Ho Ho Home

This morning I made the drive from Marion, Indiana to Toledo, Ohio, singing along with the Trans Siberian Orchestra and Bing Crosby. ("Ho Ho Ho and Hit the Highway," my newest ipod playlist.) I can't believe that the semester is over. Like, seriously over. As I reflected on all of the papers I wrote and pages I read and tests I took and coffee I drank, I wasn't sure if I wanted to scream from joy or cry from exhaustion. So I scream-cried, not caring if the WalMart truck driver could see me. I made it. The semester is over. I worked harder than I've ever worked, and it felt good. Tiring, but good.

When I got home, I gave my G6 a well-deserved oil change and watched court tv and napped on the couch and helped my mom with the no-bake cookies (a reasonable cookie for me and my horribly-inept-domestic-abilities to tackle.) Christmas break has already been wonderfully relaxing, and it has only been a few hours. I'm taking the next few days to fill my lungs with cleansing, deep breaths because I know that the parties will start soon and I will be in a perpetual sugar-cookie coma until January.

I'm thankful for the break--even though I know it will go fast. I'm thankful for how God has brought me through my busiest semester so far. Thankful for the laughter from friendships. Thankful for the comfort from family. Thankful for my own bed. Thankful for this time of year and the Savior who loves me unconditionally.

Me In 10

I couldn't sleep last night because I was inspired. Every few minutes, between midnight and 2 a.m., I flicked the switch on my bedside lamp, squinting as the room filled up with harsh light. I couldn't risk losing the words. I've learned, after years of writing, that you have to capture those kinds of thoughts quickly. They are like lightning bugs. They flash and sparkle momentarily, but they will disappear if you don't cup them tightly in your hands or cram them into a jar--I like to think of my little red notebook as my lightning bug jar.

I know that my husband doesn't particularly like it when I have inspired nights. But he likes me a lot, so he has learned to sleep through the chaotic lamp show. He's my number one reader. He reads everything I write--even the bad stuff. I'm not sure if he has read any other books since college, so I believe him when he says that I'm his favorite author.

During the day, I'm a mom. I drive the kids to school and baseball practice and boxing lessons--yes, I gave in. They are boxing now. My husband says it's healthy for little boys to let out their aggression in the ring. I still think it's a horrible sport, if you can even call it a sport.

I read cookbooks and write my bi-weekly column on my laptop in the car while I wait for the boys to get out of practice. It isn't the most glamorous life, I know. I don't have a real office, unless you consider the desk in the basement an office. I dress up once a month for conferences or book signings, which is a nice escape into grown-up world. But most of the time, I'm just mom with a ponytail, proofreading pages for my new book when I have a rare minute.

The writing life isn't as fabulous as I thought it would be. After college, I had to write a lot of silly magazine articles and devotional blurbs to help pay the bills. But I reached my ultimate goal, I wrote my first book before the age of twenty-five. It was good. It had a cute cover. My parents were proud and stockpiled copies in their basement. When I read it now, all I can see are the typos and cliches. Sometimes I am my own worst critic.

After that book, I continued writing magazine articles, which led to a column assignment, which led to more book proposals. So now, here I am, writing my fourth book, waiting to pick up the boys from baseball practice. I'm a wife and a mom and a writer. I'm not famous or rich, but I am wonderfully happy.

Written for a Fall 2009 Sentence Strategies assignment: Write about yourself and your daily life as it might appear 10 years in the future.

God in a tube

Sometimes I like to be tube-fed my spirituality. I like the way it casually oozes into me on Sunday mornings or in chapel at my small, Christian university or during the five-minute “Faithful Friday” readings from a well-meaning professor. Allowing the nutrients to pass through me, I sit. I wait to feel something about life again. I wait, craving fullness, disappointed when I can’t remember a sermon one hour after it was pumped from the pulpit. It must have leaked out of me, I think.

The Protestant Reformation was about a lot of deep, theological things. Things I don’t fully understand. I know that Catholics were tired of paying a lump sum to their local priest every time they sinned—a bogus scheme called Indulgences. I know that priests were corrupt, stealing money, sinning sexually, paying for power. But I know that the most important thing about Martin Luther and his 95 Theses was that people were demanding to feed themselves again. They were ripping out their mindless-spirituality food tubes, taking ownership of their soul’s health.

I believe that Luther broke free from the church partially because of its corruptness but also because he realized that it was numbing him. When Luther and his crew of rebellious Catholics spit boldly in the face of religious tradition in the 16^th century, I guarantee they never imagined Christians in the 21^st century who would return to lukewarm living on purpose. But in many ways, I think we have.

If I’m honest with myself, I am comfortable letting others do the hard work for me. I like it when my pastor researches recipes, prepares the meal, serves it to me, in 30-minutes, on a TV tray. It’s much easier than trying to sauté, poach, bake, stir, measure, or grill something for myself. While I know that meals in a tube don’t make me stronger, I still fight the urge to be a passive follower of Christ. Sometimes I make the effort, rustling up a nutritious meal for myself. But sometimes I still settle for mush through a tube.

