Hold the Superbowl, pass the nachos.

I had an awesome time with the people from Center City Church last night. I am honored to call you my church family.

Also, those were the best nachos I have ever had. I literally dreamed of their superior tastiness.

Now here are my thoughts on my first official Superbowl:

Disapproving turtle disapproves. 

I tried to watch the game for a full five minutes. I tried to be interested. I dare say that I gave it the old college try, but I dropped out of that too, so there's that. The game itself is full of confusion and pausing. I have concluded that I am not a fan, but I do so adore watching grown people get weird about something. That was a hoot. (Get excited about something, friends, even if it's a lame sport.)

My next qualm were they righteously inappropriate ads that broke up an already broken game. For the love of Susan B. Anthony! Tell me how the food taste, don't give me a crotch shot of some near naked dame eatin' a burger. Jeepers. Almost every ad was full of hyper sexual images and complete degradation of women. If sex sells, friends, I am no longer buying. I know how the word "feminist" strikes fear into the hearts of most of my friends (and probably even my husband), but feminism is needed until ads like that no longer exist. I am ashamed of what is allowed on air and appalled that my children have to grow up in a world where women are portrayed as replaceable commodities. I could go into a full feminist tirade here, but I will spare you all, because I like you. Just know: I am not buying it, Mr. Media.

And then there was the half time show. I like my entertainment to mean something; I like it to matter. I don't hide the fact that I don't get Beyonce or her music. She can sing, yes, but so can Susan Boyle. Friends, last night's "show," that was not talent. That's jiggly bits in a bustier. Expect more from your favorite artist than just sweating shaking. Make better entertainment choices, friends.

I enjoyed the fellowship and laughs with my  dear friends and the food was plentiful and most delicious. However, if the actual Superbowl (game/ads/halftime) is considered an American pastime - I will cheerfully pass time elsewhere. Like in the other room, eating nachos and chatting with awesome people.

The Fernando Ritardando Method.

Fernando Ritardando is my Furby. I came up with this jargon, but I named it after him. (No, a Furby will not life coach you.)

First, Mr. Ritardando and I would like to say: Happy New Year. Or Noo-loo New Year, if you are down with Furbish.

Anyway, this is The Frenando Ritardando Method for a happier year:
Pray more.
Post less.
Be kind.
Read more.
Turn off the news.
Hug more. Or as Fernando would say, "May-lah koh-koh.)
Turn off phone while with people.
Feel fancy.
Pray Psalms over my children.
Pray Proverbs for my husband.
Share good news - Not stories that made you mad.
Forgive.
Finish a puzzle.
Sing.
Sew more.
Listen to more Aquabats, Five Iron Frenzy, and Fun.
Make choices to help others.
Be thankful.
Be thankful you're not "Keeping Up" with any reality star. (Don't make fun of your friends that do.)
Go outside more. Get dirty.
Take longer baths.
Practice patience.
Dance.
Make someone wonder.
Have hope even when it doesn't make sense.
Be a comforting spirit to be around.
Fix it rather than fuss about it.
Do what you were told. Don't worry what the other jerks are doing.
And whenever you want to post your opinion about politics - Talk to a Furby instead.

13 is going to be delicious, my genius noo-lahs.

"Goals are for people who hate themselves."

I love the sparkly newness of January 1st. It's like getting a new journal or a huge swatch of amazing fabric. What will it be made into? I love the newness of the 1st, but I loathe resolutions of the 31st. Every year I watch precious people go nutty over their "New Years Resolution." It's almost always about "losing weight," but it's never about liking who you already are.

My sister Rebekah sums this up by saying, "Goals are for people who hate themselves."  I totally agree.

If being skinny is your goal - Your goal is real stupid.  I mean, jeepers, friends. Thin? Really!? I have been that coveted size 2. I spend most of that time looking in the mirror and finding new ways to hurt myself. Skinny is a great train robbery of your soul, friends. If a number on a scale is your source of contentment - You will never be happy. You can not choose to be skinny and then expect to be happy. You will never be skinny enough. Your goal will never fulfill the fact that you don't like who you are.

Like myself?! Self esteem? Confidence? That's new age and prideful! Oh evangelicals, what a terrible monster you created. Funny thing about pride, friends, it's any form of self absorption. You being crazy about how much you dislike yourself is just as prideful as the dame that believes she is so super hot. Like who you are and carry on.

Or, just make better choices, friends. I dunno. I mean, I love the idea of being healthy, but don't eat an entire bag of Doritos and then whine about your size. Be a grown up here and have some self control. Take some responsibility for your actions and your choices. I mean,"Do or do not. There is no try," friends. If you want to loose some poundage: Calm down. Eat less. Move more. Stop thinking and talking about it and just do it.

 Also, throw your scale away. Because as Sweet Brown would say, "Ain't nobody got time for that."

Friends, I love you, but reading your status updates this past year has made me realize that you, in fact, don't love you. That's a travesty. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are beautiful. You matter. You have some much to give. Now, do it.

