Thirty-Five

According to a timeline I created during my freshman year of high school, by the time I was thirty-five I would have been a flutist for various Disney orchestras, married to a Young Life area director, and the mother of three children.

The fifteen year old version of me was incredibly idealistic.

In real life, I have been a youth ministry intern, a teacher, a cancer prevention educator, an admin assistant at a college, married a Young Life area director (got that one right), and would still love to become a mother. I have traveled across Europe, traveled through some of the western US, lived in Texas, settled in Tennessee. I have known grief, known heartbreak, and known incredible joy.

The fifteen year old version of me forgot to include all that on her timeline.

Yesterday morning, I woke up and let Knox out. Still drowsy from staying up late at my surprise party the night before, I climbed back in bed and fell asleep for a few minutes. I woke again with a start.

"It's my birthday!"

Knowing I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep, and not really wanting to, I crept out of bed and snuck away to the den. I snuggled into my reading chair to begin a now sixteen year old tradition. Every year on my birthday, I wake early to read through Psalm 139 (my favorite one) and look through the Creative Memories album my Mom made me as a high school graduation gift. That album contains my story, my birth and the nine years that followed.

This time I read the psalm and it seemed brand new. In a year when I have wrestled with my faith in a way I never anticipated, I found myself wishing I'd read it more often.

"You hem me in, behind and before
      and lay your hand upon me."

God has had His hand on me all this time. He has never abandoned me. He been in front and behind me, hemming me in to safe places, even when they didn't feel that way.

"...in your book were written, every one of 
               them,
         the days that were formed for me,
         when as yet there was none of them."

He has known each day, each trial, each joy, each struggle. And he knows the ones to come. They are not strange to Him. He created them.

I found myself breathing a prayer of tearful thankfulness for this life that I've been given. In these last weeks where I've struggled with patience, I suddenly found renewed strength to wait for the days that my Father has already created for me. I prayed that I would live this next year with purpose and joy.

Thirty-five years is a gift. And each year that I tack on after this will be a gift. As I sat cozied into that chair, with the story of my life literally laid out in front of me, I marveled with new eyes at the possibility.

"Tell me, what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
 - Mary Oliver 

I will love fearlessly.
I will create.
I will celebrate others.
I will nurture the love that has been given to me.
I will honor the strengths that God has given me.
I will learn from my weaknesses and my failures.
I will embrace what I have.
I will wait with joyful anticipation to see the days that my Father has created for me and my family.

More Important

Tonight, going to bed before 11 p.m. is more important than blogging.

Dealing with some disappointments of the day by creating order out of a sewing pattern was more important than editing pictures.

Hitting publish on these four lines and going to snuggle with my husband is more important than spending any more time feeling guilty that I haven't blogged since Friday.

Finding a balance between blogging (good for my brain and my writing) and living the life in front of me (oh so good for my heart) is turning out to be pretty important, too.

Lost & Found

So there's this "31 Days of__" blog thing that happens every year in October. It's the brain child of The Nester. As she says, "Basically anyone can join in, just pick a topic and write about it every day for the month of October." I'm going to give it a try. I don't really have anything profound to write about, but I know I want to write. So I'm calling this "31 days of rediscovering my voice." My written voice, my blog voice, my creative voice, the voice that tells me to take care of myself. I've let all of these get lost in a haze of laziness and social media. It's time to find them again. I've come across this quote again and again in the last month:

"Tell me, what do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"
  - Mary Oliver

 I'm not happy with how I've been squandering it lately.

There's something about this being a new month, my birthday month, it finally feels like Fall and there's all these brand new starts in my world.

{October photo a day challenge - Where I stood, on a cold & rainy October 1st in my cords & boots}

It feels hopeful and optimistic and clear and unfettered. Like I could do anything in this wide open space in front of me. I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be doing, but I'm all sorts of full with things that I want to do. Craft more. Read more. Take care of my body more. Enjoy my husband more. Love him more. Listen to him more. Spend more time outside. Spend more time with Jesus. Write more. Blog more. I'm giddy at the thought of it, but terrified that I'll fall into old habits- that this day, this feeling, this newness is fleeting.

Also, I really need to sleep more. Not getting enough of that either.