Book Review

This book wasn’t written for grouches, so I’m sorry that the words can’t wiggle into the grooves of your brain and tickle you with insight. Maybe that’s why you find no pleasure in the delightful descriptions or quirky quips. Yes, that’s it. You’re a grouch.

This book wasn’t written for the tame, so I’m sorry that the energy exhausts you. I’m sorry that you cannot appreciate the way the passion, personality, and positive spirit seem to splatter across the page. Maybe you should read something quieter, something with less life oozing out of it. It might fit you better.

This book wasn’t written for philosophers, at least, not the regular kind. But it wasn’t written for the mindless, either. It will challenge you to view everyday life—the moments of clarity, the times you failed, the nights you almost peed because you couldn’t stop laughing—as something meaningful, beautiful, and spiritual. I’m sorry if you’re looking for dull theories or tired metaphors on the Christian life. You’ll have to read something else.

When Shauna Niequist wrote Cold Tangerines she wanted to reinvigorate the way we think about blessing. She wanted to reveal something hopeful about the world through her personal stories. She wanted to be honest with her readers about faith, family, and the messy parts of life that we all try to hide in our basements or junk drawers or closets—because those are things worth writing about. If you don’t want a book that infuses you with joy from the ends of your hair to your crooked, big toe, don’t read this book. If you don’t want to celebrate the gift of life, put this book back on the shelf. I’m sorry. I just don’t think you will like it.

Credo Magazine

Check out my third piece for Credo! Go to www.CredoMagazine.com and click on "What Not To Be This Halloween." Then, get outside and enjoy the day. The leaves are falling and it's beautiful.

Try Journaling

KNOW GOD--PART FOUR

Journaling is powerful because it lets us reflect on where we’ve been and how God has walked alongside us during the good times and the bad. It doesn’t mean you have to keep a diary. Just write about the ups and downs of your life and the needs of the people around you. Then, go back and reflect on how God has proved his faithfulness.

Or here’s another idea. Pick a short Psalm (or part of a larger one) and rewrite it in your own words. This doesn’t mean that your version will be better--duh! But sometimes it’s easier to hear God’s voice when we take time to understand his Word in our everyday language. If you don’t know where to start, try Psalm 5.

Something to See

It’s hard to do nothing. Once I had chosen my spot beneath the shade of a big tree, I tried to get comfortable. I took off my shoes and wiggled my toes into the grass. It was starting to turn brown, but there were still patches of soft, green blades left over from summertime. I took a deep breath of Sunday afternoon air. It smelled crisp and rich, like the beginning of fall should smell in the Midwest. I looked at my watch. It had only been 10 minutes and I was already feeling anxious. I wished that I could walk around or listen to my ipod or read a book. But I forced myself to sit there, determined to just be in nature.

It required concentration. I had to continuously bring my mind back to that spot, back to the arching of trees, the glimmer of sunshine, the hum of insects. It was beautiful, of course. It wasn’t difficult for me to admire nature’s general beauty, but I realized that I often don’t pay attention to the specifics.

The crickets sounded like a classroom full of little boys grinding their teeth and sloshing their spit. The bugs hid somewhere in the tall grass, chanting: wwheeeha wwheeeha, we weha we weha. After a while, I caught the subtle rhythm. One overzealous cricket could be heard above the others. I wondered if he was the “class clown” telling a joke above the ruckus, or maybe he was the teacher trying to get control of his English class. As I sat on the ground, a tiny one landed on my shoe. I inspected him for a moment, and then brushed him back into the grass.

After the bugs, I noticed the leaves. They waited anxiously for the wind, as if they were surfers waiting for the perfect wave. Then they made a calculated but chaotic leap from the branches to the ground. Once they landed, they flirted with each other. Swayed back and forth like giddy girls, dressed in gold and red and green, at their very first dance. The leaves bubbled up in a burst of excitement and then paused, breathlessly, on the floor until the next wind-song began.

Next, I thought about the trees. I thought about how they have been there the longest out of everything in the park. I imagined them with eyes; I wished they could talk. I wished they could describe how the world looked when they first budded out of the earth. It must have been a lot different. Things were probably slower, there were probably more trees and maybe they didn’t see people pass by for a while. Poets have always described trees as wise. I think they are right. Trees have watched it all, endured thunderstorms, learned to change with the seasons, stood patiently in one spot for their entire lives. Yes, they must be wise.

After my time in nature was over, I felt calm. I’m glad that I forced myself to be an observer and to sit quietly. The nothingness turned out to be beautiful.

As I left the park, a little boy ran up to me and said, “I hope you enjoyed your day, lady. It’s really a nice day and there are lots of creatures to see out here. I hope you got to see some.” His mother grabbed his hand and apologized, “He’s just too talkative.” I just smiled and waved goodbye to him because he was right. It was a beautiful day and there is plenty to see if you are willing to look.