So tonight, as the clock turns and the year changes, this lady will not make a resolution, but I will keep my resolve. I will pray. I will make the choice to be joyful. I will choose to turn off the news. I will be kind. I will continue to say no to magazines and fashion input. I will watch more cartoons. I will choose peace, instead of trying to prove a point. I will eat a healthy snack, instead of eating the bag of M&M's. I will clean more. I will enjoy a special treat, like a Dr. Pepper every now and then. I will play with my Furby. I will find ways to be active, especially when I don't want to. I will not stand on a scale. I will be gentle. I will spend time with my friends. I will look for goodness. I will make more time for my family. I will find goodness. I will be less worried about my aging self and more confident in my childlike faith. I will make and wear fashion I will probably regret. I will read more, write more, create more and love more. I will like who I am. I will embrace the fact I am fatally flawed and that I need Jesus. I will seek God. I will know that mistakes will be made and hurts will happen, but when they do I will get back up and I will once again choose to be joyful, and my resolve will start again.

Friends, don't make goals. Just figure out who you are. Find a place to stand before you fall apart. 2013 is new and shiny. Fill it with something beautiful, something important. Stop worrying about crap that doesn't matter and learn to love what you have been given and if you can't figure out how to do that - give me a shout. I would love to tell you what an idiot I've been so you can learn from my mistakes and then we can figure this out together. Let me leave you with a quote from one of my favorite books (I'm Going To Like Me by Jaime Lee Curtis) "I'm going to like me, cause I am loved and I know it. And liking myself is the best way to show it."

Look for the helpers

   My husband has just finished working an 87 hour work week. That means in the past 10 days he has worked 116 hours. Average full tie employees work 35-40 hours a week. Needless to say, my sweetheart is  worn out.
    When his shift ended this morning he drove home, snuggled the kids for a few minutes, sang with Missouri, talked Transformers with Indie and kissed me. He wraps the gift (the present I said I was going to take care of last) and then, home for maybe 10 minutes, he bundled back up, drove forty-five minutes to drop of a gift to the autism house ... Why? Because he said he would.
    When he got home, having been up and worked overnight, he did the Advent calender with the States, then Christmas countdown radio, we had breakfast and he sit with me for a cup of coffee. He talked to Mojo about her Rudolph book that she made at school and then when he practically drags himself to bed, he invites the States to come snuggle and talk with him before he falls asleep. And then, while being what he calls, "P'rrt near dead," he then took some extra time to watch 3 Stooges with Indie. Doug did all of this, because he loves his family. Doug will do whatever he can to provide whatever his family needs.
 
I could write for days and still not run out of times and circumstances here where Doug has flawlessly shown this type selflessness, kindness, joy, thankfulness, goodness, self control and unconditional love. Doug, to put it simply, is just a good guy. And normally, I don't share these precious details about my husband and my life, because: 1. Doug doesn't like the attention. And 2. Doug doesn't need compliments. He does what is right, regardless of gain, simply because he was told to love others. You and I were told to do this too, but Doug actually does it. Consistently. He feels blessed to have this family, so while his family depends on him, he will do whatever it takes to make sure we are not only loved, but so deeply cared for.

 Side note and example: The last time Doug worked this 87 hour in a week he came home and asked if we could order a pizza. He didn't ask it for himself, rather, he asked for me. He knew with him working so much I had felt like a ":single mom" and because his Mom was a single mom he is thoughtful. He said,  "You probably need a night off." He then asked if I wanted to go out with my friends after the kiddos went to bed. "You need to go see your friends. Go. Have fun, Wifey." So thoughtful, and I am pleased to report that I did get to spend time with a great friend that night. Doug and I put on comfy clothes and watched the History Channel. He had a beer. I had a glass of sangria. We laughed and learned and then made fart jokes. It was a great night with a precious friend that I don't get to spend enough time with.

  So who is this amazing Douglas and where can you find one?! Doug is just Doug. He is precious and rare and I cherish him more than my feeble words could express.

Doug didn't come from great means. His family was poor, his father was normally absent and his mother worked like a mule to provided for her three boys. Doug learned early that it doesn't matter what you do as long as your do it well - And if you can't do it well - At least, just do your job. He has held and had a vast array of jobs and titles and he does each with determination and grit. He has given up good jobs for better opportunities and he has looked over pretty stellar stature for what works better for our family. He learns new skills, gives up comforts and does whatever is needed to ensure he has a way to provide. Doug works hard. He gets his work ethic from his Mother, Patty.
   Doug doesn't always feel amazing either. We have been through countless doctors and one nasty back surgery. I have seen him physically shaking from pain. I know he still hurts sometimes. He has plenty of reason to make great excuses, but the point is that he doesn't. He does what he is asked to do, until he is physically hindered from doing it. And then he when he has to stop that - He will find another way. He has dealt with unimaginable mental hang ups and lots of hurts from his past. He handles it all with gumption and grace. He pushes on, even when it doesn't make sense. He's resolve is absolute. I suppose he got that stubbornness from his Father, Howard.
   And you know what, friends? Doug doesn't have to do any of this. He didn't have to work all the overtime, but he knew if he would God would use those overtime dollars for something awesome. That's right. Doug is using his overtime money - giving it away- to help another family member who hurts.Why? Because Doug knows that is what is right and then, AND THEN, he actually does it! He is faithful. He is kind. He doesn't like to boast. He does not like to hurt others and he will not just sit around while others around him hurt. He does not do any of this for himself. He does all of this because he loves. And Doug loves, because God loved him first. He knows he has a shady past. He knows he has hang ups and hurts. He knows he will stumble and crash again, but he also knows, above all, God is a God who restores. He knows God provided a way out, before we ever even got ourselves into a mess. Doug knows this because he reads his Bible every day. He studies and shows himself approved. He knows God because he talks to God all day. He prays without ceasing with all kinds of prayers and with thanksgiving. Doug believes. Even when answers aren't easy or even there - Doug does what is right, because that is what was asked of him.

