Quips

***Ah the mounting moments to expose***

The other night Ryan says he gets thirsty in the shower. I said that was a perfect place to get thirsty. He looked at me like I was crazy. As if drinking shower water were equal to drinking toilet water? Poor kid. He may not catch snowflakes with his tongue, either.

***

I was standing in line at Kohl's the other night with 20 disgruntled customers. There were only two registers open on the women's side of the store and they were extremely slow. When you are one of twenty people, that kind of line feels like the DMV. While others cursed under their breath, folded their arms across their chest and sighed, and made eye contact with other line-waiters and said, "well this is just ridiculous isn't it," I thought to myself, "why get mad when I can get smart?"

Thank God for the therapist who taught me this line.

The employees paged for back-up numerous times, but no one was coming. So the non-twitter, non-facebook, non- technology queen decided to pull a very techno-savvy move. I simply took out my iPhone, looked up the store's number, called, and asked to speak to a customer service representative. I kindly told her that there were 20 of us waiting in line in the women's department and I was wondering if there was anyone in the back that might be able to answer the pages for back-up because people were getting a little hostile. The people around me said this was a brilliant idea. It wasn't brilliant; it was just a conscious choice not to waste my anger on a long line.

Within a minute there were two managers up front apologizing and checking us out themselves. I smiled at my cashier lady and left happy that I implemented all that shrink-therapy for the common good of my local Kohl's shoppers... don't get mad, get smart.

***

The worst thing I did last year was leave a mean letter on somebodies car who had parked in not one, not two, not three, but FOUR parking spots. We were in Nashville trying to park at a busy restaurant and some guy (is it sexist that I assume it was some guy? Not a man. Not a woman. Not a teenager. But a punk twenty-something year old guy) took four spots to park his Yukon. He centered his car in between two rows, pulled in from behind, and parked squarely in the middle of his little box. We ended up parking in the back and walking around a cold building with a five month old. I didn't think much about it until the guys started saying what a jerky thing that was. Our conversation quickly changed and dinner progressed, but there we were an hour later leaving the building and his car was still there, and all of a sudden I was struck with anger.

They're right. What a jerk. I have a freaking baby. What's wrong with this dude taking up so many spots. So I wrote a note. I know. I wasn't thinking smart, I was just thinking angry. I said, "It was incredibly rude of you to take up 4 spots. I have a five month old baby and would have loved one of these spots next to the building. Get over yourself and your car."

I stuck it on his windshield and walked away. The guys were dying from severe fear of conflict and they were convinced I was going to get caught (looking back, I think they were probably just embarrassed by my actions). But then they decided we should drive to the back of the parking lot to see if the owner would come out and find his note. Sick entertainment, I know. At first this was pretty funny. We would try to guess whose car it might be as people came out. But the longer I sat there, the longer I felt bad about leaving such a nasty letter for one of those people. They all looked pretty nice.

I told the guys I wanted to go take it off his car. Maybe he had a good reason for taking up that many spots. Or maybe the letter would really hurt him. Or maybe it was a she. But taunting me, they drove off, and the letter stayed on the car and I still feel guilty. Very guilty. And this was a wake up call (I need a solid ten a year): I stand by my underlying belief that justice isn't nearly as sweet as you intend for it to be.

***

My thrifty nature is becoming overwhelming. My friend bought me some fancy-shmancy mineral powder make-up for my birthday. It cost $40. She said it would be perfect for my skin on stage and during photo shoots. She said some other things too, but I didn't hear her, all I heard was, "forty-dollars." I could start a little chicken farm with $40. I could buy two entire outfits. Or pay half of the electricity bill. $40 is a small fortune and here it is all naked and exposed in a tiny dish? This made me nervous and I immediately enacted (in my head) a little-dish-security-detail. I treat this Petri dish of miracle powder like it's fairy dust from Tinkerbell herself.

I hate this powder.

Every time I open it up I see little plumes of powder disappear in the air and I freeze in horror. That's .75 cents flying away. It must be caught. CATCH IT!!! CATCH IT!!!

