets and listened to classical music while we read. We took a hike to a chapel the town is help to preserve, and heard its history. According to Marva, the foundation of the church was ancient, but the structure itself was quite a bit more modern. "How much later was it built?" I asked. "Oh, around the 14th century." (Yeah, SUPER modern.)
 |
| Antoine and Marva's house |
In a way, La Bastide felt sort of sacred. Okay, maybe that sounds weird, but it's the only way I can describe it. Here's the thing: American history is great, but sorta short. And some of the most historical places have been either made into tourist attractions or knocked down and replaced. La Bastide has been nestled in that little mountain, those same structures have been in place (granted, they have electricity now), and people have been raising sheep to make a living for hundreds of years. The village chapel was actually the private chapel of a lord, and was attached to the castle that once looked out over the valley. The history of the place was so very palpable. To know that I was roaming around streets that had been roamed in the same way since the 1200s, and that nothing much had changed since then, was eerily beautiful.
We left La Bastide Monday afternoon, and coming back into Montpellier to catch the train felt like entering the 21st century again. We hugged Antoine and Marva and they kissed our cheeks, and we promised over and over to come back.
Which we will. For more sheep milking and stargazing and being reminded that life can be simpler and sweeter than Paris.
Saturday, August 17, 2013
Adventuring, Part 1: C'est la vie.
The best part about traveling outside the States is that everyone you meet prior to your departure is SO excited for you. People in line at your cafe, the girl who waxes your eyebrows, the lady stamping your boarding pass, all the lovely people at every checkpoint inside the airport, and fellow travelers waiting in the terminal to go someplace less exotic (like Shreveport or Denver). Every interaction causes your own excitement level to rise, until you are sitting in the mid-cabin window seat on a trans-Altlantic flight from the City of Brotherly Love, USA to the City of Love, France.
Paris.
I have dreamed and schemed about Europe since I was twelve. The dream grew from the combination of a love of historic literature, an obsession with European royalty, and the runaway imagination of a romantic girl with very big life plans. You would think, then, that when my little sister said "Come to Europe with me this summer," I would have said YES PLEASE SIGN ME UP immediately. But I did that thing that responsible adults are supposed to do, which is to shake their heads woefully at the smallness of the bank account and wax on about the importance of saving money. Thankfully for me, I'm not as responsible as I should be, and my thirst for adventure has not dwindled nearly as much as my finances.
Paris is completely as magical as you would think. One moment you're walking along the Seine, your head buried in a metro map that makes little to no sense, and then you look up and the freaking Notre Dame is majestically looming above your head. We were living in a postcard. Or a movie, or some other reality that was so far removed from my norm, I felt like I'd entered an alternate universe.
The other best part about traveling is that it makes the world seem exponentially bigger. My sister and I talked about that a lot as wegot totally lost wandered around Paris. There is so much adventure to be had. So much going on in the world that we never knew about. So many people to know. Instead of a fancy hotel (20-somethings backpacking Europe DO NOT have the luxury even of Priceline), or a hostel (Sorry, I'm not that adventurous), Sister and I stayed with a precious French couple we found via the internet (sounds way sketchier than it was, I promise). So, for $60 a night, we got a pull-out couch, a 2x2 shower, and a gigantic old-fashioned key that upped our fancy European factor by 1000. We were two minutes from the metro, and five minutes from the grocery store, where we bought our fair share of baguettes and fruit. Because, when you're in Europe on a budget, baguettes and fruit are maybe your best option. And coffee.
I think the defining moment of Paris was our last night there. We had spent a jam-packed day touring Versailles (after getting lost, missing the train, and losing Sister's cell phone. We also canoed around the lake, which is definitely more a couples' activity and way less romantic when neither canoe occupant knows how to row), and taken a whirlwind run through the Louvre. It was time to end Paris with a bang, despite the fact that we had walked 23748932 miles that day and probably could have just gone for a nap. But Paris has a reviving effect on one's store of reserve energy, so we found it within ourselves to buy a three-Euro bottle of wine, lavender chocolate, and two metro tickets to the Champ de Mars, Tour Eiffel.
