A Thousand Words Undone

Confession: I’ve spent too much time scrolling through my photos on Facebook. I'm interested in what my visual journal says about me. Some people use their “de-tagging” powers to sway the perception of others to their own benefit. They screen every photo they’re tagged in and only keep the best versions of themselves. I am the opposite of that person.

I leave the good the bad and the ugly up, because I want to be authentic. But the truth is, the internet cannot represent me authentically and a candid picture of me with three chins and a stain on my t-shirt is not who I am. Unfortunately, it is not usually the unattractive photos that haunt me. It’s the picture that represents a time when I was lost. My arms might look skinny and my waist trim, but secretly I remember drowning in that moment. I convince myself that anyone can perceive the shame I felt during this time. In reality, no one can likely detect the emotional truth behind the image.

For years, I’ve kept these images up, threatening to pull me back to a place when I lost touch with myself and my faith. The only person these photos are hurting is me. I feel guilty about taking them down, because it makes me feel like I'm hiding something. However, leaving them up only brings shame that paralyzes growth. I am not defined by my past, but keeping these pictures ties me to it. How can I feel grace if I’m continually reminded of my mistakes? I realize it is time to let them go. I have nothing to hide. This lost sheep has been found. God met me where I was and carried me to the other side. More than that, He promised, “I have even greater things planned for you.” These are the truths that need to be remembered. Not the photos representing painful memories already healed by Christ.

Making Mountains Out of Molehills, and Climbing Them

Airplanes. A place where melancholic thoughts and long repressed dreams resurface. It's just loud enough to make talking a chore and thinking inevitable. The internet is unavailable, unless you're an oligarch who can afford the outrageous price of wifi. And let's be real, the ruble ain't makin' anyone richer. So we are forced into solitude- to be vulnerable with ourselves. Guess what guys, I'm checking in with me. And it's looking pretty dang good from 13,000 feet or whatever height airplanes fly at these days. 

Brance and I are traveling to DC to visit my parents and my temporary new home. Not the "I just got married and pretend to be an adult" home in Washington, but my parent's home. It's their first residence that I have no attachment to. After 35 years in the military, the majority of which were spent at West Point, my father has retired. Currently, they are house-sitting for one of my dad's luxurious classmates in Northern Virginia. Apparently, if you get out of the army after 5-10 years instead of making it a career, you become a bazillionaire- I have many reputable sources. One bought me a VitaMix for my wedding- BEST. GIFT. EVER. Anyways, my parent are free-balling while my father figures out his next step. Essentially, he and I are in a similar chapter in our lives. However, his resume is a little stronger than mine. I'm not intimidates. We both find ourselves asking: what am I going to do!?!

Evidently, you don't just have to answer this question once in your life. It can sneak up on you at any time and the options only seem to thin slightly with age.

Dear fellow twenty-somethings and thoughtful acquaintances, 

I do not know what I want to be when I grow up. Please stop asking.

Sincerely, 

Kate

But I can tell you a few things I do Not want to be- President, mortician, anything in the transportation business. I didn't get my license until I was 19. I hate driving. Less now than when I started. At least now I've reached a minimal comfort level with it and I don't have to worry about becoming a soccer mom who has anxiety attacks every time she has carpool duty. Baby steps. Thank you I-5 for forcing me to risk my life everyday and still live. I pray every time I hit that on ramp.

However, just because I haven't nailed down the specifics, doesn't mean I don't have some promising ideas about what I may want to pursue. Disclaimer: there is no theme. Among the top competitors recently: nonprofit work. acting, and culinary school. Which one scares me the most? Working for a nonprofit. Interesting isn't it. But like my fear of driving, I've built up this fear of working in an office setting. It's something I've never done and, here I am, 2.5 years out of undergrad and my lack of experience in a cubicle has manifested a gut wrenching paranoia. Why? The demon keeps telling me I'm not professional enough. Also, I greatly dislike networking. I don't enjoy creating relationships for the sole purpose of getting ahead. Rockefeller would have trampled me during the Gilded age. I'm all about authenticity. How can you be genuine while politely asking, so you can get me a job, right? Despite my exaggerated fears, I've decided to jump in with both feet (jumping with one just sounds painful). That's right- I'm applying to office jobs. Take that evil voices. I'll show you! 