   I hear, often, that my husband is "just a good guy." He is. He is a great guy. I try not to brag on his kindness and faithfulness, because I know all that fluff and attention annoy him. Doug is what I like to call a delightful introvert. And if I know anything about introverts, it's that you cannot make them extroverts. That kind of attention is like nails on a chalkboard. (Honestly, I kinda envy the ladies who can put sappy status updates about their husbands ... Sure, I know I can do that, but choose not to do that, because I know it makes him uncomfortable.) He doesn't want or need the attention. He does what is right, because he knows it matters. And he also knows that it doesn't matter what others think of him - Not as long as he is doing what God told him to do.
   That is the person I married. And I am sharing this with you, not to make my husband uncomfortable, or to brag, but because you need to hear it. There is a lot of bad news going around. I wanted to share this with you because you need to know that there are still good people out here. People who do what is right. People who help. People that choose to do good things.
  And oh my goodness, yes - YES, we are all terrible humans and we all sin and all make terrible choices. We are all capable of such hurt and such unthinkable horror, but there are people who choose to help. There are people who choose to do what's right, regardless of the reward or the sacrifice. There are people, who regardless of their past or what might happen in the future, they choose to do what is right.

Doug is one of those guys. My parents are these type of people. My deacon from church is precious like this too. And so is my Twin, Thomas. And my best friends - They are these childlike believers. People who choose to help.

   Fred Rogers said, "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'"

If you don't know anyone, personally, who acts like this  - Think of Mr. Rogers. He was just a good guy. Stop watching the news and watch Mr. Rogers.

    It sounds childlike to try and be cheerful and hopeful during such hurts and horror, but I feel we believers were called to be peculiar people of childlike faith. We are to be light in dark places. We are to add flavor to this life that is oh so bland and real scary. That is what we are supposed to do. That is what is right.

Look for helpers and hope. Seek peace. Pursue good things. Love others, and don't wonder off - despite the fact we are all prone to wonder. Surround yourself with helpers and hope and people like Doug - People who do what's right. Learn from your mistakes. Forgive others of theirs. Do this and then while you are still learning to do this: Invite others on the field trip.

   Field trips. Ha. On one home school co-op field trip I got left behind in a creepy taxidermy wing of this very huge museum. True story. I was scared and covered my eyes. And because I couldn't see, I walked slowly, and because I was slow, I got left behind. I was told, originally that, "If you get lost, stay put. Someone will come for you." So upon realizing my group had left, I sat down, defeated and scared ... beside a stuffed boar. The lights were on a timer, but the jungle soundtrack with random animals sounds were not. So I stayed there, alone, in the dark, listening to animal sounds on a loop. The creepy animals, who were sorta dimly lit by the red lights from the EXIT sign, began to look more and more like my worst nightmare. I was frozen in fear, clutching the wee plush bear, Betty, my Mom made out of a sock. Eventually, a staff member found me, in a practical tear puddle, on the floor beside, the boar. She scoped me up and returned me to my group. Later that day, I got a Happy Meal. It had a cheap plastic toy caveman girl with green hair. She became my token of, "You can do this." I considered it a good day.

(But I am still terrified of taxidermy.)

  Friends, sometimes field trips don't go as planned. Things get scary, we make dumb choices, we get scared and sometimes.. Sometimes, people do horrible and mean things. You know this already, so now hear this: Do to what you were told. Do what is right. In field trips and in life, surround yourself with good people. Find a buddy, and stay close to your group, especially when you are scared. Learn about the people in your group. Watch out for them. Get them help if they need it. Let them help you if you need it. And then find others and invite them in. Do what you were told. Be kind. Love each other. Look for the good in people. Believe. Be patient and remember help is on the way.

Friend of sinners

This week I have been confronted by a handful of different, "well-meaning" believers that are all too ready to preach and tirade over my "modern doctrine of inclusiveness."

Whaaaat? I know. Basically, my love of people offends the Pharisees. Yes, the "Set apart" are angered because I am trying to include everyone into faith that welcomes everyone. Whoa. I am such a jerk.

So far, I have been called "evil," a "false prophet," and "worker of iniquity." All because I am loving a group of people the church loves to hate.

Don't get me wrong: I don't take these accusations lightly. As a matter of fact I have been spending the past few nights (not cleaning and sewing like I need to do), but on my face, before a most holy God. No, really. If you could have peeked into my world the past few nights you would have seen what probably looks like crazy. I prayed. I cried. I danced. I sang. I prayed some more. I read the Bible. I prayed. I prayed the scripture, "Search me, O God, test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way of the everlasting." (Psalm 139:23-24.) Then I read some more, prayed some more and finally I just listened.

And you know what I heard from God? I did not hear anything these well meaning believers are shouting. No, I heard God say, "Go to the margins they never had the grace to go."

Wow.