Create Something

KNOW GOD-PART THREE

God is creative. Just think about it, he designed Saturn and the hippopotamus and dandelions and your eyelashes. He crafted the entire world into existence; his imagination is endless. And because God is an artist, he must be filled with joy when we express our love to him through art. It’s like we’re speaking his heart language.

So, go create something. Read your favorite passage of scripture and draw a picture about why it’s significant in your life. Paint yourself sitting on your Heavenly Father’s lap. Just use your imagination! You don’t have to be the next Van Gogh. God will be delighted when you create something to bring him glory.

Go Walking

KNOW GOD--part two

Breathing fresh air is like sucking Heaven’s medicine through your nostrils. This is the perfect seasons to spend time with God outside. On a sunny or breezy day, take a walk. Sing praise songs to God as you stroll. Listen to worship music on your ipod. Whisper a prayer. Or just be silent and enjoy the beauty the day. God created nature so that we could find comfort in it. He made trees for shade. He made water so that we could dip our toes into a pond. He made the sun to turn our cheeks pink. Grasp the gift of creation with gratitude and don’t waste a warm day! Remember to thank God for the chance to roam in his backyard. (Wear good shoes!)

Be Silent

KNOW GOD--part one

Life is loud. Sometimes it is so loud that it can strangle us. Life is hectic, too. Sometimes it is so busy that we crash into our beds at night and can’t remember if we ate lunch or even talked to God at all. And when life is like that, we lose it. We aren’t healthy people anymore.

Take some time this week to be refreshed and renewed. Sit in silence with God, and not just for five minutes. Allow enough time for all the thoughts in your head to quit smacking into one another. Allow yourself to slow down enough to listen. Don’t talk. Just listen closely. You might be surprised to hear what God has to say to you if you give him a chance to speak. He is waiting to reveal himself to you.

Bad Listener

I think that you can learn a lot about people on a first date. It’s in those magical and often humiliating moments, that people reveal their true selves. Of course, I’ll be the first to admit it; I always hope that my first date self will be a more flawless, beautiful, interesting and witty version of the regular, everyday, give that girl a tic-tac Heather. But no matter how hard I try, my imperfections are doomed to follow me. I remember one date very vividly. I sat in the pizza booth, sipping my water, trying desperately to be cute and charming. I talked about my classes and my friends and how I love to write. That conversation led to the topic of books. “What kinds of books do you like to read, Heather?” he asked. I spouted off a few of my favorites, and then added, “But I like to write more than I like to read. I always have.” Honest answer. Total mistake. Flaw escape. My date glanced down at his food and then mumbled with a smile, “That’s probably because you like to talk more than you like to listen.” Ouch.

Of course, I don’t think that I’m a bad person for talking too much, and I don’t really care what that dude thinks. He’s long gone, thank goodness! But I have to confess: he was right. I do have a problem with listening, and that’s not okay. I’m trying to get better at listening, at not cutting people off mid-sentence, at forcing my own thoughts to slow down. I’m trying.

And although listening is one of my obvious issues, sometimes I wonder if maybe it’s not so much a problem with listening as a problem with silence. The truth is, I hate silence. I fill it with words because it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel alone. Last weekend I made my annual trek to Rockford, Illinois to visit my good friend, Lindsey. (Let me just say that I love that girl.) We packed our weekend full of activity: exploring downtown Madison, battling her friends in Euchre, chatting over coffee and stomping around the county fairground with her parents.

When it came time to leave, I hugged Lindsey goodbye, hopped into my car and immediately turned on the radio. It stayed on the whole ride home. Noise. Even if I wasn’t really listening to anything, the radio stayed on. Avoiding the silence. When I wasn’t listening to the radio full blast, I was talking on the phone, only to be informed (ironically) that I “use filler words whenever there is a lull in conversation.” Awesome. Point taken.

Sometimes I wonder if God laughs at me. I wonder if He hears my frantic prayers and rambling, worried thoughts. I wonder if He listens patiently for a while and then whispers, “Heather, breathe. Chill out.” He probably says things like that to me all the time but I am too busy talking to hear Him. I’m too busy avoiding the silence. I’m too busy spouting out my own words instead of allowing His thoughts become my own. I wonder how many words from God I’ve missed because I wouldn’t close my mouth.

I need to be a better listener. I need to be better at dwelling in silence. I just wish it wasn’t so difficult.

Side note: In honor of practicing silence I will be posting a series of six devotional entries, the first of which will talk about the discipline of silence and solitude. These are excerpts from a devotional booklet I published for the Westside Women last spring! Coming soon.

Credo-- take two!

Check out my second article at CredoMagazine.com! You can find the link on the home page entitled "Shrubs, Soap and Scoopers." This article isn't necessarily deep or thought provoking :) but I had a good time putting it together. Does anyone have any terrible tasks from your childhood that you'd be willing to share? 