And guess what, I've recently made some progress at a place I am super excited to potentially work for. Nothing is concrete yet and I'm not good at sharing things until they come into fruition. But prayers would be greatly appreciated. This is my mountain, and it may look more like a downhill coast to most people- especially my peers from GW. They didn't even wait until the first day of class to lock down their internships- talk about ambition. But I'm doing things in my own time and I will climb this mountain without apology or resignation. I'll let you know how the view is from the top. If it isn't for me, I happen to be an excellent cook and something in me still thinks there's an Oscar with my name on it. 

Resolution Jargon and Mutiple Plugs for Amy Poehler

I believe New Year’s resolutions are about as successful as finding love on the Bachelor- good luck farmer boy! If “He’s Just Not That Into You” taught me anything, it’s that we’re a bunch of hopefuls clinging to the exception when we are simply the rule. That is not to say I do not find myself exceptional in some areas- I'm something of a legend in the kitchen. Regardless, follow through when there isn’t a grade or paycheck on the line, can prove difficult for me. Just ask the empty drawing pad in my closet or this blog.

I find I need to recommit myself daily, if not hourly, to whatever new habit/lifestyle/mantra I’ve decided to live by. This can be challenging when I wake up in the morning to 5 beautiful Candy Crush lives. How do I train myself to check in in a world full of distractions?

Despite my sour attitude toward resolutions, I still find myself reflecting as one year surrenders to the next. Wasn’t I going to be somebody by now? Recently, thanks to my wonderful husband, I am more aware of how incredibly hard I am on myself. If you desire to shed light in areas of opportunity you convinced yourself you didn’t have— Get married. If you want to feel loved through the process of said exposure— marry someone who understands grace. Now back to what I was saying. For years I’ve viewed my tough opinions towards myself as a strength. “In order to catalyze change one must feel conviction!” I imagine my subconscious screaming these words at me via megaphone while I run across a bed of needles. I thought I was giving myself the push to move forward. Tough love. But tough love is, in fact, still love. I forgot that factor at some point. My method of self motivation became self deprecation. The voice inside of me stopped saying “you can be something, keep going, you got this” and started whispering “you’re behind, you’ll never catch up, you’re not good enough, you’re lazy, fat, insecure…”

STOP.

If you too encounter this evil and are in search of methods to combat it, please refer to Amy Poehler's new book “Yes, Please.” I cannot recall the chapter in which she addresses the demon and I’ve currently loaned out my copy, but the whole book is good. So read it.

Anyways, contrary to my belief that this recognition of “weakness” catalyzes change, the negativity of the evil one actually creates paralysis. I’ve been stopping myself up for years. Where’s the Ex-lax?! If only it were that easy. How do I erase the bully I’ve spent years creating? Franken-jerk, I’ve put so much time and energy into you!! I can’t remove myself from this abusive relationship. If I change my number, so does she. Thanks to Amy’s input I’m convinced she will never truly disappear, she’ll always be lurking in the shadows. But it is possible to beat her into submission. So, I’m working on it. I’m talking nice to myself. Or as Ms. Poehler puts it “Sticking up for ourselves in the same way we would one of our friends is a hard but satisfying thing to do. Sometimes it works.” Seriously, go read her book- it’s good. Well, that’s about as close to a resolution as I can give. I will attempt each morning to postpone crushing candy for 5 minutes so I can tell myself, “You is kind, you is smart, you is important.”

