Jealousy and Joy

Part of growing up, particularly in your 20's, means discovering the best and worst parts of yourself. As I get older I become more and more secure about who I am as a person, what my gifts are and what I'm good at. At the same time, it's also a season where I am beginning to recognize the severity of my faults. I may be young and still have a lifetime of learning ahead of me, but after 26 years I've managed to spend a lot of time with myself and figure out a few things in the process. 

 

This week I've discovered both sides of the coin, seeing faults in myself that I've always known were there to some extent, while also seeing some of the unique gifting God has blessed me with. 

Growing up with very little I have always found it far too easy to compare myself to others, using their life to gauge how much or little I had. Not only that, but I use others to gauge my weight, my beauty, success, intelligence, gifts...you name it, I've compared it. In comparing myself I not only judge others but myself. Somehow I am always better or worse than someone else. 

This I hate about myself. 

So, after 26 years and a whole lot of comparisons, I've realize that I am a jealous person. I envy the lives of others, being ungrateful for what I have been given. "The grass is always greener on the other side" but it's true if you were in my shoes. At least that's what motto I've become victim to. It's like I have this perfect life in my head of what I have and who I am perceived to b and I'm fighting for all of it to be true. Instead of living the life I have and embracing all of it's parts, I see others and wish I had what they had. The job. The schedule. The boyfriend-fiance-husband. The kids. They home. The adventures. The life. In the process of wanting all those things I have become completely ungrateful for the life I have. It's an ugly thing and an ugly place to be. 

On the other side of the coin, I have moments watching other people "succeed" in life where I could not be happier for them. I literally have so much joy for them I cannot contain it, nor do I know what to do with it. In those moments---a new job, marriage, child---nothing about my life matters. All I can think about is how exciting this is for them, what a blessing it is to be a part of it, and how I cannot wait to see what God will do in the lives of these friends, near and dear to my heart. 

The joy I feel in these moments is totally selfless. 

Reflecting back on both emotions, it's easy to choose which way I'd rather feel. Jealousy or joy? It's not even a hard question. No person on earth would choose to feel jealous. But the thing is, although joy is the obvious answer, choosing joy doesn't give you all of your heart's desires. Choosing jealousy totally eradicates the possibility of joy. Choosing joy means giving up all sense of desire replacing it with a love that is selfless. When jealousy is present there is no joy, when true joy is present there is no jealousy. 

If joy is the obvious answer, why do I so often fall back on jealousy? Like I said, it's an ugly emotion no person wants or wants to be around. Honestly, when jealousy is present I don't even want to be around myself. 

I think it's time to choose joy. It may not be easy -- if it were I would have done it already. I don't honestly even know how to do this fully. But if the first step is acknowledging and accepting where my heart is at, then I can at least say I've done that. First step: check. Second check: Lord help me. 

A Toast

For Becky and Francis on their wedding day...

It's a little bit baffling to me that I have the privilege of standing next to Becky and Francis on their Big Day. In the grand scheme of things I've only really known Becky for three years, and Francis only the last year. But if in a year Becky and Francis can meet, fall in love, and marry, then I guess it's possible for me to end up next to them as they cinch the deal. 

Through my friendship with Becky I've learned that it doesn't take a lot of time to become part of someone's "home team" but it does take a lot of laughter, tears, and a few trips to El Ranchito. What I mean by the "home team" is the people in your life who know your best and worst and love you anyways, the people you call when your car breaks down or meet you for yogurt just days before your wedding for your last "single-girls'-hurrah." The people on your home team let you interrupt study sessions when you're having a meltdown and they come alongside you for moral support as you rummage through one sample sale after the other. 

In the case of Becky and Francis their home team got to be there at what became the start of Becky and Francis. We got to watch as Becky ran to the kitchen to hide behind the fridge as Francis showed up at the front door for the first time-braces on and backpack ready to go. We were there to wish them off on their first date and to convince Becky to give Francis a shot when just five minutes out the door we got texts saying that Francis was "too skinny" and that it "wasn't gonna happen." Well, as we can all see, it did happen, and on behalf of your home team we couldn't be happier to celebrate this day with you. So on this memorable day, we pray for bountiful blessings, an abundance of chubby babies, and most importantly, for a marriage that gives us all something to aspire to.  

To Becky & Francis!