October. I turn thirty-five in twenty-seven days. My mid life? Could be. I hope it's just shy of it. Half a life down, half way to go. What have I done with this half life? Ministered to kids, taught for five really good years, married, tried out a new state, a slew of really good friendships, almost lost a marriage, regained a marriage, tried another new state, built a new community, learned some really hard lessons about shitty jobs and shitty bosses. Crafted some things. Created with words and fabric. Cried a lot. Laughed even more. Lost family. Gained people that feel like family. Became more comfortable with who I am as a person. Ok, so thirty-five years hasn't been so bad. It's been mine and God's and it's been full.

I'm ready for more. Let's do this.

Five Minute Post

In bullet form, no less. Ready? Go!

• I feel a little neither here nor there these days. I love my job and I love my husband and our home. Well, I don't so much love the structure that houses our home or the neighbors all around us or the actual neighborhood...I digress. It's just that I haven't really figured out how to balance my time such that the house gets clean, the dog gets walked, meals get cooked, lunch gets packed and I have time to work in some sort of exercise (even though I don't want to do that last one). Don't get me wrong, Jason's willing to do whatever he needs to do to help, I just have control issues, extreme laziness and set ridiculously high expectations for myself where domestic things are involved. Sounds fun, right? Right.You should try living with me. 

• I love my job. Let me say that again, I LOVE MY JOB. Every day is a delight. No joke. It is beyond thrilling to look forward to going to work and enjoy being there all the ding dong day.

• My sister is off at survival school getting beat up for a good cause so that she knows how to (hopefully never) deal with it someday. The big sister in me wants to fly out there and give those instructors what for. But I think they would just laugh at me.

• Like with most things, I went full steam into WIWW and then completely lost steam last week. After being strongly encouraged by Abby, we'll see if it makes a comeback next week. They jury's still out on that one. 

• In the spirit of embracing spontaneity and the freedom we have to do things at the last minute, Jason and I are going to see Brian Regan's show tonight. He's one of the top five things that will make my darling man belly laugh and I can't wait to watch that happen for a solid hour and a half. Seriously, it's one of my favorite things to hear his belly laugh. Count yourself lucky if you say or do something and it earns that laugh, my friends.

• It's been cold enough to merit sassy brown boots and a scarf. In fact, I've decided that I want my fall/winter uniform to be cute dresses, tall boots and scarves.

• I'm about to leave work and have my first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season. If you happen to run into me this evening, that should explain the giant grin on my face.

Do Over

I want one.

I wish I could go back and do high school again.

Because you know what I'd do? I'd be less afraid.

I'd be less afraid of what people think. I would love my body exactly the way God made it (short waist and all) and not be so hung up on fitting into some mold that I was never going to be. I wouldn't be afraid to be passionate and theatrical and bold. I would sing loudly (well, louder than even back then) and I wouldn't brush off the compliments about my voice. I would pursue theatre wherever, whenever I could. I would be funny and kooky like I was made to be instead of trying so dang hard to be cool all the time.

Cool is so subjective.

I went to see the "Glee" movie tonight. And yes, I'm probably riding on some sort of red slushie, pop music, Broadway show tunes kind of high, but I don't care. Because that kind of high, the one I get from unabashed singing and dancing, is a high I need more of in my life.

I loved watching them dance around that stage. I loved hearing the real life stories of kids who have been inspired to love themselves just as they are because they watch these characters do that. I love watching these talented young actors. I get goosebumps and I'm jealous because I need to embrace more of who I am.

It's taken me thirty-three years, but I am more comfortable in my body than I have ever been. I am more comfortable with who I am- loud, silly, dramatic, passionate, vocal, creative- than I have ever been. This is who God created me to be and I love it.

I love the moment when (no spoilers here, it was the same on the TV episode) all the characters come out in t-shirts that proclaim what they have always been ashamed of. They grab hold of that thing, that part of themselves that they need to love and sing the words, "I'm on the right track, baby, I was born this way." I mean, I know it's Lady Gaga and cheesy as all get out, but oh, I was born this way.

And I just wish it hadn't taken me thirty-three years to love all of how I was made.

So, yes, I sang along tonight at parts and I danced in my seat and I clapped with (you guessed it) glee when the song that gives me goosebumps was sung and I don't really care anymore if someone stares at me while I do it. Because I need more of that joy and freedom and passion in my life.

So on the drive home, when that amazing new Coldplay song came on, I kept driving even though I was a block away from home. Because it felt like when I was back in high school and I'd be driving down Robinhood Road when that just right song came on and I didn't want to go home yet. When the sky was clear and the air was warm and it felt like that space of summer had been made just for me. I rolled the windows all the way down, I stuck my hand out the window and let the wind catch it and I just felt free.