Deployment: A Tangent of Observation and Growth

For the most part, I try not to mention Brance’s deployment to strangers. However, my job focuses on authentic relationships with guests, making the previous statement quite difficult. On days when his absence weighs on me, my genuine reaction is to talk about it positively. But, I’m never ready for the sincere reactions of others. Immediately pity washes over the faces of acquaintances and I regret my transparent personality. The last thing I want is the furled eyebrow that questions “how do you do it?”. Before I can answer, the pity transforms to guilt as they realize all the moments they’ve taken for granted in their own lives. They offer condolences, and I want nothing more than to apologize for bringing down the mood. I did not mean to darken the day. I just wanted to be real. Instead, my truth seems to victimize me. I smile and water down the details, because I don’t feel I deserve their pity. 

Fact: it’s not fun when you’re loved one is gone. 

Fact: the reading on the suck-o-meter is equally awful, whether he’s away at a conference for a few days or driving tanks in a war zone for a year. 

This is the part of army culture I loathe so greatly. There seems to be an unwritten competition between women over the many woes of the military lifestyle. If I’m struggling with deployment, instead of getting support, a fellow army wife might dilute the experience- “How long is your husband gone? Only 9 months?! Well John was gone for a whole year.”  

That’s great and all. But now John is sitting next to you, nursing a beer and caressing your thigh. You got your husband back.

It’s not the distance that bothers me, we’ve already proven we can conquer distance. It’s the uncertainty of it all. I want confirmation that I’ll get to have him in my arms again- I could wait forever if God would promise me that. But He doesn’t. Still, there is a hope and peace that counters the uncertainty. I don’t understand it, but I’ll take it. I just wish the few women who relate to my situation would stop comparing battle scars and start practicing empathy. 

There must be a middle ground between the awestruck pity party and the emotionless narcissist. I’m not saying I’m innocent, but this lifestyle I’m entering into is hard enough without us women telling one another that the other’s feelings are unfounded. Especially when these people are supposed to be a support system during tough times.  Fortunately, like all walks of life, there are good eggs within the stereotype (and I’ve found quite a few). 

It’s so easy to magnify your own suffering and overlook the pain of others. I’ve played the victim on multiple occasions. It took a situation the world views as difficult for me to realize how selfish that mindset is. I am now focused on eliminating myself from the equation when dealing with others. I never want to make another individual feel unworthy of being heard. Instead of listening until I have something to say, I leave room for others to speak. I’ve never considered myself a good listener- I was always much better at the talking part. 

It wasn’t until today that I recognized my growth in the area. I grabbed tea with a friend and she complimented my ability to ask caring questions and create a safe space for response. Her observation caught me off guard, it seemed so far from the person I viewed myself as. But I’m not the girl I used to be. As my experiences change me, I need to allow my definition of myself to morph with them. 

I’ve held on to the image of myself from our last season of long distance. I was often inconsolable over the distance I couldn’t control. Now, we’re in the same position and I’m not sure what triggered the positive adjustment. I’ve been genuinely happy, despite my circumstances, and consequently I am a better support system for Brance. I’m the person I wanted to be 1 year ago when I lived in New York and he moved to Washington. I'm living proof that change can happen, even when it’s impossible to trace its origins. 

Home Is Wherever I'm With You

Today marks the half way point of Brance's (aka the fiancé's) deployment. Before now, the longest we've ever gone without seeing each other was 2 months- it's been 4.5 months since I've last cracked his thumb knuckles, smelled his rugged ACU's, or rubbed the short hair on his regulation haircut. I thought this moment would be more monumental- THE halfway point. But it feels like... he's still far from home. I notice his absence and I continue to feel out of control and uncertain. I'm continually trying to let things go. I can't control his safety. As he smiles at me over a pixilated connection on FaceTime, I always ask him to be safe. He always says "I'll try, baby." I jest and order him to do more than try, and he knows deep down it's not a joke. But he never changes his answer. He is a man of integrity and he knows, as much as he would like to, it is a promise he cannot make to me. His future is as uncertain as mine. In a lot of ways we are where we were 4.5 months ago, the unknown still hangs in the air and we are waiting for these moments to end. I plan a wedding praying he'll meet me at the alter. While some couples question whether marriage is the right choice for them, we wonder whether God will grant us this blessing in a broken world.