Just a side note: Seeing my work published is such a boost. I've been blessed to develop a relationship with the people from Barefoot Ministries. Their investment in me has helped me believe that this writing thing can actually happen...

Wanted: One good-looking spider slayer

There is a spider in my car, and it refuses to leave. 

Angela and I discovered the nasty, eight-legged friend on our way to an Estate Sale. As we discussed our bargain purchases and the gorgeous weather and wedding dresses, he scurried his way across the dashboard. We welcomed him into our conversation with wide eyes and screeches and threats of squashing him with a tissue if we ever mustered up the courage. Neither of us has ever done well with creepy crawly things. But seriously, it was huge--at least the size of a small child. I barely managed to pull my car into a nearby parking lot. We both bolted out of the car and tried to smash our unwelcome guest, but he disappeared into the vent. Dang it. 

I thought maybe he would leave on his own. After all, my Mom always used to say, "They are more scared of you than you are of them." Doubt it. After a day without spider sightings, I convinced myself to chill out. He was gone.

Too bad he reappeared during my solo trip to Indiana for the weekend! When I was 5 miles away from my exit, he tiptoed past my arm and to the edge of my seat. I nearly swerved my car off the road as I traveled down I-69. Now that I think of it, that would have been a foolish and embarrassing way to leave this earth. Girl Crashes Car After Being Startled By Insect. What a loser. 

I raced my way to the exit, pitifully swatting at the creature with my rubber flip flop, praying that he wouldn't crawl onto my leg. As soon as I reached the ramp, I looked for the nearest gas station. I pulled in, threw my car into park, and jumped out of the car. I probably looked ridiculous to everyone at the gas station, wearing one flip flop, holding the other above my head, and poking at the driver's seat with an umbrella I found in the trunk. I never did squish him. He got away, again. 

Although I'd like to believe that he stumbled his way out of my Saturn and has found a new home in the Hoosier state, I have this horrible feeling that he is waiting to surprise me one more time. At times like this, I wish I had a boyfriend, if for no other reason than to have my own personal bug slayer. Gross!

Just say no

to junk food. 

My dad and I (and his workout buddy, who I've never met) are beginning a junk food fast today. For 30 days we'll be on a six-one rotation. Monday-Saturday: no sweets or fatty snacks. This includes cake, ice cream, chocolate, chips, cookies, pop, nachos...you get it. Sunday: free day. But the goal on this day is to "reward ourselves," not to binge and put ourselves into a calorie-coma.

This will be really great for me. I've been working out a ton since I got home from school, but I feel like my sweat is wasted when I devour a cookie or bowl of ice cream. My goal isn't really to lose weight, but to tone up and start feeling good about myself again. Yes, this will be a good challenge.

Interested in joining?

If not, then just wish me luck!

Heather Houdini

     A few days ago, my little sister had a friend over to the house. After they listened to Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers for a good hour (because that's what 6th grade girls do), they wandered into the attic to search for treasure. What they found was a large, snap-plastic box filled with my awkward years. The box was stuffed with rabbit figurines and a black top hat and magic rings and a handkerchief that changes colors and dice and cards and a fake rat. Those were the magic years. 

     They played with all of my old gadgets for hours. I showed them how to unlink the silver rings and how to make the handkerchief disappear. Most of the tricks I forgot how to do, though. When the big moment came, my slightly-rusty slight of hand would produce soured faces and, "Duh, Heather. We aren't stupid." instead of "Oohs" and "Aaahs." I found myself getting defensive and reminding them that I packed up that box a long time ago, and that I used to fool people all the time.

     I vividly remember the 5th grade. I was convinced that I was going to be the next David Copperfield or Harry Houdini or whatever that other guy's name is. I made signs, advertising my magical abilities and how much I would charge for special appearances. But I never did persuade my mom to let me hang them up on Food Town's bulletin board. I made contracts, and kept them in a folder, just in case I got a call from a customer. I was going to perform at birthday parties and be famous and sign a lot of autographs. I'd probably be on TV, too. I was created to be a magician.

      Looking back, it makes me realize two things. First, I was a really big nerd. And second, I knew how to hold on to dreams.

     These days, I don't dream about being a world-famous magician. Instead, I think about being a writer. About traveling. About working as a missionary. About learning another language. About getting published. 

     Sometimes I doubt myself, though. I fear that my ability isn't great enough. I fear that my drive isn't strong enough. I fear that no one will ever want to read 200 or more pages of my thoughts. But fear is normal, I think. Whenever I have been fearful of something, it's because it's important to me. Job interviews, relationship talks, first dates, final portfolios. 

     So, maybe I should keep dreaming big and not shy away from this writing thing, not shy away from the discipline that stretches me and makes me feel alive and makes creative juices swirl around in my head. Maybe I wasn't created to be Heather Houdini after all. (Thank goodness!) Maybe I was made to write. Maybe that is a dream worth holding on to. 