And I'll be glad to do over moments like that over and over again.

I miss him every day.

{Originally posted July 13, 2009. Two years have passed, but every word still rings true...}

On Saturday night, my best friend Stuart called me to tell me the worst news I could ever imagine. The man who dubbed himself my “stunt dad” had unexpectedly died.

I am heartbroken.

I met Paul and Lynn Barclay when I became involved with Young Life as a high school student in Winston-Salem, NC. Lynn was the Area Director and Paul filled a million different roles in Young Life as well. Paul was a big and rowdy man who loved wholeheartedly and unabashedly. Their home was open to us twenty-four/seven and we took full advantage of that. Especially in the summers, most nights you could find me over at the Barclay’s hanging out with my core group of friends. Even if Paul, Lynn and their sons, John and P.J., weren’t there, we were. It was enough just to be in their home, the love was that strong.

Paul stepped into my life and stepped up for me in ways that I never knew I needed and that certainly weren’t required of him. “Stunt dad” is the best term I could ever think of because that’s exactly what he did- he stepped into the places of my life, emotionally and spiritually, that were messy and dangerous and where my own dad just wasn’t equipped to go.

{Paul and I at Stewart and Elizabeth Welch’s wedding rehearsal, 2000}

In 2000, after my parents divorced, he really stepped it up. He left me a message on the answering machine at the E-Ranch and I left it on there for months, listening to it over and over and over again. I finally wrote it down, word for word…

I was just checkin’ in on you, honey. Hope you’re doing well.  

You know, I love you and I believe in you and I count it a privilege to be your stunt dad. And I would kill to have a daughter like you. And it’s even cooler that out of all the women in the world, that I chose you to be my stunt daughter.  

Hope you’re doing well, I love you dearly. I’m sorry you went through all that stuff yesterday. I wish I could be around…I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you, praying about you.  

Guard your heart. I pray that you would continue to seek the Lord’s face. I know it’s hard to feel loved sometimes but you are and you’re a special gal.  

Be strong, be courageous, you are worth it. Be good.  

I’m weepy too, be quiet. You’re special, see ya…

I have never forgotten those words. They were truth, they were balm to my hurting heart. You see, I know the love of God as my father because of who Paul Barclay was in my life. And I’m not the only one. As I’ve read what folks have written on his Facebook wall, I’m realizing that I have hundreds of brothers and sisters because he was a stunt dad to so many of us. He loved us all fiercely, like one of his own. He couldn’t help it. It was just the way his heart worked.

Paul wasn’t just loving, he was funny. Really, really funny. And irreverent in the most awful ways that somehow made you love him even more. He loved music and I just learned that back in the day, he stepped in for the band Hot Chocolate to drum for their recording of “{I believe in miracles, where’d you come from} You Sexy Thing”. Crazy, right?

He gave the best hugs. The last time I saw him, we were meeting for breakfast at Bruegger’s as I passed through W-S on my back to TN. He walked in, hollered, “Oooonga!” {my high school nickname, a play on my maiden name, Unger}, wrapped me in a giant hug and kissed the top of my head.

He adored Lynn. He always said that he married well beyond his means, that he didn’t know how he managed to get a woman like her. I learned what a healthy marriage looked like in part from being around Lynn and Paul for all those years.

He loved his boys, John and P.J. He was so proud of them. All they had to do was walk into the room and Paul’s face would light up. I loved watching him being a dad and it made me feel so lucky that he included me in that.

I will miss him more than anything.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

From Paul’s Facebook wall…

"After God made you he threw out the mold. That he unleashed a man of your stature onto the world shows, to me, how wild and wonderful a God we have! Satan trembled. He still trembles, for we are the men and the women who are still in your wake. I love you, PB. You are a true saint - rough edges to be sure - but a saint nonetheless.”


“Thanks for showing us how much fun it is to love the Lord. I wonder if you are sharing some kind of farting story with the apostles right now.. perhaps you are just getting a hug from Jesus who is telling you "well done my good and faithful servant." In my selfishness I am so sorry you are not here..somehow the world is a little less funny and loving this morning.”


“I have never met someone in my life who was a better pursuer of people in an effort to love them the way Jesus might love them. You believed in me when I did not believe in myself. You challenged me to be more of the woman that God made me to be and to love others and Jesus better.”