Okay, whatever, it is merely a tourist attraction and you wouldn't catch a Parisian within 100 feet of it and it's not even that cool I KNOW. But, actually, it IS that cool and the sheer amount of exuberance surrounding the Eiffel Tower makes a person want to skip with joy. As it happened, a couple of Sister's college friends were also in town (small world, much?), so we sat down with them on thin little fake blankets they had stolen off the plane (brilliant) and waited for some charming gentleman with a bottle opener to assist us with our wine. I know, right? What were we thinking? But this is Paris, y'all, and not twenty minutes later we were approached three guys from Colorado who just so happened to have a bottle opener. Thanks, guys.
So there we were. Seven American twenty-somethings, in Paris, sitting at the foot of the Eiffel Tower as it shimmered and sparkled in the just-darkened sky. It was a moment of absolute wonder, in which we all took a big breath and relaxed into the reality of our extreme good fortune, and total contentment. Moments like that are hard to come by.
As we packed up to head our separate ways, Scott From Colorado said, "I mean we just spent an evening under the Eiffel Tower, so we're all basically in love, right?" To which I replied, "Obviously. I wish we didn't have a train to catch tomorrow, or else we would stay longer."
And he said, "Ehh, no worries. We'll always have Paris."
Paris.
I have dreamed and schemed about Europe since I was twelve. The dream grew from the combination of a love of historic literature, an obsession with European royalty, and the runaway imagination of a romantic girl with very big life plans. You would think, then, that when my little sister said "Come to Europe with me this summer," I would have said YES PLEASE SIGN ME UP immediately. But I did that thing that responsible adults are supposed to do, which is to shake their heads woefully at the smallness of the bank account and wax on about the importance of saving money. Thankfully for me, I'm not as responsible as I should be, and my thirst for adventure has not dwindled nearly as much as my finances.
Paris is completely as magical as you would think. One moment you're walking along the Seine, your head buried in a metro map that makes little to no sense, and then you look up and the freaking Notre Dame is majestically looming above your head. We were living in a postcard. Or a movie, or some other reality that was so far removed from my norm, I felt like I'd entered an alternate universe.
The other best part about traveling is that it makes the world seem exponentially bigger. My sister and I talked about that a lot as we
I think the defining moment of Paris was our last night there. We had spent a jam-packed day touring Versailles (after getting lost, missing the train, and losing Sister's cell phone. We also canoed around the lake, which is definitely more a couples' activity and way less romantic when neither canoe occupant knows how to row), and taken a whirlwind run through the Louvre. It was time to end Paris with a bang, despite the fact that we had walked 23748932 miles that day and probably could have just gone for a nap. But Paris has a reviving effect on one's store of reserve energy, so we found it within ourselves to buy a three-Euro bottle of wine, lavender chocolate, and two metro tickets to the Champ de Mars, Tour Eiffel.
Okay, whatever, it is merely a tourist attraction and you wouldn't catch a Parisian within 100 feet of it and it's not even that cool I KNOW. But, actually, it IS that cool and the sheer amount of exuberance surrounding the Eiffel Tower makes a person want to skip with joy. As it happened, a couple of Sister's college friends were also in town (small world, much?), so we sat down with them on thin little fake blankets they had stolen off the plane (brilliant) and waited for some charming gentleman with a bottle opener to assist us with our wine. I know, right? What were we thinking? But this is Paris, y'all, and not twenty minutes later we were approached three guys from Colorado who just so happened to have a bottle opener. Thanks, guys.
So there we were. Seven American twenty-somethings, in Paris, sitting at the foot of the Eiffel Tower as it shimmered and sparkled in the just-darkened sky. It was a moment of absolute wonder, in which we all took a big breath and relaxed into the reality of our extreme good fortune, and total contentment. Moments like that are hard to come by.
As we packed up to head our separate ways, Scott From Colorado said, "I mean we just spent an evening under the Eiffel Tower, so we're all basically in love, right?" To which I replied, "Obviously. I wish we didn't have a train to catch tomorrow, or else we would stay longer."
And he said, "Ehh, no worries. We'll always have Paris."
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Adventures in Quinoa
Not having a job and being by myself for 80% of my day has resulted in me becoming incredibly domestic. This is a thing I do when I have nothing else to do. These phases have fondly become known as my "June streaks", because, frankly, my secret life goal is to be June Cleaver. But I am easily distracted. So it comes and goes.