(Inspired by "The Home Team" in Shauna Niequist's Bittersweet) 

The 2nd Greatest Commandment

One of the greatest, most memorable and eye-opening thing I learned in college also happens to be the hardest thing for me to live out. It's a great piece of knowledge, something everyone should know. To know it is wise, to live it even better. It comes from the passage in Scripture about the greatest commandment...

"Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?" 

Jesus replied: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments." 

Matthew 22:36-40 

It's a passage many of us have heard, practiced, memorized or had drilled into us..."love your neighbor as yourself"..."love the Lord your God with all your heart..." but many of us miss something vital in those words. Most people see that we should 1) Love God and 2) Love your neighbor. The thing most people miss, though, is that in order to love our neighbor as ourselves, we must first, love ourselves. So the order really goes...

1) Love God
2) Love yourself
3) Love your neighbor

The first time someone pointed this out to me, actually, the ONLY time someone pointed this out to me, I was dumbfounded. As a self-proclaimed church kid I was completely sold on the concept of loving God and putting everyone else first. Seems accurate, right? I mean, after all, God did send his Son to the earth to die for everyone else....Jesus was the ultimate example of humility.

The way God worked it out though, is that to love others I must love myself. If I can't love myself, how can I be an example of love to others? Personally I find it difficult to love others when I don't love myself because when I loathe myself the way I often do, I get so wrapped up in my own pity party that I don't even have time to think about others (unless of course I'm comparing myself to them, which only elicits more hatred).

Like most people, I go through phases. This last week I was in a "I hate my life and every part of myself" phase. I had every reason and no reason to feel the way I've felt. I've spent most of my days insecure about how I look and what I have, feeling totally inadequate as a woman, a christian, a friend and human. I've cried. I've worn workout clothes to avoid my closet and the inches hidden around my waist. I've complained and been irritated and vented to friends, my mom, my sister.... I've been in one heck of an ugly phase, but I think I'm moving on. It's time I start loving myself for more than what I look like, and at the same time...it's time to learn to love how I look no matter what I'm wearing, if I've worked out enough this week, no matter what the number on my scale says (which I actually don't even know because I refuse to step on it).

I want to love me because God loves me. Because he has grace on me and loves me despite my flaws. He loves unconditionally and it's time I start doing the same.

Love Just.

Every.Single.Day

I have more adrenaline than I know what to do with right now. I guess that's what happens when you spend the majority of the day in bed, on your way to bed, or talking yourself into why being in bed is what you should be doing at a given moment. But that's what Sundays are for though, right? 

In other news, I did something really bold and uncomfortable today. I went out of my comfort zone and took a leap of faith. 

I don't know if I've mentioned it here, I don't think I have actually, but I have this sort of weird eat-sleeping disorder thing. It doesn't have a name, I don't know it's source or why I do it. No one has yet to figure it out nor have they found a solution for it. I've seen doctors, a nutritionist, and a therapist. I've changed my diet, my sleeping habits, taken supplements and tried to get more vitamin D. I exercise, I eat healthy foods, and I'm gluten free. I've tried to talk it out, talk to myself, and ignore it all the same. But nothing seems to work. Absolutely nothing.  

So here it is (it's simple really): I wake up, every-single-night after I've fallen asleep to eat. I go straight for the kitchen, have what is sometimes a small snack, sometimes something more hearty. Sometimes I wake up 2-3 times for the same purpose, usually an hour or two after falling asleep. I am aware of what I am doing. I know that I am eating and I generally remember the experience the next morning. However, I am most definitely NOT in control of myself as I do it. What I eat varies each night, having nothing to do really with what or how much I ate prior in the day. 

As you can see, this is kind of a weird thing. It's actually really uncomfortable and even embarrassing to talk about. I must admit there is quite a bit of shame involved in the whole thing. It's an area of my life I cannot control. It's weird. It's not normal. And it's very disruptive. Sometimes it ruins my day, starting off on such a negative foot. It used to ALWAYS ruin my day...I'd say the night eating got to it's worst when I was at my worst. I don't know if my depression caused the night eating, or if the night eating caused (in some way) the depression. Either way, they felt one and the same. Thankfully I am no longer struggling with depression. Anxiety on occasion and insecurities more often than I would like to admit. But depression is, in my opinion, a thing of the past. 