We still worry and wait, but we've also learned to hope. By emptying our hands of what we cannot control, we free ourselves from the responsibility of it. It is very difficult to carry the weight of power you do not actually possess- believe me I've been doing it for years. Only now am I learning to let go. Just one of many plastic necklaces I'm hoarding in my closet.

Things I've Learned During Brance's Deployment:

• I don't need him. I can survive without him BUT I want him, more than I've wanted anything in my life.
• I can parallel park- it just takes 3 attempts.
• In lieu of a man, cold feet can be remedied by fuzzy slippers. 
• Is He safe? No. But He is good.
• I can tolerate football.
• It's important to show yourself grace.
• Being a good wife takes effort daily and a lot of prayer.

Generation YOLO

I hate waiting- a consequence of being a privileged American. Waiting symbolizes inefficiency, an unacceptable quality in our every changing culture. We are a society plagued with FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), desperate to have the golden egg the second it is available. We all know what happened to Veruca, and still we ignore Willy Wonka and reach for the undeserved prize. This attitude towards waiting corrupts our ability to understand the benefits of the process.  

Mothers try to convince us that some things are worth waiting for. We roll our eyes and mouth YOLO, while Miley Cyrus’ latest hit pulses through our earbuds- “we can’t stop, and we won’t stop.” Sad. We reject wisdom and glorify foolery. We encourage friends to “do you” which rationalizes anything short of mass murder. As long as you’re not hurting anyone, it’s all good. But what if you’re hurting you? 

Instead of learning patience and growing while we prepare ourselves to receive something worthwhile, we label waiting as an idle act- completely static. In turn, we praise busyness, scheduling each second of the day, so there is no time to assess our personal situation. In yogi terms, we avoid checking in. We fail to acknowledge the areas in our life that need change and support. 

The lack of attention paid to ourselves hinders us from learning personal grace. When we are finally forced to face a crumbling corner of our soul, it’s a permanent blow. We don’t have time to let the wound or shortcoming heal. Instead we label it broken, a irreversible fracture in our structure, and readjust our standards for ourselves. We live in mediocrity, because we don’t have the patience for greatness.

But there is time to heal. If we’re strong enough to slow down and embrace a season of waiting, we can mend our broken pieces and even grow. We can be great if we understand that it takes more effort to hold off on something you really want, than hurdle over prerequisites for rapid results. The former reaps long term benefits, the later delivers momentary bliss. Impatience breeds one night stands, not intimacy- eating disorders, not healthy habits- fast food, not free range. 

We omit the long term to feel in the moment, then we fill the empty space left over with whatever we can to avoid analyzing yesterday. In reality, analyzing yesterday, spontaneous or premeditated (idiotic or awesome), is our way of knowing ourselves. If we are apathetic to our experiences, we are lost. Unfortunately, intimacy, even with ourselves, takes time and patience. We must commit to holding ourselves accountable and stop rationalizing our stupidity. We must decide who we are and who we aren't, and act accordingly. A mistake is not a permanent blemish, but an opportunity to learn and hopefully not repeat. Taking care of ourselves will teach us grace and forgiveness toward our faults, and also help us forgive others. The road is long and involves a lot of waiting before any breakthrough.  But 10 years from now, we’ll be happy to recognize and respect the face staring back at us in the mirror.

