Friendship: Close Up

I'm thankful to be married to my best friend in the whole wide world.

At the same time, Jason doesn't fill the girlfriend spot in my heart that some pretty amazing women do, and this post is about them.

When we arrived in Denver almost 12 years ago, sure I was excited to live in a beautiful part of the country, but I was 31, really pregnant, and only had one friend 45 minutes away, who was a new mom.  Jason was busy at his new job 45 minutes the opposite direction, and I was in a daze, without a car, wandering amidst the dust and debris of the old house we had just purchased and gutted over the previous weekend.

I washed lettuce in the bathroom, in the mauve bathtub, because the kitchen was in the dumpster in the back alley.

Our fresh vegetables kept freezing in the refrigerator because it was out on the back porch.  As a result, we ate a lot of take-out, frozen burritos, gelato, and Clif Bars.  And, if that wasn't bad enough, I would sit in my house, covered in sheet rock dust, and watch Soap Operas.

I'm not even kidding.  Did you know Bo and Hope are STILL on Days?  True story!  (At least they were back in 2002...)

It was a low time in my life, let's be honest.  My friend who loves chocolate and sewing felt so sad for me from a distance, a beautiful package arrived on my doorstep one day with a toaster oven in it and instructions to head to the store so I could at least buy slice and bake chocolate chip cookies.  Oh, how I longed to sit with her on my couch to actually eat them, but fat and pregnant and hormonal, I sat on my couch and ate them all myself.

...again, a low time in my past.

ANYWAY, my mom was praying for God to send me some friends.  I wasn't hopeful.  In my head, since I was 30ish, everyone had already found their favorites.  Back in Minnesota, Jason and I had just left a group of friends we did life with every weekend for 5 years...how on earth were we going to find that kind of connection again?

Well, I've learned not to mess with my mom's prayers.  After a mishap in a mom's play group where I was invited to a Swinger's party, a friend in another state told me she had a friend somewhere in Denver and surely we'd hit it off.  I thought, "You clearly don't know how big Denver is...she could live anywhere."

2005 ice skating birthday party

Noah's 1st Celebration, the delivery crew and some guy with an afro

Locks of Love donation, 2008

Celebrating Ryan's arrival, Becky on the left who lived 3 blocks away, and Rachel

Grateful for friendships where we can pick up where we left off, no pressure, just dive in deep and keep pressing on...

And you know what?  She did live somewhere.  She lived 3 blocks away, had a daughter 2 weeks younger than Emily born at the same hospital, her own husband named Jason and, not that I pick them this way, but happened to be *tall with dark brown hair, too.

Today, less than 12 years later, I'm grateful for the prayers for real heart to heart friends my mom placed at God's feet for me, her pitiful, pregnant, chocolate chip cookie eating, soap opera watching, daughter.

The friendships which have grown out of this connection and my willingness to be vulnerable with others has allowed me the opportunity to meet some extraordinary women.  It has also meant stories shared in coffee shops, prayers prayed, truth told, tears strewn, basketball played, trips to Mexico, laughter and love, a room full of women at Noah's delivery, meals and shoulders during his hospital life, weekends away, mini-retreats, hard conversations, Easter feasts, closet purges and style consults, Scriptures studied, Friends Thanksgiving, prayers for marriages and misunderstandings, Bevy makeovers, beautiful locks shared in love, miles walked, wine and chocolate, creativity shared, more tears, more laughter, and my heart overflowing with gratitude that at the end of any given day, I am humbled to know God's love in a deeper, more profound way through the gift of friendship.

It's a beautiful thing to have friends willing to live life to the fullest...blood, sweat, and tears!

 (*not a friendship prerequisite...)

P.S. This particular post is about friendships, up close and personal, in the day to day, close in proximity.  I'll also be posting about the treasure of long-distance friendship.

Just Write

It's ironic, and not, that the prompt for Lisa Jo Baker's "Five Minute Friday" is "write."

Just write, but be intentional about it...

GO:

Because today at lunch with a writer friend, who is writing a book with her husband, I asked, "How do you actually write a book on marriage?  Do you guys, like, brainstorm ideas and topics on a marker board, get a plan and go for it?  Is it linear, beginning to end?  How do you actually write a book?"

She laughed and told me she had asked her husband who has written 2 books the exact same question! She told him she had some questions and wanted to talk about it, wanted to know the angle, "Do we write about topics?  Do we come at it, 'He said, She said'?"