Which brings me back to today. I've had this feeling in my gut for the last few weeks that I should seek prayer for this issue. I've asked for prayer at various times from various people about it, but never from someone right in front of me who would take time in that very moment to lay hands on me and pray for actual spiritual and physical healing. Today was the day I decided to seek such a thing out.  

My church offers every single weekend for people to be prayed over by our church elders for physical and spiritual healing. I've always thought this was great, but never felt I had a reason to go. Until now. I was prayed over by a pastor a few years ago over something in my life, and I remember that time as a very memorable turning point. If it worked then, why wouldn't it work now? I know prayer doesn't work like that necessarily...it's not a "do this then that" kind of thing, but when you get to your wits end with no answer no solution and nowhere to go, it becomes your one and only hope. I know, however, that prayer should be my FIRST go-to, but that's unfortunately not my nature...or anyone's really. It's something I'm working on... 

Today, after church, I slowly sauntered over to the space I assumed was reserved for prayer. I wasn't sure how the whole process worked, but I walked in knowing I would soon find out. Immediately I recognized the woman who checked me in--a receptionist at the church. And then before I knew it I saw a good friend and her family walk in. I acted as "normal" as possible, inside feeling more uncomfortable than I have in a while. I swear, it was like buying tampons from the cute check-out boy or running into your mom's friend at the gynecologist's office. I knew there was nothing to be ashamed of, but there it was...shame...popping up at a key time. 

The prayer time itself was brief and purposeful. The elder, who also happened to be my boss' husband *awkward* anointed me with oil and prayed over me. I walked out feeling much the same as when I walked in, this time with a greasy forehead and a tiny, minuscule glimmer of hope. Not much...I wish that glimmer was more like a ray, but it's a start. I know my God is more powerful than I could ever possibly imagine and I am choosing to trust that he can and WILL heal me when he so pleases. I am useless. Nothing I do or say will make me more worthy of healing. I am on my hands and knees, giving it all over to him. And I will continue to do so every.single.day. 

Just Write

Sometimes I get the impulse to write, even though I don't necessarily have anything to write about. I love writing, but tend to pressure myself into always writing with purpose, write well, and write what makes sense. But sometimes, when you're a writer, you can't always make all three happen. If you're one of those awesome published people, then sure, you probably can, but I am not one of those people. I would one day like to be one of those people, but until that day comes, I will continue to just write.

I've had at least three four different blog titles I've written under in the last five years, each one with a slightly different theme matching the season of life I was in. At the same time, each one has become less and less specific, but with basically the same undertones (20's, growing up, faith, job, friends, travel, life, learnings). After all, I am only one person with only so many different perspectives on life. There was "Gluten FreeDumb", there was "Scribbles",  then there was "Anthropology of a Girl" and now "Love Just Write". For one OCD reason or another I always want what I am writing about to match the blog title. I didn't want to talk about my feelings about being in my 20's under the title of what was supposed to be a food blog. And when I didn't want to talk about crafts or shopping anymore, I switched over to Love Just Write.

At a certain point under each title I always seemed to hit a wall with nothing to say, so I stopped writing. Then to fix that, I would write some version of a "rambling" post just to get me in the motion of writing. It was my way of telling myself, "you don't have to be perfect, it doesn't have to make sense. Just write!" I'm a  perfectionist at the core, which can be really great, or really debilitating. I'm trying to work through the debilitating part...be ok with imperfection because the imperfect things are the things I love most in life. Art. People. Flowers. Nature. Questions. Writing. I love the personality, wisdom, and learnings that comes with imperfection...be it in a person, situation, or writing. It's freeing. It makes me feel normal. It gives me a sense of peace and a little bit of hope. It tells me, you're ok.

As you can see, my journey to Love Just Write has taken some time. Do I have followers? No. Do I even have a fancy layout for my blog? No. I don't really have any of that. But I do have a safe place to write whatever I want. To talk about all the things and people I love. To talk about what it means to love justly and a place to just write.

Even as I started this post, I had only jumbled thoughts and feelings to account for. I could have let that scare me away from writing, but I didn't. I love writing. I love what it does for my soul and I hope one day it can bring that same pleasure and peace to someone else's. In the meantime, I will continue to just write.