I get my little powder brush, bob my head from side to side, up and down, and then flail about the bathroom trying to catch my .75 cents worth. I run my finger along the sink where it settles and put the powder straight on my face. I find little flecks on my shirt and insist on transferring them to my finger so that I can place them on my nose. I refuse to let these minerals go anywhere else but my face. I will use Every. Single. Mineral.

If you were watching me, I am sure I would look insane. Waving my hands around to try and fan something invisible onto my face, focusing on nothing, and then aiming my powder brush in mid-air and smiling a smirky, money crazed smile, as I capture the renegade minerals... You can't give me anything nice or expensive. I spend way too much time trying to make sure I take full advantage of its value. Like the way I treat my toenails after a pedicure. Walking around on my heels with a horrible look on my face as I try and keep my toes separated so I don't mess up the paint... and that goes on for days. Let's face it. Expensive things make me a crazy-o.

***

In a recent TV show recording we were discussing our Alma Mater, Baylor University, and I was explaining that the school was a bit of a culture shock for me because I grew up in the semi-ghetto and I had never been around so many rich, white people. I then said, "It was so weird to be in that environment. Coming from such a multi-ethnic community and high school and I just wanted to scream 'Where's your black people?"

Well, apparently it is not politically correct to say that because everyone got quiet, the guys diverted their eyes to the floor, the interviewers laughed a nervous laugh, and I got flustered because I felt like I embarrassed everybody and it was a small train wreck.

But can I just say, I hate that I have to be so "politically correct?"

I count it the best blessing in the world that I grew up in such a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic community. I love that Ryan and I live in a neighborhood that has more Indian markets than grocery stores. I love that I can go to the park down the street and let Annie play side by side with an African-American, Hispanic, Indian, or fill in the blank, child. I love that she will know people of different faiths, cultures, languages. I am not a racist. I have both dated and had dear friends from numerous ethnicity's; the color of someones skin is equivalent to the color of their eyes for me.

I rarely know what color eyes someone has.

I'm pretty sure my friends from back home, both black and white and everyone in between, would have stepped foot on the Baylor University campus ten years ago and said, "Where's your black people???" too. That's just real. It's not polarizing, categorizing, or anything else. People freak out when you say anything that might be politically incorrect. But those are usually the people who haven't been around those who are different from themselves. They are being careful to avoid being offensive, but what I think is truly offensive is a Christian institution that lacks diversity. That people don't seek change when isolation plagues our communities. That's not what the world looks like. So I stand by it. I love all people. And if a place is full of white people, I'm gonna ask, "where's your black people?" Or if I must be PC:

Excuse me? Could you please point me towards the diverse section of your student population? Where, pray, are your African-American students? Hispanic students? Or Native Americans?

***

Finally, I cut my own hair again. I was trying to save money. See, I told you, my thrifty nature is becoming my nemesis. The haircut that I gave myself was awful. I mean, huge, horrible, blunt chunks all in the front. About four inches off the back that ended up all uneven (and way too short). And layers. Lots and lots of horrible layers. I wore it up in a hair tie for two weeks straight. I knew I needed to get it fixed, and if I know it has to be fixed with real money, that means it is really, really bad.

So I got it fixed. Three days ago. And my hairdresser, Rob, had to cut it all the way up to my chin to redeem it. I lost about 7 inches. My hair hasn't been this short since the 4th grade. I look mousey. I look like a librarian. I did what I always swore I would not do... I got a short haircut after having a baby.

Look. No matter why you get your haircut after having a baby, men decide to call it the "mom hair." And I hate this. As if short hair and an interest in photography after giving birth automatically puts you into a new category of existence that is dorky. Mom. They say it like I am about to bust out the Lee jeans with the prolonged zipper and mom pouch built into the front for the extra baby pooch. That is not what a short haircut means. I am still Jenny. I just happen to enjoy taking pictures now (of the cutest little squirrel in the whole world) and I had a haircut gone bad. I have to have short hair now. So sue me. But please don't tell me I got the mom cut... I did not get the mom cut...

3 Christmas Stories

I swear I don’t make this stuff up.