What makes me an expert on patience? I'm not. However, circumstance forced me, with little choice, into the world of waiting. I fell in love with an army officer. I moved to Seattle. We got engaged. He deployed. I’m not just waiting on our wedding. I’m waiting for my other half to come home safely from Afghanistan. I refuse to accept that this season adds up to Netflix movies and late night worrying. There has to be more. I needed to find meaning and movement in this time of uncertainty. Slowly, as I explore myself and this city, I am growing and learning beyond my expectations. I am finding the the space between busyness and stillness. It is good. 

Herstory: Give Her A Choice

I keep coming across trending article bashing women for choosing to get married and start a family. I’m sure you’ve come across these rants urging women to bake cakes instead of getting engaged and attacking women for having children instead of a career. I do not wish to give these articles any more publicity than they’ve already accumulated. However, they have succeeded in getting a rise and reaction out of me. More than angry at their close-minded views, I am sad by their inability to see beyond their current frame of reference. While they believe they are breaking the cookie cutter mold of what a woman “should be”, they are instead, confining women to a new, equally constricting mold. 

In one article, Amy Glass, after calling motherhood easy, states that getting married and having kids is the “the most common thing, ever, in the history of the world.They are by definition, average.” She then asks the profound question “... why on earth are we settling for average?” How dare women have children now that feminism has taken root?! There should be no baby making!! Then the world will end with women on top- I’m not sure that’s allowed in an anti-procreation society. But at least we’d finally succeed in Going Green: no people=no environmental issues. 

Now, I must be very clear. I think it’s badass if a woman is passionate about her career and wants to be THE WOman. I do not tolerate anyone unjustly prohibiting women from their dreams. Anyone determined to grow and develop themselves, as well as others, is nothing short of amazing. That being said, a woman that makes raising children her career is both elevating and developing people, like any CEO of corporate America. She simply does it within her own home. And, guess what? She doesn’t get to shut down her computer and leave her office at the end of the day. It’s a 24/7 gig. AKA, she’s pretty badass herself. Then there’s the woman that balances a career and children... don’t even get me started on that hero. 

Unfortunately, the women writing these article don’t realize how they negatively affect the cause they so desperately fight for. During my undergrad, I took a Black History course and read an article (that I cannot locate for the life of me) by an insightful black woman on racism. Years ahead of her time, she recognized that it was not only the white man’s view of the black man that held him back from equality, but also the black man’s desire to embody white culture that enabled the division. Basically, she witnessed a black culture that was desperate to conform to white culture, instead of recognizing that their own culture could breed success. Subconsciously, the black man believed himself inferior and ruined his chances of gaining equality. The same is true for sexism.

If we continue to believe that the success defined by male culture is considered superior to the hardworking culture of housewives- we are fueling sexism. This does not mean women shouldn’t have careers outside of the home. Rather, business women and housewives deserve equal respect (all people deserve equal respect, but we’re trying to keep this to one manageable blog post people). An office on the top floor of the tallest building should not be the only quantification of success. Instead of solely praising enormous wealth and reputation (two thing that plague Leo in Wolf of Wall Street), we should find another measuring stick. Success should be defined by the right questions: 

Does your job make you happy? Are you growing? Are you developing others? Is there a source of balance and fulfillment in your life? 

These questions are much more important than the number of zeros on a paycheck or the title engraved on a gold plaque. It doesn’t matter whether a woman spends her days directing the air traffic control for the entire nation or helping her kindergartner with his/her first homework assignment, a real women can be successful in any circumstance she chooses. 

Give her that choice. Make herstory.

Strides for Change: Run, Read, React

I’ve been a runner for the majority of my life. Some twisted soul decided cross-country and track should be the only sports available to students at my elementary school. So while most children participated in modified soccer, basketball, or softball- I was running hills (for fun?). I still don’t understand how my coaches coaxed a bunch of 4th-8th graders to run repeats and long distances. But I am eternally grateful to Mr. Robinson and Mrs. Rogers for introducing me to my favorite pastime. I only wish I had realized my love earlier and thanked them properly.