Lately, however, I have been all up in that housewife life. Hanging art, organizing closets, doing laundry, watering the plants (just kidding my roommate does that) and, oh yes, feeding myself. Which some of my friends find absolutely laughable, because I tend to do things like make the home made whipped cream, and accidentally add orange flavor instead of vanilla (whatever it tasted like a dreamcicle. Cry me a river). But, the thing is, when you are in charge of not starving, you make it happen.
My adorable, hip mother has been on the world's biggest health kick, which has led to family discussions on purchasing a cow ("Where will it go?" I said. "In the deep freeze!" said the parents. "We don't own a deep freeze, parents.") and eschewing all things processed. Basically, I am terrified of eating anything that is not straight from the ground because, according to mom, it will probably kill me. So when I left the nest and started buying my own groceries again, I felt the challenge to continue in the healthy ways of my inspirational mother. (Also my jean shorts were magically way bigger on me than they had been last summer, and no WAY am I letting that go). Hence: Adventures in quinoa.
My first adventure in quinoa was an incredibly successful situation involving a frozen chicken tender sautéed with olive oil, lime juice, and chopped mini bell peppers (which, incidentally, make a great chip substitute according to my slim and trim father). Salt it to taste, then toss it with the quinoa for a lovely, quickie lunch. Even more quickie if the quinoa and chicken are already prepared and hanging out in the fridge.
Adventure number two was even more successful. And straight up GENIUS, if I do say so myself. Like, Pinterest genius. Really. Since dairy and bread are making me fat and prone to break outs (according to the Paleo whiz), I've been trying to find breakfast substitutes for my classic toast or cereal habit. This morning I looked in my fridge and saw fruit, vegetables (yay me I'm doing so good!!) and quinoa. "Okay. How can quinoa be a breakfast food?" Here's how:
Heat up the quinoa in a frying pan with some cinnamon and brown sugar. Pop it in a bowl, sprinkle more brown sugar on top (so it's all melty and excellent) then throw a handful of blueberries in there.
NOM NOM NOM. I even had it with a cup of iced coffee (Roasterie Bali Reserve, duh) splashed with almond milk.
Quick, give me a show on The Food Network.
Lately, however, I have been all up in that housewife life. Hanging art, organizing closets, doing laundry, watering the plants (just kidding my roommate does that) and, oh yes, feeding myself. Which some of my friends find absolutely laughable, because I tend to do things like make the home made whipped cream, and accidentally add orange flavor instead of vanilla (whatever it tasted like a dreamcicle. Cry me a river). But, the thing is, when you are in charge of not starving, you make it happen.
My adorable, hip mother has been on the world's biggest health kick, which has led to family discussions on purchasing a cow ("Where will it go?" I said. "In the deep freeze!" said the parents. "We don't own a deep freeze, parents.") and eschewing all things processed. Basically, I am terrified of eating anything that is not straight from the ground because, according to mom, it will probably kill me. So when I left the nest and started buying my own groceries again, I felt the challenge to continue in the healthy ways of my inspirational mother. (Also my jean shorts were magically way bigger on me than they had been last summer, and no WAY am I letting that go). Hence: Adventures in quinoa.
My first adventure in quinoa was an incredibly successful situation involving a frozen chicken tender sautéed with olive oil, lime juice, and chopped mini bell peppers (which, incidentally, make a great chip substitute according to my slim and trim father). Salt it to taste, then toss it with the quinoa for a lovely, quickie lunch. Even more quickie if the quinoa and chicken are already prepared and hanging out in the fridge.
Adventure number two was even more successful. And straight up GENIUS, if I do say so myself. Like, Pinterest genius. Really. Since dairy and bread are making me fat and prone to break outs (according to the Paleo whiz), I've been trying to find breakfast substitutes for my classic toast or cereal habit. This morning I looked in my fridge and saw fruit, vegetables (yay me I'm doing so good!!) and quinoa. "Okay. How can quinoa be a breakfast food?" Here's how:
Heat up the quinoa in a frying pan with some cinnamon and brown sugar. Pop it in a bowl, sprinkle more brown sugar on top (so it's all melty and excellent) then throw a handful of blueberries in there.