So friends, yes, I will go. I will love. I will try my darnedest to include. Yes, I love me some sinners. Yes, I'll gladly kick it with the people who don't have all the answers. I will cheerfully give my time, my love, my life to show others the love that changed my life...Even to people the church has never accepted before. I believe that is exactly what Christ did. And, darlin', if it was good enough for my Savior - it's good enough for me.

Let's remember here that Jesus did not come to pat pretty people in Polo's on the back. He came here for the sick. And I don't know about you, friends, but I am real sick. Real sick. I am the most depressing person I know. I am the biggest sinner I know. I need Jesus. I need that hope, that mercy, that love that He so graciously gives everyone. And, call me a "false prophet," but I want everyone to experience that freedom, that joy, that peace that can only come from knowing Jesus.

 Everyone.

Even the people who sin differently than me.
Even the people who do stuff that creep me out.
Even the saints that went marching in and all over everyone's freewill and feelings.

Everyone.

And no, I don't go into the community with sandwich board a blazing. The party might end in hell, friend, but this life - it certainly isn't a party. Yes, life is beautiful, but lets not forget that life is also painful and sad. It's not fair and it's not easy. Life only feels like a "party" if you are an agoraphobic introvert, and then the "party" is no longer fun. It's panic filled and worrisome.

Also, the ludicrous idea that life is all sunshine and rainbows because you have Jesus is asinine. Jesus doesn't make life easy, He makes it important. And He gives love and peace freely, and sure that makes things feel a bit easier, but just because you came to Jesus does not exclude you from sin, hurts, falls and fails. You are still a human. We are all sinners. No one is exempt from having issues -even if you are a Christian. We all have our own funk and I don't want to point out what anyone is doing wrong, because I'd smack everyone in the face with the massive plank protruding from my own eye.

Sugar, let's be reminded that we are in the midwest, during an election year. Everyone knows what the Bible says here. The point is: Why would anyone want to change if all we offer is simply an elitist country club with a dress code? "Yes, come to Jesus. Oh, but first you have to change dramatically.  I can't help you there, but when you are done changing, and when you have it all figured it out, you can put on nicely pressed Dockers and this cheery Polo and then, and only then, you can run our gauntlet of judgement and condemnation and we might let you join our country club. Jesus will love you and we might accept you." Gross, but you get out of your comfort zone an ask anyone in the community and that's how we have sounded for years, church. Who would want that kind of faith? I tried that brand of believing. I was raised in a church like. I joined a cult during my college years that was EXACTLY like that and it was totally bogus. I left even more hurt and broken, but my story doesn't end there. God started something new and exciting in me and I will gladly receive flak from my own camp for that honor.

Now, when I look at the field, I know it's not ripe. It's toxic. It has been poisoned by all our years of excluding, humiliating, judging, and hate. The world is ugly and mean, but we never supposed to act like that. We should be a place of kindness and love. We are the salt and the light of the earth. Illuminate and add some frickin' flavor, believers!

 And no, right now, I am not looking to the skies asking for the Lord to return; not when there is so much work to do. I am praying for more time, more love, more grace and more chances to show people those very things. Acting like I can just march in, point out others sins, and lead thousands to Jesus is just silly. I can't do that. I can't save anyone. That type of thinking is madness. It's like asking someone to plant tomatoes in Chernobly. Sure, we could try, but the soil has been poisoned years. What fruit can come from it? We can not reap a harvest from these fields, because the soil has been ruined by our hate.

Believers: We have to clean up the toxic spill, before we can ever really expect to see a harvest. We need people to bring in new soil. We need people to till. We need people to plow. We need people to plant. We need people to eventually reap and most importantly: We need people that will love. We need people who will climb down from their self righteous towers and get honest and get real with others. We need people that will include. We need people more worried about people and less worried about the crap we all carry around.

Go read Romans. Our faith and our love does not exclude. We are all sinners. And Jesus loves us anyway.

Friends, I don't want to be a pretty picture of accomplishments, setting neatly on a mantel. I want to be a 3D person. I want to live. I want to love. And I want to know that even when I make mistakes, I serve a God that forgives, encourages and loves. I am not saying you are broken and sad. What I am saying is that I am. I need Jesus. His grace works for me. And I want, more than anything, to invite, welcome and include anyone who is ready to taste and see that the Lord is good.

August and Everything After

August is usually a time of unrelenting heat and, for me, cascades of heavy memories. I loathe August. Last night, (after a lengthy battle with an intense migraine), I decided to take a very hot, and all to myself, lavender bath. Once the babies were fast asleep I started the bath, adding oils and spices, and then, like a cow to pasture, I sauntered into the kitchen for an all-to-myself grazing treat. I found, to my surprise, leftover frozen custard with raspberries. Delicious. I took my copy of "Captivating" by John and Stasi Elderegde, my frozen custard, my ipod loaded with tunes for the night (Tori Amos, Counting Crows, Keith Green, Mazzy Star, Toad the Wet Sprocket and Over The Rhine) and I slipped into a fragrant hot bath. It was marvelous.

But then it hits me. The fear, the hurt, the anger. Maybe it was this time of year. Maybe it's all this "illegitimate rape" talk on the media.  Maybe it was the bite of tangy berries in frozen custard, the 90's music, the scented, hot bath - whatever it was it hit me like a coffee pot backhanded into the face. Memories pour out and invade my personal time. You want a real time warp, friends? Listen to music that breaks your heart from a time when a boy broke your face. Jeepers creepers.