Poetry Reading

     Yesterday I ate lunch with my 85-year old grandmother. My mom, sister and I made the 20-minute drive to her home and picked up food to go at Bob Evans, my grandma's favorite restaurant. I am convinced that Bob Evans is some sort of Mecca for wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and purple hair dye. We were the youngest people there by at least 50 years. But they do have good soup and salad; I'll give them that.

     My grandma isn't as sharp as she used to be (understandably), but I always have fun talking with her. During our time together, she told stories from the Great Depression, from the time her family lived and worked at the fairground, from a time when people sewed their own clothes. She also informed me that the love of cake baking runs in our family blood, and that there is an ancient, glass, cake stand to prove it. (Although that might be true, I'm a little nervous that domestic finesse skipped my generation.) She reminded me that her left eye is still giving her trouble, that her feet still swell, and that she still has to take a handful of pills with every meal. I don't want to be old.

     As promised, I brought along my poetry portfolio from writing class. I sat next to her while she patiently read through my work. My grandma has always loved poetry. When I was younger, I used to have sleep overs at her house and she would read me a book of children's poems before we went to bed. She used to write her own poems, too. She keeps the yellowed papers in an old shoe box, in a forgotten drawer in her bedroom. I am determined to help her find them sometime, because I know I would enjoy seeing them. After she read my poems, she recited some of her own poetry, at least, as much as she could remember. They were simple and beautiful.

       I told her she probably passed the love of writing on to me. She just smiled and said, "Yes, you always used to write me stories for my refrigerator. I would show them to my friends when they came over for a visit." She paused for a minute and then began reciting another poem as it peeked out from the corner of her mind. It might seem silly, but I think that yesterday was one of my favorite moments with my grandma. Reading poetry together on a cloudy, Wednesday afternoon. And as her memory begins to fade, I hope that those are the kind of times she will be able to treasure, too. 

Summer

by Heather D. Moline

She smacks her lips together and she smiles

while sunlight folds into her gentle curls.

She takes a breath, then putters, laughs and tries

to blow another bubble to the sky.

The tree transforms into a hideaway

where cops and robbers meet to have a fight

His box of secrets, stashed beside the trunk,

is marked with X and safely out of sight.

She learned to lace her skates all by herself

though balance didn't come as easily.

The race begins-- To lamppost. Touch. And back.

She took the turn too fast and scabbed a knee.

But summer sets, realities arise.

Imagination waves its last goodbyes.

Hopscotch, marbles, jump rope, trade them in

for war and tax and saturated fats.

My futon has an attitude

I had a "Miss Independent moment" on Wednesday. My roommates and I had just finished final exams and were beginning the horrible process of packing up/cleaning up our room. Part of that task included disassembling the futon. In the past, my dad has put it together and torn it down, but this year, I was going to do it myself. After all, how difficult could it actually be? 

Answer: very. 

I put my full effort into twisting apart the stubborn screws. It probably didn't help that all I had was a miniature pink tool kit and some sort of Handyman wrench contraption my dad had given to me. At one point, I was so frustrated I told my roommate Lindsey I wanted to swear. (ha!) She reminded me that there were parents helping their daughters move out and "it probably isn't a good idea if the Hall Chaplain is swearing at the furniture." Good point. I kept my composure, barely.

After 45 minutes of wrestling with the futon and pinching my fingers and pleading with those bolts to release their grip, I was able to convince 6 screws to comply. Really, only six. 

I left for lunch, while the half-apart futon sat in the middle of the room, mocking me. I would show it who was boss later. It would be sorry.

When I came back, my friend Adlai had taken apart the futon. He said that he did it in 5 minutes. Seriously? So, instead of feeling like Miss Independent, I felt like a little girl. A little girl with wimpy pink pliers and a futon with an attitude.

In other news, I'm home now. I still have a lot of unpacking to do, but summer has officially started!

Engine Grease and Eternity

My Dad has a really cool car. I know it’s cool for a few different reasons; first, whenever I tell my guy friends what kind of car he drives, they do the classic, chin tilt, wide-eyed, “Niiice!” followed by questions about RPMs or pistons or the exhaust fumes or something I don’t completely understand. Next, I know because it has a special spot in the garage, and it never goes out in the rain. Finally, I know it’s cool because men stare whenever we ride around town. And although I’d like to think they are looking at the way-cute daughter in the front seat, I know that their honks and waves are directed at the manicured tires and flawless racing stripes. Oh well, can’t win them all, I suppose.

   My Dad has put so much work into restoring his ’67 Shelby Cobra (Yes, men, this is when you can ooh and ah.) I’ve been thinking about my Dad’s car a lot the past few days because of the sermon our pastor gave on Sunday. He was preaching about spiritual “restoration,” a word that most of us don’t truly understand (at least, I know I didn’t.) I looked it up in the dictionary and it means “to return something to its original owner, place or condition.”  