NOM NOM NOM. I even had it with a cup of iced coffee (Roasterie Bali Reserve, duh) splashed with almond milk.
Quick, give me a show on The Food Network.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Looking in the Rearview
The upside to the fact that I haven't posted anything since, you know, February, is that I didn't have time to wax on about life because I was too busy living it. Sorry I'm just not sorry about that.
But I felt a little life update was needed because, y'all, I DID IT. I MOVED TO NASHVILLE.
(Insert full orchestra fanfare, please and thank you.)
The best thing about living here so far is that I can unashamedly blast country music and no one will judge me.
This morning, though, I find myself in a very familiar place. It's the same place I was in last September (if you will recall, I was super dramatic about it and moaned and groaned. Typical). I am in a new city, I know exactly ten people, and I am jobless. It sounds daunting. It is kind of daunting. But HELLO MY NAME IS RACHEL AND I AM EXCITED. Ya know why? Because that totally unplanned time in Kansas City ended up being beautiful and wonderful and full of blessing. Which has convinced me of this truth: that the God I love has a treasure chest full of good things for me. My only job is to trust Him. And not freak out. Which, if you know me at all, you know is legitimately impossible. But, hey, a girl can grow!
They say hindsight is 20/20, and they are right. As I get my Nashville feet wet (literally. It's raining.) and take time to reflect on the last eight months, I am blown away by the perfect planning that landed me at a little cafe in Brookside with the strangest, most beautiful group of people. I would say random, but I know it wasn't. There's no way. For reasons that I'm sure will continue to be revealed as we each grow and move down different paths, we were given a season with each other to learn. (I am getting so sappy right now, I apologize). It wasn't necessarily an easy time. There was crisis and conflict and hurts. But, man, there was also alotta love. And I know a whole bunch of things now that I didn't know before. Which is super handy for being a big kid in a new city. And also for being a more well-rounded human.
So with all that in mind, I'm ready for this new chapter. I'm ready for new things and new experiences and new blessings. I'm willing to wait, because I know that sometimes good things take time. I'm trusting that stepping out in faith (and moving 9 hours southeast) will be fruitful.
Bring. It. ON, Nashville.
But I felt a little life update was needed because, y'all, I DID IT. I MOVED TO NASHVILLE.
(Insert full orchestra fanfare, please and thank you.)
The best thing about living here so far is that I can unashamedly blast country music and no one will judge me.
This morning, though, I find myself in a very familiar place. It's the same place I was in last September (if you will recall, I was super dramatic about it and moaned and groaned. Typical). I am in a new city, I know exactly ten people, and I am jobless. It sounds daunting. It is kind of daunting. But HELLO MY NAME IS RACHEL AND I AM EXCITED. Ya know why? Because that totally unplanned time in Kansas City ended up being beautiful and wonderful and full of blessing. Which has convinced me of this truth: that the God I love has a treasure chest full of good things for me. My only job is to trust Him. And not freak out. Which, if you know me at all, you know is legitimately impossible. But, hey, a girl can grow!
They say hindsight is 20/20, and they are right. As I get my Nashville feet wet (literally. It's raining.) and take time to reflect on the last eight months, I am blown away by the perfect planning that landed me at a little cafe in Brookside with the strangest, most beautiful group of people. I would say random, but I know it wasn't. There's no way. For reasons that I'm sure will continue to be revealed as we each grow and move down different paths, we were given a season with each other to learn. (I am getting so sappy right now, I apologize). It wasn't necessarily an easy time. There was crisis and conflict and hurts. But, man, there was also alotta love. And I know a whole bunch of things now that I didn't know before. Which is super handy for being a big kid in a new city. And also for being a more well-rounded human.
So with all that in mind, I'm ready for this new chapter. I'm ready for new things and new experiences and new blessings. I'm willing to wait, because I know that sometimes good things take time. I'm trusting that stepping out in faith (and moving 9 hours southeast) will be fruitful.
Bring. It. ON, Nashville.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Why Taylor Swift has a point.
In honor of the Hallmark holiday that we celebrate on the 14th day of a 28-day month (which, incidentally, makes it the "Hump Day" of February, as a friend of mine pointed out), this post studies the most absurd function of the human brain. Which is crushes.
