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 

Reminiscing

Sleep has yet to take hold of me tonight. Every so often I close my eyes or press my head in the fluff of my pillow, hoping the night will steal me away, but over and over my mind becomes stimulated with thoughts of life...who I am, who I was, who I want to be, and how I got to where I am today.

Such thoughts got me to thinking about what's to come, which is one of me very best friend's wedding in just a few weeks. As the maid of honor (with a matron on my side), I am therefore responsible for giving a speech. While these types of things aren't my favorite, they doesn't worry me.

Thinking of this speech led me to digging through some old pictures. And, well, you know how that goes. One thing leads to another, leads to another, and to another. For a girl without Facebook, I did some quality stalking tonight. Looking at photo after photo from the last 5 years felt like I was snooping on someone else's life. The difference here, however, is that I actually remember the moments that made these photos. I remember how I felt and what we did and the season of life I was in.

As I get older I realize that in time all things soften. The details of such memorable moments begin to fade and the emotions attached feel like they belonged to someone else.

Like I said before, looking at each photo reminds me of so much. The joy and the laughter. The places I've been and the moments that defined friendships. I also remember some of the fears and pains that plagued me during specific seasons. While it felt as thought life were inching by at a snail's pace, I look back and see how much I have done, how much I've accomplished, who I have met, the relationships that have changed, and the woman I've become through it all. Despite the hard things, many of which I would have traded in for table scraps, I like to think I've become a better person through it all. I am not the same as I was 5 years ago. I have seen the world and learned a lot about who I am, faults and all. I have also gained strength and character, which I deemed undesired and unnecessary long ago.

I am happy to take with me the lessons I've learned, experiences I've had, and the people I've met along the way. But I'm also happy to leave behind the pain that tortured me on so many days. It's so easy for me to remember the hard stuff (even though it softens in time) forgetting all the great memories of things past. I look back and realize how much I had to celebrate in those seasons, even the difficult ones. Even in the midst of pain I was able to laugh with friends and laugh at myself. I often take things too seriously. I get caught up in the moment and overwhelmed by my thoughts. Now I look back and think, "what was I so worried about?" In many of the pictures I saw tonight I remembered how I felt taking or looking at each photo:

• fat
• alone
• unsuccessful
• exhausted
• useless
• ugly
• unloveable 

These words are so harsh. It pains me to think I spoke those words to myself, especially when I look back and think how ridiculous I was to feel that way! But you know what? I still use those words. I still fight myself, putting down every part of my being. I've learned, but I still struggle to love and embrace myself for who I am. Perhaps if I starting loving myself then I would stop believing the lies. Actually I know that's true. But what comes first? Not hating myself or actually loving myself? Perhaps both. 

I think it's time I start living in the truth of who I am and was created to be. No more lies.