Asheville

December 18th: Asheville, North Carolina. The promoter says to get on the plane because the show will go on come rain or snow; in their case it’s snow. About 10 inches. Now, granted I’m from Texas and don’t know too much about you cold weather creatures, as I have never shoveled snow and find it unthinkable that you’d even leave the house if flurries are in the forecast; however I know enough to listen to the weather man when he says, “Historic amounts of snowfall,” and “winter storm warning.”

To me, that means: Don’t travel, idiot.

But assured that the show was still on, we left our southern haven and flew straight into the eye of the storm. As we drove from Charlotte to Asheville I counted the wrecks. I counted the people stuck in patches of ice. I counted the skid marks that went over little hills and disappeared. And I watched unfortunate cars spin around and around and around.

And I thought, “What person in their right mind would get out in this kind of weather? What band would drive me to such idiotic measures?”

The only acceptable answer, of course, was The Beatles.

Short of that, I wouldn’t even look out the window in this kind of weather. And in my gut, I knew no one in his or her right mind would face a blizzard for us.

We turned off the highway and onto what looked like a deserted road covered in deep layers of snow. There were hand written signs on storefronts that said, “Closed because of Weather.” And the only signs of life were college kids with face muzzles and little eyeballs poking out that were pounding each other with snowballs. It was eerily deserted. Beautiful. But eerily deserted.

Sure enough, we get to the venue and over the course of the next hour, as sound techs and other venue employees call to say they can’t make the drive; the show is cancelled.

We get in the van. We go to the hotel. My gosh it was beautiful. Roaring fire. Antique pieces of art and paintings. The kind of upholstered chairs that sit about 3 feet higher than your back and are covered in a velvet that costs more than my car, and a front desk staff who wore crisp ties and would not give a room quote out loud, rather, it was scribbled down on a piece of paper. You know it’s an expensive room if they can’t even speak it.

The promoter said the hotel was behind the McDonald’s next to the Biltmore. So that is where I lead us when we came to the split in the road by Mickey D’s.

Apparently, I picked the wrong split. And as we watched the rich old white people sip their martinis by the fireplace it dawned on us… we are in the wrong hotel.

The next thing I know we are slinking out, like gypsies, and asking the valet if we can have our dirty minivan with the Florida licenses plates back. Oh- and could you help us find the other hotel. Good-bye tranquil music in the wine bar. Good-bye little butler man. Good-bye roaring fire and really expensive bed linens. Good-bye electricity.

This story ends by us trying to eat at McDonald’s only to find that it is closed because of weather. And look people, if McDonald’s is closed, you’re in trouble.

We made it to the other hotel only to find it sitting in pitch-black. No electricity. We called other hotels in town. They had no electricity. We sat in the minivan (no- Annie was not with us, thank God) and watched the gas go down and wondered, “now what?” The guys decided it would be best to drive down the mountain during the blizzard in the dark… yeah… that is what every intelligent group sporting a minivan with limited mountain driving, snow driving skills would decide to do in a blizzard. I wanted to call their mothers. Moms can call you ‘idiot’ and ‘stupid’ and get away with it. But I just had to reinforce my seat belt and wait to die with the majority vote.

By the end of the night we had been stuck and stranded; dodged at least ten jack knifed eighteen wheelers; drove through two cities with no power and two more cities with no room in the inn; and eventually I had to take my pants off on the side of the road, squat down into a puddle of snow, and go to the bathroom with no paper to use at the end.

Turns out, when it is like 11 degrees, you don’t need paper. It dries pretty fast. Freeze dry.

Albuquerque

We spent Christmas week at my parent’s house in Albuquerque. Short version? We ate at a place called The Range Café. They are known for their famous cinnamon rolls. But they came out on a plate of butter that added volume to my hips simply by sitting too close. Before I could eat it, the bread sopped up the butter and I had a spongy yellow thing on my plate.

No thank you.

I’m not the calorie-counting type girl. I want my fat and have a fierce addiction to all things baked or smothered with guacamole and queso. But a plate of butter just looks bad. So I loaded up on their tortillas, which were to die for, and ate my lard in a more respectable manner.

Rewind. As the five of us (mom, dad, Annie, Ryan, yours truly) found our table and began to look at the menus an older couple who had been eyeballing us came by and said, “Oh how sweet. You’re using menus! You must be new in town.”