There are some things I just don't talk about - and Sugar, in case you haven't met in me in person, I talk a whole lot, but the August before my 8th grade year is one topic that still makes me uneasy and unbearably sad. But I have been quite for almost 18 years. It's time to tell this story.

To fully understand the significance of the August of 1995, you have to know what the 90's felt like in a midwest, overly churched community. Everything was evil. I was a home schooled, middle child of a family of seven. I had little social interactions that weren't with pretentious church folk and, sadly, the church we attended was a slight upgrade to an absolute hell. Churches of 90's in and now were brimming with continuous controversies, malicious arguments, prolonged outrage, bigotry bandwagons and unending witch hunts.

My awkward nature and love of flannel had me "lesbian," and although at fourth grade I didn't know what that was, I knew I was damned. To the wealthy zealots of a false religion, my family was a boil on their behind. To them we were poor, uneducated and unfortunate and I would have given anything to be treated like something other than a dirty, disgusting, poor and stupid "little queer." And according to the "etiquette class" I was required to take at church, I should be seen, only if pretty, and never, ever heard. My lot in life, to this church, was to be pretty for Jesus and pray that a man may someday want me. So I tried not to ruffle feathers and I tried to blend in and began to toy with anorexia, because,"I was blessed to be so thin," and I didn't want to "ruin it."

By my 7th grade year I was full of self loathing, rooted in depression and had already dabbling with suicidal thoughts. I have a chemical imbalance, but the church said I just needed to love the Lord more. That spring I met a boy. He was older, different, angry and called "a bad egg." His bitter disposition sorta made sense to me and I thought he was simply revolutionary. He had shaggy hair, wore old superhero shirts, read gory comics and to my swoony delight, he actually noticed me.

 We quickly became friends and he invited me and my brothers and I went over to his house. Then I started going over there by myself. He taught me to skate and we watched classic horror flicks my parents wouldn't allow. We talked about the wrongs of the modern church, dressed in thrift store scores, and listened to music that was going to "rot our souls." Oh Nirvana.

We made fancy dinners, using homegrown ingredients and infused favorites with healthier choices. We studied herbs and their healing properties - trying to find a way to cure my migraines without huge pharmaceuticals.We drank coffee with hip adults that he knew from poetry slams and we day dreamed about having a witchy cottage with a wicked garden near the coast someday. And we planned for a future. We wanted to own and run a very quirky coffee shop and herbal apothecary. We would sneak out, windows and climb onto rooftops, smoking pot, singing along to the Beach Boys, "Wouldn't It Be Nice," while sipping home brewed sarsaparilla. That entire summer was packed with wonder, magic and rebellion that felt like truth. As my friendship grew with him I became "weirder" to everyone else.

When school started back that second week of August, I had dyed my hair with Manic Panic's Vampire Red, painted my short nails black, smoked regularly, got accused of witchcraft, and had been beat up by various school yard bullies three times. I did make friends, but 15 minutes into the first outing with them, I was hit in the face with a pillowcase containing a roller blade. Yes, barely two weeks into a new year at a new school and my new "friends" left me bruised, beaten and broken. I felt like I was a the lowest of the low, but with him, I felt like less of a freak. And despite my swollen and stitched up face, he told me that I was beautiful. That was intoxicating.

It was the last Friday in August. We were going to make broccoli cheddar soup in homemade bread bowls and had plans to watch Twin Peaks, Fire Walks With Me, again. I wore an old floral print dress from my sister's closet and with my bruises fading, I felt pretty good. His mother was working on her Masters, and had run to the library for a few minutes, because I'm older and we didn't have Wikapedia.

It was in this sort of scandalous feeling that I realized, we were all alone. It made me feel grown up, and in control. There was a twinge of  worry though, because friend or not, I knew my parents would not be cool with me being alone with an older, teenage boy. Regardless of the hesitation I trekked on listened to The Cranberries, laughed, made, ate and cleaned up dinner. Still his mother was absent. Against better judgement we went back to his room, the only room with a tv, settled down into a ratty futon and began to watch the strange David Lynch film.

 As the film twisted on, the daylight faded, and our seclusion in his room began to make me feel uneasy. His usual sarcastic banter, became darker and less friendly. The past month or two his school yard bullies turned this once jokester into a mean hot head. He asked if my nose would ever be the same,  and if I would still get a nose ring at 18, even thought my face was now "jacked." He also said that he was "jealous" that he wasn't the one to "have the honor" to mark me for life. I asked when his mother would be returning, because I needed to go home. He moved closer, his hands became touchy, and although we had kissed before, this started to be more than just a case of hormonal boy's wandering hands. It was starting to scare me. I tried to push him off. I tried to hit him. It made him more frenzied. It was then when I first tried to scream. His hand hit my mouth. I gave up. I laid there, terrified. While he hovered over and hurt me - I cried. I tried to think of something pleasant. All I could think of were lyrics to a Beatles song and I sang them, again and again in my head until I saw lights in the drive way. I felt saved. He jumped off of me. Adjusted himself, fixed his hair. He looked at me and with a light laugh he said, "I am sorry that was so rushed."  He told me that my dress was "easy access." He laughed again, and with a shrug of his shoulders he told me that "all girls" says it hurts at first. "It will get better, babe," he assured. He buttoned his pants, told me to be "good girl," and go clean myself up. As the the garage door opened, he smiled and he told me that I have fulfilled the purpose God had for my life.