Week 1 -- "My Mom's Blueberry Crisp"

1. In "My Moms' Blueberry Crisp," Shauna tells us about her food memories and the foods served around her family's table when she was growing up. What are some of your memories from your family's table during your childhood? [Shauna Niequist, Bread and Wine] 

Mixed with Love 

I guess you could say I've been a lifetime foodie. Growing up I often used the phrase "born on the second pew" to explain to people my relationship with the church. As the youngest of four kids I made it to church for the first time just weeks after my arrival and I haven't looked back since. Sure, there were those few years in college where sleeping in and a late breakfast in the caf became my Sunday routine, but as a church employee who now runs three weekend services every single weekend, I like to think I've made up for that time-and then some.

My relationship with food started just the same. In fact, one of my very first memories as a pre-schooler involves food. I vividly remember waking up in the middle of the night, hungry, and went straight to my mom's room for help. As a shy little girl I must have been more than hungry to actually wake my mom up in at such an un-ideal time. I didn't and still don't like to inconvenience people with my needs, so I must have been pretty desperate. With my stomach growling, my mom's hair up in one of those messy, mid-sleep buns and her cream quilted silk robe that zippered up the front, we walked down the stairs to our dark, wall-papered kitchen for a mid-night snack. Early as it was, my mom eager to get both her and I back to bed, my mom threw together the first and easiest thing that would satiate my appetite. White bread smothered in creamy unsalted butter. From that moment on, I was in love.

It's hard to choose a favorite recipe, meal, or food memory from my childhood. I am a firm believer that anything made by my mother's hands is better than anything by my own. Meatloaf. Spinach Casserole. Tostadas. Cranberry Bread. Peanute Butter and Jelly. You name it, it's better when mom makes it. I think it must have something to do with love. There really is nothing more comforting than a homemade meal and the love and conversation that comes with it.

If there was one food that my childhood centered around, it would have to be Texas Sheet Cake. I have more memories around that than any other and the legacy continues on year after year. With my grandpa from the south and my grandma from Louisiana, we ended up with a handful of southern recipes in our repertoire...and I couldn't be more thankful for every one of them.

One of the beauties of a large family is the plethora of birthdays that gathered us around the table on what felt like a monthly basis. With minimal finances to spread around much less splurge on a birthday, my mom made it a priority to celebrate each of our birthdays with our meal and dessert of choice. Corrina always chose Texas Sheet Cake. Daniel always homemade Lemon Merengue Pie. Missy usually Carrot Cake. And myself-I liked to switch it up, but with my birthday so near (and occasionally on) Thanksgiving, pie was a frequent dessert of choice. While TSC was the showcase on Corrina's birthday, somehow we found an excuse for it at least a solid half-dozen times a year. Grampse's birthday? Texas Sheet Cake. Memorial Day? Texas Sheet Cake. Sunday afternoon? Texas Sheet Cake. Potluck? Texas Sheet Cake.  Saturday Morning? Texas Sheet Cake. As you can see, TSC was a frequent bystander at family "events".

With it's moist interior and lumpy glazed frosting melted into every crevice and corner, no one can deny the beauty of TSC. Everyone has their favorite slice-most of us kids fighting over a corner (for the additional frosting) or the middle (for the additional moisture). It's always better the next day, but who can promise it will even be there? In the warmth of our San Diego climate, most things ended up in the fridge for us--hiding from heat and the ants that came with it. TSC was no different, other than the communal fork that laid hidden in the crumbs under the protection of plastic wrap that was hardly necessary. Bite after bite TSC lasted little more than a day in our house and for good reason. I'm sure this had much to do with the additional adolescent pudge that found it's way to my mid-section. But who cares? I had my good friend, TSC to thank for it.

With the discovery of gluten sensitivities in a handful of us as adults, TSC makes a few less appearances throughout the year. But when it does, even I, gluten allergies and all, are willing to splurge and sacrifice the potential threat it imposes for just a few luscious and memorable bites of heavenly goodness. Slowly we've spread the recipe amongst a few close friends that appreciate it's goodness as much as we do. But even in the hands of others, it's still not as good as when mom makes it. My brother is convinced mom does something different to it when she makes the recipe. I'm convinced too, but I'm pretty sure it has more to do with love and prayers she stirs into it than a pinch of this or spoonful of that. Food is pretty great, but so much better mixed with love.

Allison Elizabeth