Scenario: You are a super cute girl. One day, you meet a super cute dude and he does some super cute thing, or he just smiles, and your little heart melts and BOOM goes the dynamite. You have a rose-colored, instantaneous, quickened-heartbeat, stupid crush that came out of literally no where. Like a sniper. A crush sniper.
Freeze. This situation is ridiculous. Like, middle school girl ridiculous. And we've all been there. The inevitability of crushes is the reason Taylor Swift is a millionaire.
A full-fledged, legitimate crush is based in a total fantasy world. What do you know about that sexy dreamboat of a person, besides the fact that they are a sexy dreamboat? Do they have a significant other? Are they financially stable? Do they share your interests? Do they operate a drive-by underground drug business out of their kitchen window? Who cares? Not you. Admit it: you are totally comfortable living in ignorance. It's more fun that way. If you don't know anything, you can pretend that the sassy comment he made about your embarrassing tendency to blush bright pink was actually a confession of his deep, undying affection. Because that's super plausible.
On the completely opposite side of the spectrum, crushes can sometimes cause extreme and totally baseless fits of jealousy, causing pains in your general stomach/heart area and a Marian Dashwood-esque pity party about the unfairness of the world in general. Listen, honey, just because a guy exchanges clever text messages with your quick-witted co-worker does NOT mean he wants a piece of that. Nor does he want any piece of you, so calm your storm.
Crushes also render you totally incapable of normal human behavior. Like speaking lucidly. You know, how you are capable of being incredibly cute and clever in a group of people (even, on occasion, witty) but somehow coherent speech proves completely elusive when you are talking to a person you have every desire to impress? It is the actual worst. How are all your baseless fantasies going to come true if you can't say "I'm fine, Brad, how are you?" If the situation is really dire, things like (but not limited to) walking, maintaining your grip (on objects and also on reality), and not giggling are also incredibly difficult.
Then (and this is by far the most annoying), there is the fact that no matter what your crush does, literally WHATEVER THEY DO, you find it completely adorable. Which is 100% bothersome, because then all you want to do is tell someone about it, and the last thing your friends want to hear is that Mark From Biology Class smiled at you when he walked by. Because in their world (which is, in fact, the real world) Mark was probably not peering into your soul when he flashed his devilish grin. He was probably just being nice. So you end up becoming THAT girl, the one who can't keep her trap shut about the guy that probably barely knows she exists.
So there it is. The unavoidable crush that is simultaneously hilarious, tragic, fun and idiotic. The only solution I can think of is to let it happen. Ride the wave, so to speak. And try to maintain a standard of dignity and class befitting your status as a bad-ass rockstar of a human being. If you have to drive 75 mph down the highway and sing a Taylor Swift song, that's probably okay too.
Scenario: You are a super cute girl. One day, you meet a super cute dude and he does some super cute thing, or he just smiles, and your little heart melts and BOOM goes the dynamite. You have a rose-colored, instantaneous, quickened-heartbeat, stupid crush that came out of literally no where. Like a sniper. A crush sniper.
Freeze. This situation is ridiculous. Like, middle school girl ridiculous. And we've all been there. The inevitability of crushes is the reason Taylor Swift is a millionaire.
A full-fledged, legitimate crush is based in a total fantasy world. What do you know about that sexy dreamboat of a person, besides the fact that they are a sexy dreamboat? Do they have a significant other? Are they financially stable? Do they share your interests? Do they operate a drive-by underground drug business out of their kitchen window? Who cares? Not you. Admit it: you are totally comfortable living in ignorance. It's more fun that way. If you don't know anything, you can pretend that the sassy comment he made about your embarrassing tendency to blush bright pink was actually a confession of his deep, undying affection. Because that's super plausible.
On the completely opposite side of the spectrum, crushes can sometimes cause extreme and totally baseless fits of jealousy, causing pains in your general stomach/heart area and a Marian Dashwood-esque pity party about the unfairness of the world in general. Listen, honey, just because a guy exchanges clever text messages with your quick-witted co-worker does NOT mean he wants a piece of that. Nor does he want any piece of you, so calm your storm.