As if Albuquerque were a small town where everyone still knows everyone and they can all sniff out the outsiders. They proceeded to ask where we were from, what we were doing in town, and asked if we would like menu suggestions.

I wanted to hire this lady to bring me around town. Introduce me to Joe the postman and Gill the guy at the coffee shop and help me find the place with the hottest green chili enchiladas.

It got me thinking… I should be a hometown tour guide. You can hire me for the day and I will help you find the best bar-b-que, Tex-Mex, and show you where to stand if you want to peek in on Cowboys practice. This could be lucrative.

The week, well the short version, funneled through a haze of grandchild starved grandparents and lots of food. Oh- and one of my favorite things- a knock and run cookie dropping at the front door. I thought it was so sweet that someone from my parent’s new home would secretly drop cookies off for them, but when I opened the card; I found they were for me! From ‘secret’ fans! Secret fans? That’s the coolest thing ever! Secret fans who bring out cookies and chocolates and candies and then run so you don’t even have to make small talk and be polite but you can just go back into your blankets and Christmas tree and eat your worries and joys away???

I decided right then and there… I like these people. I can do Albuquerque.

Christmas Eve Day

We say good-bye to mom and dad, who prefer to only function in the role as grandma and grandpa these days, and hop onto the flight back to Dallas. The flight leaves an hour and a half behind schedule. So in the meant time, I volunteer to hold an American flag with the group of patriots who have formed a flag tunnel for the returning service men to walk through. Ryan says I am a dork. I hold my flag straight up and down like they tell me to with a serious face and say “welcome home” and cry with all the families who are getting someone back for Christmas.

It’s almost time to board. I buy a caramel apple from my favorite little Santa Fe candy store, Senor Murphy’s. We get on the plane ready to come home. The flight lasts two hours longer than it was supposed to. We circled over Dallas until I felt dizzy.

And now for the very abridged version: we land. It is snowing. The wind is blowing 30 mph and it is freezing. We hear the “winter storm warning” on the radio station, but we know that Ryan’s parents are waiting for us an hour away all by themselves on Christmas eve. We go home, take turns running in the house to switch out clothes and grab presents, we let Annie sleep, we start the drive from Dallas to Ft. Worth.

Remember Asheville? Ok, multiply it. But only because Texans really suck at driving in snow and ice. We get to the final major interchange before the highways merge and well…

Let’s stop right there.

Considering our bad luck this year: stolen van, trailer, and all of our band gear, head on collision with a tree that totaled the van, cancelled shows, shingles, blown out backs, sprained ankle on stage that leaves me on crutches for weeks, gout, three snow storms in a week… well… you know the ending.

Highway is closed. Access roads are war zones. And the one side road that all of us idiots decide to try and conquer is a country farm road that literally looks like it’s been hit with a hail storm of cars. Cars stranded everywhere. Annie is crying. We have been traveling for over ten hours now. And we are slipping all over the place. There is no way to get to the in-laws but there is no way to go home either. We’re stuck.

We’re going to spend Annie’s first Christmas in a motel.

And I asked myself the question I have asked all year… what kind of mother am I? My kid’s first Christmas morning is gonna be in a motel?

But then we saw a young guy waving his hands and running towards us. He’s out of breath and visibly nervous.

“Thanks for stopping I’ve been waiving down people and nobody will stop. Can you please take my girlfriend and our two-week-old daughter with you? They are in the car, we’re stuck, almost out of gas so we have the heater off and they’re freezing.”

So baby April and baby Anniston snuggled in the backseat together and I tried to feed both of them. Both crying, tired little babies.

We tried to get the mom and her baby home, less than a mile up the street, and simply couldn’t do it. We turned around and met back with the young guy and told him to hop in and we could all go to the motel together. He said, “Thanks but we only have five dollars. Thanks for trying to help. We’ll just stick it out.”

Stick it out till what? Till when? No way. Out of the question. He jumped in and sat in the front seat on his girlfriends lap. They reeked of cigarette smoke. The car was dark and packed and tense (we were still trying to get unstuck from the u-turn) and I thought…

Well this is nice and messy.