   The thing about restoration is, it doesn’t come easy. Just ask my Dad. He and his friend, Mike, spent hours upon hours making that Mustang shimmer. When they started working on it, it didn’t have a floor, it was missing parts and it had been sitting behind someone’s shed for a few years covered in weeds and cobwebs. But my Dad and Mike, they saw potential in that old car. They were willing to put in the time and effort to make it something beautiful again, returning it to its original condition (or maybe even a little better.)

   I think that God looks at us the same way. He sees our rusted wheels and rotting seat cushions and scratched paint. He sees the bad choices we’ve made and the scars we’ve acquired and the times we’ve done our own thing instead of His. But He chooses to see past those things. Instead, when He looks at us, He sees incredible promise. He offers the gift of restoration for anyone who chooses to accept it.

   Another thing my pastor pointed out was that most of us don’t like change. He’s right. Sometimes I hate it. But you can’t be truly restored if you aren’t willing to be changed. Healing requires you to remove yourself from the weeds and allow yourself to be sanded, twisted, and molded. And that can be painful. Usually I just want God to give me a quick fix, to restore me completely, without breaking me of the things that are wrong in my life. But that’s not how it works. Restoration is difficult. In fact, real life change is impossible on your own. Hear that. You can’t fix yourself. Thankfully, we have a Master Mechanic who is willing to get his hands dirty and take a look under our hoods. He can make us beautiful again. No repair is too big or too small for Him, and that is something worth squealing your tires about.

Tick Tock

            Today has been a bittersweet day, my last Friday at IWU before summer break. We had our last chapel today, and we sang two of my favorite worship songs. I sat in my final math class and almost cried tears of joy when I realized that I would never be forced to stare at another algebra equation on a chalkboard. I ordered my final Iced Caramel Macchiato at McConn, the campus coffee shop; I am officially out of points. I went to my final job interview, so now I get to keep my fingers crossed for the next six days. I attended a bridal shower for two of the senior girls on staff. I realized that it is probably the last time we will all hang out together before they graduate and become wives. And now I’m sitting at Payne’s coffee shop with a group of friends and procrastinating for one last time before the reality of exams sets in. In five days I will be done with my second year of college. I’m halfway there, and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. Not to mention I still have a dorm room full of clothing, nicknacks and old papers to pack away. Time is going so fast.

Prom dresses and Poverty

I like to spend my Thursday afternoons with Dr. Phil and Oprah in the TV lounge. Usually I bring my homework or catch up on e-mails or flitter an hour away on facebook while I watch. On this particular day, I witnessed the last 5 minutes of Dr. Phil. It was a typical show. Something about a rebellious teen and psychotic mother who had been with at least 15 men over the past five years and couldn’t quite pinpoint why her daughter was so promiscuous. Thankfully, Phil knows everything. So he set them straight and hooked them up with three guaranteed-to-fix-your-life therapy sessions. They’ll probably be okay, now. Oprah interviewed a 19 year-old boy who weighed almost 900 pounds. The bad news was, he could only get up to go to the bathroom and might not be around for his 20^th birthday party. The good news was, his mom served him hamburgers and nachos for lunch everyday and he had gotten really good at Mario Kart.

After Oprah put in her two cents about why the desire for cheese covered hot dogs is a deeply spiritual problem, the local news came on the screen. I watched it for a while, and I noticed a theme. It was obvious, really, and I’m sure you’ve noticed it too. The anchorwoman with teased blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes informed me that our economy is going down the toilet. Americans everywhere are struggling to keep their homes or sell their homes or heat their homes. Car companies are sinking while gas prices are skyrocketing. More layoffs are expected this week. And the only raises in our near future will be the dough that Uncle Sam demands. Ugh. Poor America.

I wasn’t feeling especially hopeful after my first few moments with the people at Channel 13. Then they did a special report. A cute, brunette reporter stood in the middle of the formalwear section at the mall, where a high school girl and her mom were shopping for a prom dress. Due to the struggling economy, the pair was looking for a stylish bargain. When the reporter interviewed the mother, she asked if they had set a price limit for the gown. The mom thought for a moment and then said, “Well, I am unemployed. And I’m trying to put myself through school. So yes, we have a limit. She will only be allowed to spend $150 on the dress.” My stomach sank. $150? For a dress? For one night? Is that really what economic struggle looks like in America? The reporter ended the interview with some shallow and cheesy line about how everyone is cutting back these days and how she is confident the poor little girl will have a nice night, despite her low-budget purchase. I thought I was going to be sick.

One month ago, I stayed in a Costa Rican home where having a fork for every person was a luxury. I met mothers who were desperate for me to snap a picture of their baby because it might be the only photo they ever have from their childhood. Members of our team shook hands with village leaders who begged for $140, the amount it takes to feed an entire village of school children their lunch for a year. And here was a story on the local news about the unfortunate Americans who are forced to scrimp and scrape and spend that same amount on a prom dress. Something didn’t seem right to me.