“Pauly B, so many memories. You changed my life and I would not be who or where I am without you. You showed me what it means to be a man of God--emphasis on man--in a world where guys so often need that. Your example taught me so much.”


“Thank you, Paul, for being an early influence on our marriage. My husband often tells of how you advised him during college, “Instead of looking for Mrs. Right, focus on becoming Mr. Right.” I’m convinced that seeing your devotion to Lynn and the boys has encouraged his dedication to me and our boys. Thank you for the example you gave in the way you loved the Lord, loved your family, and loved life!”


“I remember when a bad leader "kicked a kid out of cabin time" and I walked into Paul sharing the Gospel with him out in the lobby of the cabin. Thank the Lord for Paul Barclay.”

A (not so) Fond Farewell

Dear Unemployment,

You arrived six months ago, an unwelcome visitor. We certainly didn't ask for you to visit, and we definitely didn't ask you to move in and make yourself comfortable. But move in you did and there was no choice but to face your arrival and deal with it. I wasn't too thrilled to see you unpack insecurity, lack of confidence and doubt. Those were the ugliest parts of your stay. They lingered in the air, over my relationships and made me feel lethargic and ashamed. Thankfully, I had good friends, an amazing husband and family, and a strong church community who gave me words and encouragement so I could face that ugly luggage and know it for what it truly was- false.

Still, you did bring a few items that I didn't mind. You brought time, lots and lots and lots of time. That was actually a very thoughtful hostess gift, Unemployment. There was time to think, really think about who I was and what steps I wanted to take next. You brought time for me to embrace a budding passion and indulge in crafty endeavors. Because of you I had time to read and think and write in a relaxed way that I hadn't in a while. I had time to love on my husband and serve our family in a different way that didn't involve a paycheck. There was time now to craft dinners and stay ahead of the laundry (did you know a homebuilder foreman creates a TON of laundry?) and play with the dog. That time was a gift and I thank you for it.

You brought with you a new opportunity for Jason and I to trust each other. We were given the chance to prove to ourselves that we could persevere as a team through your difficult stay, that we weren't defined by your presence, and that we had enough wisdom and humor to see your visit for what it was- temporary. Unemployment, you offered me a new opportunity to trust my loving Father. True, your arrival might have made me doubt Him at first. But I've learned that doubt can be a gift and that God is big enough to handle it. Wrestling with that doubt has led to a deeper understanding that, just like the sparrow, His eye is always on me and He cares for me so much. So I guess I have you to thank for that, too.

However, it's time to bid you adieu. You see, I've accepted a job offer at a wonderful college and I start work tomorrow. Sure, I'll bear the official title of "Administrative Assistant to the Chapel Office," but I've learned from your extended visit that a job title isn't the only thing that defines me. Oh no, there's much more to me than that. Still, I am grateful for it's purpose and for the new opportunities it will bring.

So, see you later, Unemployment! Don't let the door hit you on the way out! Oh, and do me a favor? Stay away from my friends, m'kay?

Love,
Leslie Ruth

Shockingly, yes, sometimes I don't have anything to say.

Here's the thing.

When you're unemployed (five months, please dear lord, don't let it be going on six...) and your days consist of working out, endlessly submitting resumes and cover letters, a fair amount of moping, and general housework, there's not really a lot to write about. Add to that the fact that this season of my life has me processing some stuff that I don't care to share with the entire Internet (thank the lord for a fabulous therapist) and, well, you have a southern drama queen whose mouth is generally more quiet than chatty these days.

{Jason might beg to differ, but he's bound by sacred vows to listen to me, right? He does it so well, my ever patient husband...}

But.

There's always a but.

I've always loved having this space to write about anything and everything. The problem is, I started this blog almost six years ago when there weren't many blogs and only my nearest and dearest took the time to read it. Six years, a marriage and two states later, there's a lot more people reading than before. Some of y'all I've never met but we've become friends anyway through this crazy thing called blogging. You've encouraged me, cheered for me, prayed for me (and Jason), loved on me through your blog comments and emails. For those folks, I legitimately call y'all my friends even if I've never seen your sweet face in person. That's just the way it works.

 And truthfully? There's probably some people reading my blog who I would rather they didn't. However, that's the deal you make when you have a public blog and I'm cool with that. Still. What to do to maintain this space as a place for me to be authentic?

Well.

A dear, funny and wise friend encouraged me that my blog doesn't have to be where I spill my guts all the time and that she'd love to see me just write about the things I like. Hmmm, write about the things I like....sure, I can do that.