The mom said, “We’ve never met people like you. You don’t even know us.”

My response, “Anybody would do this for you. We don’t really have the money either, but we know a lot of people who do. And we trust that God will provide it for both of us. Plus that little baby girl of yours needs a lovely bed for her first Christmas Eve!”

The dad helped us unload the babies and luggage and I loaded them down with cookies that were meant for the family (but it was the only gift I had, and you have to give a gift J). Before we checked out of the hotel, someone who had been following my mother-in-law’s facebook telling about our travel journey had called and paid for both rooms. Thank you. You know who you are.

And that’s where we spent Christmas morning in all its messy glory.

It is messy. It was messy. It’s going to be messy. But it’s exactly where we are ALL called to be. We are not saints because we do what God has asked us, required of us, and impassioned us to do… we are just people who are trying to live the way Jesus did. In the mess.

And sometimes that means you are stuck in a snowstorm or two.

Blurkers

This is a picture of blurkers.

I cannot reveal their identity as I would ruin their blurker-entity.

However, I will say that we enjoyed a lovely lunch together laughing and talking. We felt like old friends and talked about all kinds of things. They knew an uncanny amount of my life stories :) and I wondered, how on earth have you never left a comment?

I was truly amazed how long these girls have been reading the blog without leaving one single comment. Not fair! I didn't even know they existed and now I just want to get back to their city to see _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _' s new baby and spend more time with quirky _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (that would be cool beans).

Side note: cool beans is an inside joke we shared that day. I don't believe anyone should actually use the terminology "cool beans" though. It is completely uncool.

All of this to say... I so enjoy meeting my new friends all over the country. You guys make me smile and give me a home away from home. Your lives are beautiful and your stories unique, thank you for sharing them with me.

Don't be a blurker!

If I am in your area, and you are an avid blog reader, please let me know. I want you to have free tickets to the show and I want to meet you!

Stories to Tell

Oh, how I have missed blogging on a regular basis these past few months. My stories are piling up and if I am not careful, they will evaporate. So to that end, here’s to catching up.

Three days ago I had an accident in the Target parking lot. And I’m not talking traffic accident.

Someone in my family, who shall remain anonymous, frequently urinates on herself. As a child this warranted my empathy. As a teenager this provoked my emberrasement. As a young adult this drove me to prayer. “Lord, please, don’t let me grow up to pee on myself.”

I mean, who does that? How does that happen? Do you not know you gotta go? Are there no restrooms? Are you in a forest? A desert? Running a marathon? Are you in a third world country? How does such a thing happen? I mean really woman, there aren’t any warning signs hitting you?

I promised myself I would never, ever allow this to become my fate. Never.

And yet there I am, bending down to pick up Annie in her car seat in the Target parking lot when, I swear, out of no where, I feel a catastrophic, unstoppable urge to urinate. And in that moment I thought, “Oh Lord, this is the beginning of the end. It’s hereditary. I am my mother.”

I cursed my body. “Body you are rude.” It’s rude to decide you are going to give me no warning. You can’t just do that to someone. It’s tacky. Especially since I just spent an entire year desperately trying to pee in a cup every time I went to see the baby doctor. No matter how much water I had, or how snuggly Annie buried herself onto my bladder, Dr. Waldrep would give me the cup and my body would store water like a hibernating bear. Do bears store water? Point being, when I needed it to flow, it did not flow. And when I so desperately wanted it to retreat it stuck it’s tongue out and smirked at me.

There was, of course, nothing I could do. I knew it was a matter of seconds. Nanoseconds. I knew there was no time to get in the building. There was barely time to get Annie into the car. I knew there was no place to hide. Nothing to wipe down with. No alternatives to the humiliating event that was about to occur. It was as if my bladder became possessed and all the kegal excercises in the world couldn’t prevent the rogue bladder. I knew what was about to happen in t-minus no seconds.

And as I scurried to the driver’s side of the car, the most hidden place I could find, I checked out of planet earth and pretended to be somewhere else. Slightly amused I thought, “This is what it feels like, huh?”

AHHHHH. This is AMAZING.