Crushes also render you totally incapable of normal human behavior. Like speaking lucidly. You know, how you are capable of being incredibly cute and clever in a group of people (even, on occasion, witty) but somehow coherent speech proves completely elusive when you are talking to a person you have every desire to impress? It is the actual worst. How are all your baseless fantasies going to come true if you can't say "I'm fine, Brad, how are you?" If the situation is really dire, things like (but not limited to) walking, maintaining your grip (on objects and also on reality), and not giggling are also incredibly difficult.
Then (and this is by far the most annoying), there is the fact that no matter what your crush does, literally WHATEVER THEY DO, you find it completely adorable. Which is 100% bothersome, because then all you want to do is tell someone about it, and the last thing your friends want to hear is that Mark From Biology Class smiled at you when he walked by. Because in their world (which is, in fact, the real world) Mark was probably not peering into your soul when he flashed his devilish grin. He was probably just being nice. So you end up becoming THAT girl, the one who can't keep her trap shut about the guy that probably barely knows she exists.
So there it is. The unavoidable crush that is simultaneously hilarious, tragic, fun and idiotic. The only solution I can think of is to let it happen. Ride the wave, so to speak. And try to maintain a standard of dignity and class befitting your status as a bad-ass rockstar of a human being. If you have to drive 75 mph down the highway and sing a Taylor Swift song, that's probably okay too.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Things That Are True About Baristas
1) The Instagram accounts belonging to baristas are filled with exactly three things. 1: pictures of lattes, 2: pictures of bored baristas in their natural habitat (behind the counter) and 3: pictures of baristas outside of their natural habitat doing things like going to other coffee shops.
2) Baristas have a list of customer crushes. It's true. They all have a list of four or five individuals that never fail to make them smile and/or melt to the ground. Or giggle. Also if one of those customers responds to "what would you like today?" with "your hand in marriage," the barista will probably say yes.
3) Baristas exist on a diet of espresso, chocolate milk, croissants and leftover fruit cups. And sushi.
4) Just so you know, latte art (a clever design in the milk poured by your barista) is INCREDIBLY DIFFICULT. Baristas want to be good a latte art, but sometimes they fail miserably and pour things that look like... well, latte porn. It's kind of awkward, so just pretend like you don't notice. (A word to the wise: a heart in your latte does not mean the barista is hitting on you. That's just the first thing they learn how to make.)
5) Sometimes baristas are minding their own business, and they happen to scan the cafe and are arrested by the sight of two gangly teenagers with vanilla steamers TOTALLY MAKING OUT across the table. The barista will probably burst out laughing, which is really the only valid reaction to that situation.
6) Baristas get hungry. They like to buy bags of Goldfish and snack on them in the back. Sometimes, they aren't paying attention and they shove an entire handful of crackers in their mouth like a whale, only to look up and see that their customer crush is staring at them.
7) Baristas are not necessarily naturally peppy and super amped to take your order (I mean sometimes they are, but sometimes it's 7 a.m.). It's very possible they've had six shots of espresso and are literally drugged up on caffeine. So if things get weird, that's why.
8) You can tell the mood of your barista by the music that is playing on their shift.
Louis Armstrong and friends: Feeling chill and relaxed. Also kind of sexy. Because jazz music is sexy.
Andy Grammer, Maroon 5, etc.: Feeling footloose and fancy free.
Mumford and Sons: Hipster music. Classic.
Velvet Underground: Get the HECK outta this cafe, I want to close and go home.
(Baristas like Justin Bieber, too.)
9) In an effort to learn names and memorize drink orders, baristas name their regular customers things like "Americano Terry" and "British David" and "Large Japanese Sencha Guy". So if the barista at your favorite coffee shop knows you by name, assume you also have a really clever nickname like "One Pump of Vanilla Britney".
10) Baristas have dance parties. They are actually excellent dancers. If you see baristas busting a funky move behind the counter to "Coffee Talk" by Fresh Espresso, feel free to clap.
11) If some random person smiles and waves to you at the grocery store and you just do not recognize them for anything, wave back anyway. It's probably your barista.