"Be a good girl. Clean yourself up," he repeated as he walked out the door to go greet his mother.

 My lip was bleeding. My insides burned. My face was hot. And my sisters's beautiful dress was ripped up the side. He went out to greet his mother as I tried to pull myself together. I drug myself into the bathroom. I looked at the reflection in the mirror and spit some blood into the sink. I developed a coping mechanism. I acted like this was a character I had to play. I made jokes. I look in the reflection again wiped my face dry.

When I came out to the living room, his mother was startled by my appearance. He told his mother I fell skating and then she asked about the kids at my school and if they were going to do anything about the kid who broke my nose. I stammered. He answered. She shrugged it all off, talked about her term paper and  said that before she took me home she felt like we all deserved ice cream.

She drove, he rode passenger. I poured myself into the back seat. The entire ride home he starred me down through the rearview mirror. I was embarrassed, ashamed, afraid and aching everywhere. I feared if I said anything I would lose the only friend who every liked me. We ate Andy's Frozen Concrete. She ordered mine with raspberries. She said it would make it all better.

I never thought I would feel "better" again.

When I got home, I made up an elaborate story about skateboarding gone array and told my parents I was super tired and needed to sew my sister's dress before she came home from work. I climbed the stairs, started a lavender bath and cried. After the bath I mended the dress and I feel asleep, crying and listening to Tori Amos sing, "Silent All These Years."

The next few weeks I found reasons to successfully avoid him. I was crippled with fear that I was going to be pregnant and forever be linked to a monster. When my period came stayed, I cried and have never been more thankful for "the curse."

A few months later the silence was eating a hole in my life. I told a youth worker at a True Love Waits rally about the August attack and the she dismissed it as a "misunderstandings."  She prayed God would grant me a "Spiritual purity", even though my physical body had been "tarnished." She said Jesus could wash my sins away, but I should be honest about the "accident," so other potential suitors would know they were "getting damaged goods." She then made a joke about how no one really wants to own a used car.

Two weeks before our schools let out for spring break, my family was informed that our house was sold and would be leveled to make more parking for the Assemblies of God Headquarters. They gave us a month to find a new place. The move was hurried, but I knew it was my time to break away. I never told him about the move, so on the last trip to the old house, I rode along with my dad. As my dad vacuumed, I walked down to the pay phone on the corner and I called that jerk one last time. When his tirade ended, I paused and breathed in the crisp air. And then, like a tragic scene in a movie, it began to lightly rain. Of course it did.  I said calmly into the receiver,  "I am leaving. We have already moved. I am going to a new school and I changed our number. I told my parents everything. You make one move towards me and my brothers will sting you up by your scrotum."

There was blubbering on his end and then, as usual, more threats, more screaming. I took another deep breathe and I hung up.

I walked away.

I climbed into my dad's VW bus, thanked God and rode back to our new home.

My crying outburst, depression and self loathing was easy to excuse, because I was just another erratic teen girl. Went to a new church and went through a slew of youth pastors that tried to "fix me." I acted out. I lied often and I rebelled as much as possible. I even tried to walk away from God, but at the end of my rope, I still had faith. I still wanted hope. I still needed peace.

 Despite what happens I believe in the one, true living God that can take was was evil and make it good. I believe in a God that can redeem these hurts into healing and make my story glorify His name.

Last night, after my bath, after the memories, I put on my hideous and most comfortable footie pj's, checked on my beautiful, sleeping babies, talked to my hard working and forever faithful husband, and then I laid down. In the stillness I feel the presence of a faithful God. I know He is with me, just as He was there that night - and every night since. I laid there, tears rolling down my cheeks, and sang the lyrics that I came to mind that one, horrible August night:

"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup
 They slither wildly as the slip away across the Universe
 Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
possessing and caressing me
Jai Guru Deva Om -
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Nothing's gonna change my world."

This morning I woke up. 18 years after that August. I don't feel dwarfed, derailed or like I'm some damaged goods. For the first time I am thankful. These hurts are well with my soul, because my faith is in a Heavenly Father that always heals. That hurt did not consume me. I've learned to love. I've learned to forgive and although I don't feel like I've fully arrived, I know with God I am more that a conqueror. I am ready for God to use this story to help others heal. Believers, if God is for us, who can be against us? Tell your hurts, share your stories and together let's glorify God's name. With God, we can conquer August and everything after.