If you realize you’re about to lose it… embrace it. Once I embraced what was happening, it was actually quite amazing. No leg twitching. Hopping around like you got an anteater in your pants. No frantic public runs to the bathroom or desperate plea’s to the ladies in front of you to let you cut. No trying not to laugh too hard just in case. No stomach aches and toe curls and horrible facial expressions as you sit in conversation and wonder how much longer you can make it. Nope. Once you are past the point of no return, forget all of those things, and just embrace it.

It’s kind of nice to pee all over yourself in the Target parking lot if you need to. Completely freeing. A little cold. But, complete freedom.

Whatever. I blame it on having a baby. I figure the first year I can blame anything on her…right? Yep, it is totally her fault.

I thought I saw Santa Clause in the mall parking lot this weekend. Since I refuse to pay for Annie to take her picture with the expensive Santa and I don’t have the patience to wait in line with all those little snot-nose kids for the free Santa, I figured this was a perfect time to snag a picture. Catch Santa on the way to his car. Brilliant.

This Santa was an older man with a hefty belly, big white fluffy beard, flowing silver hair, and a green and red sweat suit on. He was walking towards his truck where his wife was waiting. He was perfect and I was ready to go in for the kill but Ryan stopped me. The kind of stop where I couldn’t really smile my way out of it and do it anyways. It was a real stop. “No. You can’t just ask this strange man if he is Santa, and if so, could our daughter have her picture with you? You can’t do that Jen.”

Ryan looked at me like I was an alien. And like a scolded child, I began sulking.

“Why can’t I? Look at him? He’d love to do it, I can tell.”

Ryan said it was offensive. He said that the man was not in a Santa costume and would not want to be affronted by a mom and her baby who assumed that because he was fat, and had a big white beard, that he was Santa.

I disagreed.

Listen old men of the world: if you have a round belly, don a big beard and long flowing Santa hair, and wear red and green sweats during Christmas, you are simply asking for it. Never mind that you are smoking a cig and are Hispanic (I am from a Hispanic family, still, I have never seen Hispanic elves, have you?)… you are the spitting image of the old man. And if I want my baby to take a picture with you, I will ask. And if you are offended, don’t come out all fat and bearded and jolly and in red and green sweat pants looking like the Clause himself. Wear purple. Or a cowboy hat.

But be warned, as long as you keep the beard, belly, and red sweats, you are fair game for all the cheap, busy mother’s in the world who need their kids picture taken for posterity sake.

We did our first Christmas tour this year. And I use the word “tour” lightly. What was supposed to be a multi-city-baby Jesus-reindeer loving tour ended up consisting of four shows. One show was in Uvalde, Texas in a 100 year old Methodist sanctuary adorned with an abundant amount of stained glass. There were about twenty students. A handful of younger couples. A few families. And then a lot of old people. We were told that the old people weren’t too excited about having us at their annual Christmas party. And that’s always what you want to hear before you go on stage.

And so there we were, all the house lights on, red carpet, pews, little lady eyeballs staring at us, twenty teenagers trying to figure out if they should clap or jump or even stand up at all and I just wanted to crawl in a hole with some eggnog and call it a night. Singing All That Matters to a group of 70-year-old’s who were hoping to play bingo and listen to Bing Crosby for the night was hardly what I had anticipated for this “Christmas Tour.”

The Addison Road Acoustic Christmas Tour for “small churches and communities who could not normally afford a band and all the production that goes a long with a major concert,” was our idea, our way of giving back and affirming the local church. We wanted to create an experience they wouldn’t normally be able to have. We wanted something intimate and meaningful; fun and beautiful; we wanted to start our own Christmas tradition… we asked for this.

That’s what I told myself on stage as the old lady eyeballs looked at me with beady irritation throughout the night.

We asked for this. We asked for this. We asked for this.

I felt a twinge of shame. Was everyone feeling as awkward as I was? Will this concert ever be over? Is that old man breathing? Why are they just staring at me?