I think we have a wrong idea of what it means to “struggle.” I don’t want to be insensitive, because I know that there are Americans who are in desperate need. I know that there are hardworking dads who were laid off by no fault of their own. I know that there are small business owners who have done everything right, but can’t stay afloat in a stormy economy. I know that there are people losing their homes. I know that some families didn’t celebrate Christmas like they usually do. I know. But there is something wrong when we call ourselves poor, when we view ourselves as the victims, the bottom, or the most unfortunate. The truth is, we are incredibly blessed.

Struggle is not being forced to carry a Nokia instead of a Blackberry. Struggle is not selling your SUV for something with better gas mileage. Struggle is not clipping coupons to save money on Stouffers lasagna at the grocery store. Struggle is not buying a prom dress on sale. These things point to prosperity, not poverty. We are so fortunate to live in the United States. Not because we are the wealthiest nation in the world, but because we are in a position that allows us aid others. But too often, we look at ourselves. We think that our problems are the biggest, that our needs are the greatest.

We are mistaken if we think that we have a tough life. In truth, our “struggles” are equivalent to someone else’s luxury. Maybe if we changed our perspective and became sensitive to the reality of others, we would appreciate the little things in life. We wouldn’t feel so miserable about rising gas prices, because we have a car. We wouldn’t feel so frustrated by an unsold home, because we have a roof. Instead, we’d be grateful. That’s what I’m committing myself to; I want to be thankful for everything I have. I want to focus on the blessings in my life, not the needs.

Hi, Frank.

Today I met Frank Peretti. Christian fiction writer. Author of books like, This Present Darkness, The Oath, Hangman's Curse, House. Yes. That Frank Peretti.

He was visiting for the World Changers Society induction ceremony, which is something IWU does every Spring semester. This year's inductee was Joni Erickson Toda, who was injured in a tragic diving accident. Despite the fact that she is a quadriplegic confined to a wheelchair, Mrs. Toda has become a well-known artist (holding the paintbrush between her teeth) and the founder/supporter of organizations that work on behalf of people with disabilities. She's an amazing woman. Her faith was evident as she spoke, and I can't imagine the amount of perseverance she must possess to overcome everything that life has thrown at her. All that to say, Peretti was the 2004 inductee, so he and his wife returned to celebrate the induction of Mrs. Toda. 

I sat near the front, and after the ceremony was over I waited around, shook his hand, and told him I was an IWU writing student. He put his hand on the side of my face and said, "Well bless you!" (Which I think meant, "Good luck, kiddo.") Then we talked about writing a little bit. He told me that the most important thing is to write even when you don't feel inspired. He told me that writing isn't easy. That there will be days when you would rather not do it. "But sometimes you just have to put your tush in the chair and write. You'll get something eventually." I needed to hear that. 

I told him I liked his work, and that my mom was an especially big fan. He signed my program, which I'll probably always keep because I'm sentimental like that and because it will remind me to work hard. It will remind me to write, even on days when I would rather watch Oprah or organize my junk drawer or repaint my toenails, because doing stuff like that is so much easier. Instead, I will write.

Thanks, Frank.

God+rice+hut=Blessing

I recently returned from Costa Rica. Eight students from IWU, two professors, two translators and I stumbled our way through the jungle for one week. We worked alongside an Indigenous tribe called the Bri Bri, who welcomed us onto their Reservation and into their lives. My time with the Bri Bri was incredible. It pushed me, stretched me, and taught me more about myself. Since coming back to my comfortable life in the United States, I've been trying to process all that I experienced in Costa Rica. Below is an excerpt from a paper I wrote for class. I hope that it gives you a glimpse into what I've been learning...

(Excerpt from "Finding God in the Jungle")

Throughout the week, I kept a journal. Several days, I wrote the phrase, “I feel so blessed” as I referred to my life in the United States. But when I look back at those words, they seem hollow. One of our last nights, Carlos stayed up late and told our group more stories. It was raining hard against the wall of the hut, which drowned out the hum of the bugs. His eyes were filled with pride and passion, as he retold the Indian tales. But the last thing he said has stuck with me and has continued to echo in my ears. “The Bri Bri are not a rich people, but we are a wealthy people,” he said, before scooting out into the drizzle and walking to his own hut.

   The Bri Bri are content. They don't need hot tubs and ipods and designer jeans and scented hand soap and Tivo and all six episodes of Star Wars and futons and the newest Blackberry model to feel blessed. I’ve sat in church for my entire life. I’ve heard countless sermons about how material wealth does not equal blessing. But with my American eyes, when I look at a meal of rice and beans and a hut with leaves for a roof, I don’t see blessing. God is teaching me to see things differently. Blessing is a relationship with Him. Blessing is the joy of family and friends. To be blessed is to know that you are loved. I am blessed, but not because I live in the United States and not because I attend a Christian university and not because I have a soft bed. I am blessed because God has loved me, and I have chosen to love Him back.