Unfortunately, I was under appreciative and decided not to run my 8th grade year (my coaches were not very happy). But like the young brokenhearted always say, “If you love something, let it go. If it comes back to you, it’s your forever.” Well, I can’t exactly say I let running “go”. I suppose in the scenario, running let me go. And I came back years later, on my own, and the rest is history.

Running and I have been living happily ever after for a while now. In college I started tackling races again. At first it was satisfying, but eventually I started to feel a void. Running offered me so much- an outlet for my stress, a decent pair a legs, and a healthy appetite. In a loving relationship (if you can call it that) there reaches a point when the two participants fill each other so much that they overflow and offer something to the rest of the world. I realized running and I were reaching that point and I didn’t know where to channel the overflow. That’s when I encountered Team in Training.

Team in Training is a team (no really?) that trains (what?) to run some amazing races across the nation. What makes this team so unique? They don’t just run, they are responsible for fundraising over $1.4 billion. The money they raise goes to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS)- a group dedicated to ending blood cancers today. They are responsible for radical research that saves lives. Just last weekend, I heard Darren, a survivor of stage IV Hodgkin Lymphoma, tell his story. Darren was diagnosed during his engagement and he and his then fiance postponed their wedding for treatment. When chemo was unsuccessful, the two lovebirds got married and enjoyed their honeymoon before turning to LLS. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society offered him a stem cell transplant that provide him and his now wife 10 years... and their story isn’t over.

I joined the team without a personal connection to blood cancer. At first, I felt like I didn’t have the right to ask people for money, because I didn’t have a moving story. I also felt I didn’t need to go to practices, because I was already in half marathon shape. Oh the things I have learned. I went to my second practice this weekend and was overwhelmed by the support and stories of others. Everyone was so invested in helping each other reach their goal- their support overflowed and poured into one another. One second I was a stranger, the next a teammate. Everyone was amazing- they are the kind of people I want to be surrounded by daily. Needless to say, I will be attending a lot more practices from now on. I was inspired and left the practice feeling like a vital asset to the mission. 

My quest to run for more than myself has proven more transformative than I thought. I  am not only challenged to raise more money than ever before, but I am recognizing a need for companionship during this time in my life- I am a new resident of Seattle missing her deployed running partner. Most importantly, I  am learning to care deeply about the mission and its ability to bring hope. I carry every story I hear with me and it encourages me to keep pounding the pavement- through ran, wind, and hail. Someone’s story can change for the better.

Please click HERE and donate on my website. Cancer ends with us!

Thank you for reading and reacting.

Go Team!!

Don't Judge A Person By Their Polaroid

I moved out to Seattle in May and, despite my constant exposure to change, I am not immune to the transition associated with it. We all adapt differently to change and I am beginning to recognize my own challenges in making a new place feel like home.

Recently, Richard, the head pastor at Bethany Community Church, stated that “intimacy is not microwaveable.” We cannot expedite our way into deep meaningful relationships by popping it in the microwave for two and a half minutes. It takes time, patience, and a lot of effort to create genuine lasting friendships. That was very hard for me to accept, as a woman who craves constant change. But as I let the idea marinate, I recognized the truth behind his words and found, in my own life, where I struggle to form intimate bonds.

When I first meet people, I see them as 2 dimensional. The facts I associate with them- their name (if I can remember it), occupation, home state, hobbies etc., become the only truths about them. Unfortunately, more times than not, these surface details leave a flat and relatively uninteresting impression. I forget to leave room for their character to reveal itself. As a writer and a people person, this revelation is nothing short of horrifying. Also, it confirms the origin of my least favorite habit.

I have an irrational need to spill my own soul to strangers and mere acquaintances. I want them to see my depth immediately for fear of dismissal or disinterest. I don’t want them to do to me, what I often do to others. In the process, I share too much, leaving myself vulnerable and exposed to those who didn’t earn my trust. Basically, I try very hard to microwave my own intimacy... always unsuccessfully. 