Make it go faster… please Lord…put me out of my misery…

Finally, we reached the last song. We ended with an upbeat, funky rendition of “Angels We Have Heard on High.” As Travis strummed away on his banjo, I handed out shakers and bells to the audience and told the rest of the people to get their car keys out and get ready to jingle with us. On other nights this was a really fun cacophony of rhythmically challenged people jingling away. I wasn’t so sure it was going to go that well at this place…

But lo and behold the row of old ladies with the beady eyes who I was convinced hated me for ruining their Christmas party, took out their car keys and began to shake away. Little smiles crept over their faces and their bare boned arms dangled in the air. They giggled and faced each other as they sang along. They looked happy. Really happy.

After the cowbells and all the craziness of the song ended we began to sing, “Oh Come let us Adore Him.”

The five ladies grabbed each other’s hands. One of the elderly ladies rested her head on her friends shoulder. And one of the ladies had tears in her eyes and running down her face. Was she missing someone? Was she thinking it might be her last Christmas? Was she overwhelmed with joy? Did she feel God himself next to her, holding her hand? I’m not sure. But as I watched these ladies I thought, yes, this is why we’re here.

This is exactly what we asked for. Exactly.

View from Above

Mt. Hood

The Rocky Mountains

Just finished playing a show for an amazing missions organization, Delta Ministries, in Portland. And this is where I put the plug in and say what an amazing mission statement this organization has and how much we believe in them (and then ask you to go check out what they are doing in people's lives).

The flight in was breathtaking. At least I thought it was. (This could be because I was baby free and I could actually breath for a minute.) Ryan was embarrassed that I was so picture happy. I think he thought people were staring at me and wondering who the weird girl compulsively taking (what would probably be really bad) pictures out of her airplane window was.

The thing is, I don't care if people think I'm crazy for taking 47 pictures of the snow-covered Rocky Mountains. I think they are crazy. We are flying over an endless sea of marshmallow mountain tops, Mt. Hood, and then floating the rest of the way on a bed of clouds that are perfectly billowing as far as the eye can see... and they aren't taking pictures.

What's wrong with them?

It was just a little reminder to me how important it is to keep our awe and wonder alive. What are we if a baby doesn't make us stop and smile? A homeless person doesn't cause us to stop and feel some sort of empathy? A worship service doesn't create a pause which prompts us to fall to our knees (literally or figuratively) in worship? A butterfly doesn't capture a minute of our time? An elderly person's story doesn't make us stop and envision the past? A mountain or ocean or puffy cloud or a simple leaf falling to the ground doesn't stir a little something in our soul?

I'm not saying I gotta walk around everyday wide-eyed, mouth gaping, like Will Ferrell in the movie ELF, where he walks into the coffee shop that says, 'World's Best Coffee'.

"You did it! Congratulations! You made the best cup of coffee in the entire world!" he screams. And people look at him like he is an idiot.

OK, I'm not saying we got to take it that far. But really, what does it say about us as people if we lose our ability to be in awe and wonder? If we lose our ability to be impressed, humbled, overwhelmed, and delighted in the presence of something grand, beautiful, or simple... like the laugh of a little kid. What does it say about our culture, our entertainment, the effect technology and marketing have taken in our global economy, and our want-for-nothing mentality?

At best we are often not phased by such simple pleasures anymore; at worst we are annoyed and angered by the slow pace of life it requires to stop and experience such simple moments of joy.

And that's what I thought about as my husband pointed out that I was the only one taking an obsessive amount of pictures. I was the only taking any pictures for that matter. Even as the pilot pointed out that we were flying over the Rocky Mountains and then Mt. Hood, most people just stopped long enough to look slightly annoyed that he was interrupting the audio on their movie.

I think Ryan wanted me to stop so that I didn't look like Will Ferrell in the movie ELF.

But me?

I wanted to get on the little loud speaker and say, "Hello. Human beings. Dear Friends. Passengers. If you have eyeballs please divert them to your nearest window. It's freaking beautiful outside. You are floating on top of a mountain. There is snow everywhere. As far as your eyes can see there is breathtaking beauty. Enjoy it for a minute. Or two. Your movie will still be there when you come back. Your nap can continue. Your book will save your spot. But we will only be on top of this mountain for a few more minutes. A mountain. We are suspended 35, 000 feet in the air hovering over a mountain. Isn't it amazing?"

It's amazing. Don't miss it.