I asked my friend what insight her author husband relayed.

"He said to just write."

And we laughed and cussed and told one another how we both love Anne Lamott and Bird by Bird, so the prompt and advice wasn't new, but still just as profound.

Funny how the thing we both love to do, that is write, the thing we do in our heads and hearts most of the day, writing the stories we observe in our lives and the ones we feel and experience, is so difficult to scribe on paper, or tink on a keyboard.

Yet we know we've been designed to write and when we do, we come alive and feel all is well with the world.  Even when the writing sucks and no one ever reads it because it's simply filed away in our documents, trapped in a flat folding computer on the desk.

As corny as it may sound to some, we didn't hear corny as we exchanged our deep love for writing and how when we do it we know we're doing what we were designed to do, writing for the One who designed us, published or not, not seeking the approval of anyone, just doing what comes naturally.

STOP

Grateful for this prompt today.  If you want to just write, link up over at "Five Minute Friday" and then read the blog post of the person ahead of you and encourage them in the art of writing.

Lessons from Spain (and other European countries): Ministry Happens in a Bar

I have a new friend who is sassy.  She's also brilliant, sensitive, wise, and discerning, humble and modest, and a fantastic listener.  She is British, 100%, as in, her parents are English, she was born in England, and so that makes her an Englishwoman.  Ryan kisses the back of her hand every time he sees her and addresses her as "Princess."  And she's a girl totally, madly, deeply in love with her Savior.  She is teaching me so very much.

Being from the other side of the Pond, she also likes Scotch, or Bourbon, or Gin, or one of those drinks men who are 60 or older sip in smoky wood paneled clubs with leaded glass windows where Englishmen meet amongst walls lined with leather bound books and trophy deer heads from plaid clad weekends on the hillsides of Europe.

This very statement made some readers wonder if my friend is really even a Christian...seriously, raise your hand if your remember Jesus' first miracle.

Anyway, being a SAHCMFTBIA (Stay At Home Caucasian Mom From The Burbs In America), I've never really embraced my ethnicity one way or another.  Just this morning I had to fill out a form and check the vanilla boring nondescript box labeled, "Caucasian."  Before I was married I at least told people how my maiden name means, "Bible" in German and then I'd break out into "Stille Nacht" or count to 10 in German just to show I still had a little in me.

Since meeting my new British friend, my eyes have been opened a tad more to faith in other parts of the world.  Oh, I've been on missions and studied missions and have traveled for both ministry and pleasure in several parts of the world.  And I know from both studying and travels about major world religions, as well as how Christianity differs from culture to culture, and how cultures differ due to religious influence.

But a few months ago while I sipped a glass of red and my British friend her drink of choice, pouring our hearts out to one another about everything under the sun, she told me how, from living in America for 30+ years, American Christianity and European Christianity vary greatly...

...not in the Message of God's love for mankind, but in the cultural message, which often muddles the Everlasting Message profanely.

In Europe, at least in Britain, she said the Pub on the corner is where people talk about love and life and ups and downs, you know, kind of like a "small group."  It's not demonized as a place to just get drunk, like "Spring Break '89", but rather a place to open up and share life.  It's like, oh, could we say, church.

A forbidden fruit mentality has been fostered in this nation for 100's of years, setting up bars and alcohol as something to be pursued in anything other than moderation, putting an age on it as if that makes a person mature and responsible, and slapping a party mentality on it.

The funny thing is, over the last year or so I've spent quite a bit of time with women who have reached out, seeking an ear, belly up to a bar.  Women who have been hit by their husband, others controlled "Sleeping With the Enemy" style, divorced, separated, suffocating in loveless marriages, some just crying out to be loved by their workaholic husbands, not the men they originally had fallen in love with...women pouring out their hearts over their dreams for their children, their fears, their own personal dreams and aspirations, and the brokenness of their realities.

And we cry, and stop, and pray, right there, belly up, holding hands, eyes closed, seeking God's direction and healing in every situation.


My dad asked me why I couldn't just go to Village Inn, instead...

...ummmm, gross, I just barfed a little typing "Village Inn".  

I'm not trying to fit a conventional ideal of what a woman who loves God with her whole heart and also happens to be in ministry, looks like.  And, I'm also not trying to shock anyone just for shock value.