            I never thought that I would have to travel to a dense jungle to see God more clearly. But with the help of the Bri Bri, I have discovered Him in new ways. My everyday-American-Nike shoe wearing life is strikingly different from that of the Bri Bri culture. But as we stood together in prayer, and sang together in the field, and laughed together in a bug-infested hut, the differences seemed to disappear. The truth is, a creative and unchanging Father loves us. He loves the white college student from Indiana and he loves the tanned Costa Rican native. We are treasured. We are His. We are blessed.

I am published!

Check out my very first magazine article! It appeared in the online version of Credo Magazine, a Christian teen magazine published by Barefoot Ministries. I've revised and re-read this story countless times. (Microsoft Word actually begged me to give it a break.) But somehow, seeing this story on a real-life website makes me want to jump up and down. It was a ton of fun to write something for more than just a class grade, and I can't wait to write some more. 

On a side note, this week has been tough. Jobs seem to be scooting past me, and I'm not entirely sure what God has in front of me. But I'm so thankful that He allowed me to write this article. Seeing it on the page reminds me that He provides. He is faithful. I felt like it was His way of saying, "Heather, be proud of the gifts I've given you. Have hope. I promise I won't make you work at McDonalds this summer."

Check it out at www.CredoMagazine.com

There is a link on the home page and it is entitled, "I Am Not a Mountain Woman."

Hope you enjoy it!

Find yourself first.

        (Excerpt from "Six Things My Little Sister Should Know About Dating")     

           Somewhere at my parent’s house, in a corner cupboard, is a scrapbook filled with my childhood. It is bursting with pictures that showcase braces and acne and pitiful fashion choices. Every time I look at it, I am horrified. Then I become instantly grateful. Grateful that those years have passed and that I made it through looking like a real person. I remember that period of awkwardness when I was constantly outgrowing shoes and boys only cared about Legos and no matter how much I begged, Mom still wouldn’t let me wear mascara.

            At some point, things begin feeling normal again. Then you enter high school and suddenly you are worried about calories and cell phones and who the hot guy will ask to homecoming. High school is great in many ways, and you do plenty of growing up. College is another type of a growing up, though. You start to feel like an adult and everyone starts asking you what you will do with your life. So, you plan for the future, because after all, it’s college and you’re supposed to know what you’re doing. These days the hot guy is a loser, so you start to think about who might be the right one for you. It all gets a little intense. Friends get engaged and married and if you aren’t one of them, you begin to feel like maybe those scrapbook pictures are still your reality.

            It’s hard to get a grip on life when so much is changing within and around you. One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is that if you don’t know yourself, it’s hard to make a dating relationship work. Either you end up with someone completely wrong for you or you compromise in ways you never thought you would. You leave friends in the dust, make that person the center of your world and forget that you had an identity before you met them. Don’t get sucked in. Begin the process of finding yourself first, and then you will have something to offer in a relationship.

            There are two quotes about this topic that I love. The first comes from the pen of Ralph Waldo Emerson who says, “Insist on yourself, never imitate.” The second is from the wise Dr. Seuss who says, “Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.” Both of these men understand the importance of finding yourself. Once you discover who you are, don’t apologize for it and don’t change for anyone. The guy who is worth giving your heart to is the one who will love the uniqueness that only you possess.

Don't forget to wash your hands!

(February Devotional--for NHC Westside)

The other day I stumbled across an article from the New York Times that claimed, 25% of men admit to not washing their hands after using the restroom. Ugh! I wanted to gag, put on a pair of mittens and refuse to hold my boyfriend’s hands unless he sanitized those grubby paws in front of me. This hygiene discovery rattled my world. I mean, how hard is it to us a little soap and water? It takes almost no time or effort, and besides that, not washing them is just plain gross.

I wonder if maybe we just get lazy. Maybe we get swept up in the business of life and forget that stuff like washing our hands is important. And then I wonder if we do the same thing with our spiritual lives. Sometimes we get bored or tired or lazy, and before we know it, we have given up on purity. We have stopped spending time with God and asking him to continually clean us. It’s a terribly harsh question, but I think it is worth asking: have we, like the icky men, stopped caring about spiritual contamination?

That’s a dangerous place to find ourselves. Psalm 24:3-5 says, “Who shall go up into the mountain of the Lord? Or who shall stand in His Holy Place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who has not lifted himself up to falsehood or to what is false, nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive blessing from the Lord and righteousness from the God of his salvation.” From this verse we can see that God honors purity. But that doesn’t mean it will be easy. Purity takes effort and we have to be purposeful in our actions. It is only when we commit to having a pure heart that God will be able to work through us. We must make time to scrub our souls.

During the month of February, Westside will be tackling the issue of sexual purity. As we enter into this month, let’s be intentional about examining our lives for anything that isn’t clean. Maybe it will relate specifically to sexual purity, or maybe it will be another area that needs to be washed. Whatever it is, I know that God is going to honor us for our honesty and willingness to be cleansed. So, here’s to scented hand soap and trusting God to renew our hearts. Bring on the suds!