A cornfield in Illinois

    By my 7th grade year I had already had my fill of the wrongs of the church. I had been witness to two horrible church break ups, resulting in tears, rage and unbelievable hurts. I had watched my parents dragged in and out of relenting and needless church politics by selfish and hateful leaders. I stood by, helplessly, as my parents were kicked out of a church for allowing my brother to burn incense. I listened to "preachers" tell large, mindless groups that you couldn't love Jesus and recycle (seriously, it was considered "worshiping the earth" and not the Lord). And I heard a special guest speaker once, during an election year, preach that there would be "no bleeding heart liberals in heaven." (This sucks, because I have always agreed with what the lefties have had to say. I mean it's politics, so it all gross, but I will always prefer a group that wants to help others over the group that wants to protect their 90% with guns. And I will not argue this with you. You have another opinion - Delightful. Go write you own blog.) Anyway, the worst thing that I had to be apart of in church was the Sunday School class all girls were required to take before they could continue onto youth group. It was a "primping and etiquette" class, taught by a former beauty queen and her nutty mother. That year (4th grade) I learned a few memory versus about being a righteous woman, but mostly I learned how to file my nails, shop flattering fashions, wear makeup, diet and most importantly how attract and pray for a Godly husband. (I wish I was kidding, but that was what happened.) It was a 12 month course on how to be pretty for Jesus. Yeah, boys got Bible memorization classes and something like boy scouts and we got makeovers. And I get that the Bible doesn't say a lot directly to women, but we are more that fashionable accessories on the arm of a Godly man, ladies. Ugh ... Anyway, to make my faithful and feminist skin crawl more over was the end of year course "celebration" that was a trip to the mall for shopping (if you had money you were able to shop for a stellar new wardrobe. If  not, you were like me, labeled "poor" and ushered to the food court to wait for the others). And then, obviously, they vaguely tied God into this shame and we were asked to hand out of whishy washy pamphlets called tracks to all the ugly sinners. The whole thing still makes me want to vomit rage and bitterness upon whoever thought that was a good idea.

    So after this and, oh man, so much more, I had decided that when I turned 18, I would write Ichabod (meaning: the glory has departed) on the wall of the fellowship hall, turn my back, hands in the air, middle fingers blazing and walk out the door, never step foot into organized religion ever again. I decided to wait until I was 18, because I loved my parents, and I didn't think they could handle being totally ostracized for having a daughter that actually thought for herself. So I waited and day dreamed about my eventual grand exit from a religion that so carelessly broke my heart.

   Heh. It's funny, but just the time when I had given up on Christianity as a whole - God shows up to remind me why He still loves His people - despite the circus we've created in His name. (Talk about the Lord's name in vain. Jeepers.) 

    Anyway, the summer of my 7th grade year God made it real clear he had much bigger plans for me than my Ichabod exit. You see, I was also planning all sorts of trouble to cause with my hoodrat friends when my older sister, a VW bus driving hippie, decided to follow a small band up to Illinois for a huge Christian music festival. My older sister, Lyza, was the golden child  and could do no wrong. So she pretty much just told (not asked) my parents she was taking me. And they, knowing something was wrong with me, thought it was a brilliant escape. Why yes, it's a wonderful idea to take the awkward, sad middle child (freak) to a cornfield with lots of Jesus people. Go! Post haste! So she bought our tickets, packed up the bus, reassured my parents of our safety and took off, with me in the passenger seat, to Cornerstone Music Festival. 

      I had been told it was like "Woodstack for Jesus," so I was super cynical at first. But considering my other option that week was church camp, with that beauty pageant dame as counselor, I was happy to leave. 

     I have always loved road trips. To me, there are few things more delightful than summer vacation, the open road and a VW bus. My sister had decided she needed to help me. She used that whole time to pour into my life something that wasn't junk gospel. Lyza, knowing my battles with self esteem and yes, anorexia in SEVENTH GRADE (Thanks Pretty for Jesus Sunday School!) made sure I was nourished with  mounds of food, sunshine and tasty tunes. My sister was a really a role model to me. She was bold, bizarre, and oozing with confidence. She didn't care about material things. She didn't worry about trends or makeup, and she didn't get weird or judgmental when I freaked out about stupid crap. (You know, the panic attacks I had about being pretty, skinny and all the things the church literally told me were important.) Lyza was full of understanding and awesome. She had an irreverent sense of humor, but a strict reverence for God. She reminded me often how God doesn't care if I have a french tip manicure ... and neither did anyone else. She read her Bible daily, poured into me scripture that changed my sad, heavy heart. She did not worry about religious naysayers, and she had a backbone that my parents admired and didn't questioned. She wasn't a rebel, she was just a good kid who already knew exactly what she wanted from this crazy life. And she didn't take that damn pretty for Jesus class. She wasn't all sad about not being a Christian Barbie. She did not worry about "catching a man." She knew she was fearfully and wonderfully made, and she knew mistake, failures and bad things happen. That doesn't mean you are out of the will of God, or you didn't love Jesus enough. That's just life being life. She was, to my delight, generally annoyed with the church too. It was so refreshing to have someone to bond with about the silliness of evangelicals and the sadness we both felt that our Savior had to be affiliated with such jerks.  

   By the time we reached Bushnell, Ill, I had already felt better about life. I was eating regularly, not "dieting" and wasn't so worried about what the ladies at church would say about my my frazzled, road weary appearance. I remember I was sporting a Batman shirt, some old flowy skirt and combat boots. I wasn't fashionable, but I liked how I looked. (I still like that look.) I felt like I was able to dress how I wanted and that didn't make me love God any less. It actually, made me feel like God loved me. Just as I am. For years I felt bad about who I was and the church made me feel worse, so this feeling of being okay was a welcomed relief. 