Fortunately, my 2D view is never permanent and always develops into something positive. Slowly (the way intimacy is meant to happen) I start to peel away the surface and delve into good stuff. My initial paper-thin perception starts to expand and gain width. This newfound girth creates understanding and compassion- revealed complexities leave little room for annoyance or judgement and make space for unconditional love. The 2D often captures an unflattering snapshot of a person, while the 3D allows us to dismiss the initial negative and reveal the infinite intricacies of human beings. Despite my awareness of this, I still find myself extremely surprised every time I encounter contradictions to my first impression. It’s like getting exactly what I wanted on Christmas morning without even asking. I love it. However, I do not approve of the instantaneous judgement that precedes it. So this week, I have turned my critical eye on myself in hopes of breaking my habit. Instead, I found I already harbored a superficial version of myself.  

To the inceptive eye, I am a talkative, friendly, confident army brat that feeds into the military stereotype of getting married young and hurriedly. I’m that girl that moved across country for the man she loved, who makes feminist cringe because she hasn’t figured out her career yet.  

All along, I’ve carried this 2D perception of myself in my sub conscience. Although a part of me knows I am more than that, I have given weight to the potential (not actual) misperceptions others might make of me. This need to be liked and understood breeds a damaging insecurity that can be paralyzing. Not to mention, it hinders intimacy. Despite the truth that I am a strong, independent woman (I moved out to Seattle to start a life knowing that my fiance would be deployed), my story is overshadowed by my insecurity that people will overlook my character and see this untrue shadow of myself as the whole package. 

To overcome this detrimental habit, I must let go of my 2D image of myself. I need to have grace for myself, so I can regain confidence and abolish insecurity. That way, I can look at other people with the same grace and stop the unflattering proofs from ever becoming photographs. Intimacy is not microwavable, but it is achievable if we are wiling to put in the time and overlook that initial snapshot. 

The Pearl Necklace: The Tale Behind The Title

I had the rare pleasure of growing up at West Point in upstate New York. While most military families rarely stay in one place for more than a few years, my father had the privilege of serving as a permanent professor at the United States Military Academy. I spent my sundays at the Cadet Chapel, surrounded by the nation’s future officers as they prepared for a life in the army. I found it interesting that one particular Chaplain would reach these uniformed individuals through heartfelt narratives. Once a year he would read the story “The Pearl Necklace”. 

It’s the narrative of a 5-year-old girl, Jenny, who desperately wants a plastic pearl necklace she sees at the grocery store. Her mother tells her that she can earn the $2.50 costume jewelry by doing chores. Jenny works hard for the necklace until it is finally hers. She wears the plastic pearls with pride and refuses to take them off for any reason- to her they are priceless.

One night, Jenny’s father asks her if she loves him. “Of course, daddy.” Jenny replies. “Then give me your pearls.” Her father says. Jenny refuses. She offers her father other respectable toys from her collection, but he simply kisses his daughter goodnight. 

The next night, the same conversation ensues with the same results. This continues for several night to come.

Then one evening, Jenny’s father comes to kiss his daughter goodnight and finds her waiting for him. Lips quivering, Jenny opens her hand to reveal her beloved pearls. “Here daddy.” She chokes and places them into her father’s hands. Jenny’s father then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blue velvet case. Inside is a pair of real pearls he has been waiting to give to her.

Although it’s a little sappy, this story has always stuck with me. I remember not only its ability to convict me, but the effect it had on a congregation made up of America’s strongest and most intelligent individuals. At an age when we felt empowered, we learned from a 5-year-old that that we did not understand our best interests. 

I continually struggle to give up my illusion of control over my life. I use the word illusion, because I’ve never actually been in control. Again and again, I’ve worked hard to earn my plastic pearls and God patiently stands by asking me to give them up so that he can bless me with the real thing.  

Here is my story as it continues to write itself, the journey from plastic to pearls.