2) Baristas have a list of customer crushes. It's true. They all have a list of four or five individuals that never fail to make them smile and/or melt to the ground. Or giggle. Also if one of those customers responds to "what would you like today?" with "your hand in marriage," the barista will probably say yes.
3) Baristas exist on a diet of espresso, chocolate milk, croissants and leftover fruit cups. And sushi.
4) Just so you know, latte art (a clever design in the milk poured by your barista) is INCREDIBLY DIFFICULT. Baristas want to be good a latte art, but sometimes they fail miserably and pour things that look like... well, latte porn. It's kind of awkward, so just pretend like you don't notice. (A word to the wise: a heart in your latte does not mean the barista is hitting on you. That's just the first thing they learn how to make.)
5) Sometimes baristas are minding their own business, and they happen to scan the cafe and are arrested by the sight of two gangly teenagers with vanilla steamers TOTALLY MAKING OUT across the table. The barista will probably burst out laughing, which is really the only valid reaction to that situation.
6) Baristas get hungry. They like to buy bags of Goldfish and snack on them in the back. Sometimes, they aren't paying attention and they shove an entire handful of crackers in their mouth like a whale, only to look up and see that their customer crush is staring at them.
7) Baristas are not necessarily naturally peppy and super amped to take your order (I mean sometimes they are, but sometimes it's 7 a.m.). It's very possible they've had six shots of espresso and are literally drugged up on caffeine. So if things get weird, that's why.
8) You can tell the mood of your barista by the music that is playing on their shift.
Louis Armstrong and friends: Feeling chill and relaxed. Also kind of sexy. Because jazz music is sexy.
Andy Grammer, Maroon 5, etc.: Feeling footloose and fancy free.
Mumford and Sons: Hipster music. Classic.
Velvet Underground: Get the HECK outta this cafe, I want to close and go home.
(Baristas like Justin Bieber, too.)
9) In an effort to learn names and memorize drink orders, baristas name their regular customers things like "Americano Terry" and "British David" and "Large Japanese Sencha Guy". So if the barista at your favorite coffee shop knows you by name, assume you also have a really clever nickname like "One Pump of Vanilla Britney".
10) Baristas have dance parties. They are actually excellent dancers. If you see baristas busting a funky move behind the counter to "Coffee Talk" by Fresh Espresso, feel free to clap.
11) If some random person smiles and waves to you at the grocery store and you just do not recognize them for anything, wave back anyway. It's probably your barista.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Goodbye 12, Hello 13.
Couldn't resist the cliche Chorus Line reference in the title. Just couldn't resist it. How many MT majors have been waiting for years to use that one?
There is a condescending and cynical part of my mind that says "Okay, losers, you can't just erase the past. It's there. It always will be. Good luck fixing that mess." Quite possibly because I have been telling myself that for the past few weeks. Real talk: when your eyes fall from a focus on the eternal to a focus on the very, very temporary, everything seems a lot more difficult. And I have totally been living in that place for a while. Trying desperately to fix things I have no power over, striving to fill the gnawing hunger that exists in my heart (and, I think, exists in everyone's heart) with cotton candy and croissants. Y'all. No good.
But then, this: The God that I trust in will all my heart, the One who created everything around us and keeps it all together with His own two hands, THAT guy, is all about new beginnings. Here's how i know. Once a year the earth dies and begins again. Every year. Every day, one tree rots away and six more sprout in the same place. Rain storms bring healing to dry and cracked fields that then are able to produce nourishment. Every 24 hours, dawn comes. A new day begins. DAT BIZNESS CRAY. If the earth is a tangible reminder of the character of God, then He is certainly a God of renewal.
So if God is constantly renewing and breathing life into the earth, how much more would He be willing to do the same for me? I think it's easy for us to fall into a rut and become entirely convinced that we can never change. That we are incapable of real growth. I know I have certainly felt that this past year. But in the wee hours of 2013, a tiny spark ignited. A new beginning is creeping up on the horizon, folks. For me for sure, and maybe for you as well. My heart yearns for new things. For growth, redemption, change and revelations. Not just in my life but in the lives of people I know dearly and don't know at all. The good news is, I know that that yearning can (and will) be set at rest by the One who sacrificed everything for the privilege of giving our souls new life. All He asks for is the invitation to begin.
Happy New Year.
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