    When I climbed out of the bus and took a look around - I was in awe of the massive cornfield turned campground and concert arena. Hundreds of tents, vendors and stages scattered throughout thousands of people. People that looked nothing like the yawn worthy followers that filled my home church. No one was "Dressed to the nines."  These kids had shirts that read "Body Piercing Saved My Life," with bloody, nail present hands of Jesus on the back. They had neon green mohawks, and tattoos everywhere. And that was just the beginning. There were goths, hippies, skaters, pretty people, medal heads, old people, cowboys, parents, gangsters, activists, kids, Sunday School teachers, business types and basic freaks - all there to take advantage of Bible seminars, camping, art classes, bounce houses, carnival food, theater banter, prayer groups, jam sessions and endless bands preforming everywhere all day. At that point in my life, it was the closest thing I had ever been apart of that involved God and that actually felt right. 

      Everywhere you walked you saw people sharing, giving, caring, and living Jesus. The goth tent, called the Asylum, had women in black corsets and black velvet skirts, holding delicate lace umbrellas, handing out bottle water to the weird raver kids that were leaving the dj/rap tent. Some elderly Sunday School teachers were handing out cups of roman noodles from their RV's to grubby skater boys that were hungry and sweaty from playing the skate ramp. There were sporty girls that looked like they just left a volleyball game, headed to the ska tent, or art seminar. Their were hippies playing bagpipes near the pond and some techno band doing a rendition of an AC/DC song on mainstage. It was a sensory overload and I was speechless with happy. I felt that for the first time in my entire life I could be a Christian and yet remain being me. Things I had to hide before or things that I was made to feel guilty about - I could do!!! And they were okay!!! I could dye my hair, make my clothes, pierce my face, be liberal, recycle, have opinions, watch horror movies, get tattoos, befriend people who didn't love God, listen to The Beatles, paint my nails black and still be a believer of Jesus Christ! This was a revelation. A wake up siren, sent to tell me that I was enough just as I am. I had never been told that before. If I didn't blend in with the church youth group back home - If I didn't dress like the pretty church girls, I was told that I was "seeking attention" and "full of pride." If I listened to the Golden Oldies station, I was told I didn't glorify the Lord. If I enjoyed spooky things, horror movies, Halloween, or black nail polish - I was told I had a dark, evil spirit and I that I must, obviously, love Satan. If I questioned, said or did anything that contradicted the wealthy hateful snobs that were the churches monarchs - I was a disobedient and a "false prophet." I knew what the Bible said, but going against what the church said (despite the fact they were totally making crap up) was an unforgivable sin. My faith for years was a joyless burden meant to keep the selfish, close minded big wigs comfortable. Regardless of what Jesus said if you weren't wealthy, educated, Republican, white, boring and real "normal" - God did not want or need you. Cornerstone Festival was the spark that ignited a fire that burnt away the crap I lived with for years and left me with Jesus, just Jesus. Not all the piety, pity, guilt or hurt. I believed, for the first time that The Gospel was good news, not well, um, Fox News. 

At Cornerstone my faith - my life - began a renovation and I thank God for that dusty cornfield where I finally got to encounter Jesus Christ. 

Over 15 years after my first Cstone festival (and the handful I was lucky enough to attend with my friends and family since) - I am married to a Godly man, funny- he met me when I bald and crazy - and he liked me anyway! We have two amazing kids, two weirdo cats, A God who provides, a joy in salvation, peace in our Savior, hope for our future and we found a church that, to me, is like a wee Cornerstone. We are all very different people who believe Jesus is enough. We are people who make mistakes, have issues, live life and a follow Jesus through a world that often just doesn't make sense. Our building isn't fancy. We don't have a dress code. We don't have a mulitmedia spectacle for ever holiday. And we try to we keep the lie of the "American Dream" far, far away from our faith. No one has it all figured out, so no one is pretending that success or wealth is proof they love Jesus more than anyone else. Our church doesn't want to be pretty people with comfortable problems looking for new church trend to make us look put together. We are broken people with real problems seeking the Savior to heal us, help us, and make us like Him.

 I am not saying I have arrived, but I am saying I am so thankful to find a church that has people, real, honest people who love Jesus and actually treat others like they do. 

I don't care what you wear, who you vote for, what education you have, or if you have a savings account. And I want you to know - God doesn't either. I want you to read about Jesus. Read what He did, what He said and how He treated people. He is not this hateful religion America is panhandling. He is not a political party. He wants you to speak kindness, walk peace, breathe compassion, radiate joy and live love. If you aren't doing those check the things you preach. Don't put my perfect Savior's name on your hot mess of ideas. If you want to be a jerk, go ahead, be a jerk. Just don't be a jerk for Jesus. Doing something awful and then saying you did it because God told ... Whoa. That's doesn't give you justification - it just gives our faith a bad reputation. America - we have made our faith worthless. No one wants what you are selling, because you look, act, and talk like you are miserable anyway. Sure, we have big church buildings, but we are plumb empty on compassion, hope and kindness, friends. You don't need all this stuff that makes up religion. You need Jesus. Jesus is enough. 

You know how I know? Even with all the mega churches I attended growing up, and all the programs it had to offer - I finally felt and fell in love with Jesus (and his people) in a big, old cornfield in Illinois. 

Jesus was, and still is, all I need. The rest doesn't matter. Jesus is enough.

Now, go have a real encounter with Jesus and let's make our faith mean something again. 


More on Cornerstone, what it was, and why it is ending. http://cornerstonefestival.com/

What has Cornerstone meant to you?