I'm actually quite tired of the banter and pleasing and grieved to my core of all the talk ABOUT so many other THINGS within Evangelical "Christianity" rather than THE ONE THING, the only true thing, which is:

God is totally and completely in love with you.  That's all.

I don't go to Village Inn because it's gross.  I don't even think I'll choose VI when I'm 89.  If a woman asked me to meet there because she wanted to pour her heart into mine, to see if I'd be a listening ear, then of course I'd go to Village Inn...to listen to her heart.

But that's not where these amazing women have asked me to meet them.  They have asked me to meet them at bars, for a drink, where we can just talk.  Can "talking" happen anywhere else?  Duh.

But if I am to embrace my heritage, then I'm guessing some of my Irish, Scotch, German, Swiss, French, and English ancestors likely had church in Pubs, way back when, across the Pond.  And I'd venture to guess their hard-working lives were more authentic and vulnerable than the facades of perfectionism Evangelical "Christianity" has set up here in the "New Country."

And if I'm to truly embrace what it means to lay down my life and follow Christ, to allow my life to be a source of His love poured out, in spite of me, then I also need to embrace the beauty that sometimes women's ministry happens in a bar.

An Exercise in Writing

I've been a bratty "writer."  And by that, I mean, I love writing, I do it when I'm inspired, sometimes I'm inspired when I don't have access to a computer or even paper, so I "write" in my head, but then it gets lost in my mental cosmos.  But as far as "practicing" I've operated under a bratty opinion of, "I'm only going to write if I'm inspired...otherwise it's so contrived."

Super bratty, but I'm hungry for, and willing to, change.

Except I've been thinking about such a mentality for the last year or so and realized something.  When you practice something, you often get better at it.  Take, for example, swimming.  I started out as a toddler on the side of the pool, only dipping my toes, telling my mom I didn't want to go in the water. We moved to Arizona when I was 6 and were enrolled in swim lessons right away since a pool is mostly standard issue in every backyard, and if not, for sure in every neighborhood.  My first swim class was for "Minnows", aka, little swimmers...beginners getting comfortable with the water.  I know at some point I became a "Shark" and then in time I was on a team, gathering 5th and 6th place ribbons, then 4th and 3rd, then years later State Titles with teammates in High School.

We practiced every day after school from mid-August to the end of November, from 2:30 to 5:00.

A lot of hours, a lot of practice.  Some of it redundant, but building strength and endurance, perseverance, and in some races, excellence.

So, I'm trying to apply the same mentality to writing.  Because I really like writing.  Mucho.  So, recently when I saw on Twitter a post by Lisa-Jo Baker about a writing exercise group link she does on Friday's with readers, I was intrigued.  It's called, "Five Minute Friday," and she gives a prompt, you set your timer, and then write.  And write.  And write until the timer goes off, and then, you stop.  So, I've never done it before, but I'm starting it now.  Like, right now.  And the prompt is:  She.

GO:

She.

She is your mom.  She is your sister.  She is your daughter.  She is your aunt, cousin, grandmother, friend.  Her strength is astounding.  Her smile strengthening, lighting up a room, filling hearts, bringing life and love wherever it's revealed.

There are days when her smile is hidden.  She doesn't realize the power behind its revelation, she is unaware of the life it offers, she doesn't know because it has been darkened, the lines diminished from years of sorrow.  Life unraveling.

We look at her and long for the smile to return to her face.  She has aged, but the lines in her face aren't from laughter but longing.  Worry, wonder, despair, a broken heart.  The lines are deep and they draw her smile, the beauty that was once alive on her face, the lines draw them down.

Look up!  Look around you!  See the sea of faces looking back at you.  These are the faces of family and friends, and we love you.  We are so sorry for the hurts in your heart, the aches you've hidden deep, the memories fresh even though ancient.  We love you and want you to know your sheer existence, the fact that you are here, now, in this space, brings love and hope to us.

Let those lines run deep, not from sorrow, but because of laughter, laughter of days to come, joy in the unknown

STOP.

Wow.  That was a cool exercise.  I practiced writing.  It was kind of crazy to see what came to mind.  I think I'll practice this exercise every Friday.  It only takes 5 minutes, so it's not like I can say I don't have time to write.

If you care to join in the practice, here's the information.  You may leave your writing in the comments section or link your blog post in the linky section (I've never done a "linky" so hopefully it's easy and I can figure it out...), then head to the blogger's site who posted prior to you and read their piece and encourage them.

Have a great weekend!