So, that's what I'm going to try to do. I like writing. I need to write. I need to focus on the good in my life, the joys that are coming, the gifts that are present but perhaps I don't dwell on enough. I'm not foolish enough to call this a blog comeback, because we've all seen how that's turned out on here before.  Still, I needed to write this. I needed to write it out, this new "vision" for what blogging could look like for me. For a girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, it's good for me to strike some sort of balance between sharing all the emotions that run through me and shutting off completely.

So.

I have a running list in my head of things I want to blog about. For accountability's sake, I'm going to start this list here with the idea that then I'll actually write those posts. Stay tuned to see if this actually works...

- My weekend in Nashville with Allie and the Country Music Marathon/Half-Marathon
- Oprah's last show (Seriously, I took notes. SO GOOD.)
- Sitting in a room of seventeen women waiting to interview for the same job
- Celebrities, diets, exercise and is it all for real?
- Glee and the gloriousness of its last four episodes

Lullabies

I have always loved being sung to sleep.

When I was a little girl, it was my mom’s voice as she rocked me to sleep. My head tucked under her chin and against her chest, lanky legs sprawled across her lap and over the sharp corner of the wooden plank rocking chair’s arm. I could hear her heart beating, its endless rhythm and her sweet soprano lulling me into slumber. This was peace and this was a safe haven.

As I grew older and far too big to rock, I still craved the soothing and consistent notes that would help me drift away to sleep. There was the Fisher Price record player on Irving Street, tucked into the corner of the plain wooden dresser by my bed that played Neil Diamond and the Wizard of Oz soundtrack. In my dormer room on Hillsborough Road, there was a giant silver portable tape deck from which Amy Grant or New Kids on the Block {depending on my adolescent mood and the current level of emotional angst} might sing over me. It was in these years that our family was introduced to Michael Card and his gentle, truth-laden songs. Despite that it says it is an album of lullabies for babies and there was nary a baby to be found in our house, “Sleep Sound in Jesus” was on repeat many a night.

But the years I remember the most, the consistent stream of nights where music was essential, were in high school. I had somehow managed to acquire the Sony portable CD player for my room and my room alone. It had a special place on the bookshelf by my dressing table and every night I would slide a CD into the top before bed. I knew just how many times to push the “repeat” button so that the exact tracks I wanted would play. “Sleep Sound in Jesus” was still a favorite then. I would resist drifting off until I heard the closing words of the Barocha, “…and give you peace forever.” And then sleep would come.

To this day, I don’t remember how I was introduced to Mary Chapin Carpenter. Perhaps my mom purchased the CD and I promptly claimed it for my own. You wouldn’t believe how many times that happened. However I found it, her music captured me. Her mellow alto a calming and familiar voice that resonated with the torrent of teenage emotions swirling through me. When I was heartbroken, only track number twelve would do…

“Baby, where’s that place where time stands still?

Is it under glass inside a frame?

Was it over when you had your fill?

Here we are with nothing but this emptiness inside of us

Your smile fitting final gesture,

Wish I could’ve loved you better

Baby, where’s that place where time stood still?

I remember like a lover can

I forget it like a leaver will

It’s the first time that you held my hand

It’s the smell and the taste and the fear and the thrill

It’s everything I understand and all the things I never will”

I didn’t know at sixteen, at seventeen, all that she meant. But there was something deep down inside me, in the midst of that heartbreak, that clung to those words- it was everything I understood and all the things I never will.

Sixteen years later, I still love that song. And I still love being sung to sleep. I married a man who likes to be sung to sleep, too. When I came to bed last night, he was soothing himself after a disappointing Vols basketball loss with the DVD of a James Taylor concert. Oh, James Taylor! Talk about everything that is good and soothing and home. I crawled into bed and we listened to the sweet simplicity of his song.  We let those gentle guitar plucks wash over us and wash away the worry and the regrets of the day.

And then Jason prayed.

And we slept.

Things that made me come alive today

Listening to the Chattanooga Symphony String Quintet perform at our school today

I play the flute. Did you know that? I do. Well, I did. I started playing the flute in fourth grade. We lived in Nashville at the time and in the public school system, every child had to either play an instrument in the band, the orchestra or sing in chorus. I will forever be grateful that the school system valued music so deeply as to require that. It was playing the flute that gave me some of my most amazing musical opportunities. I played all through middle school, taking lessons periodically, and all through high school as well. I auditioned for every all-county/all-district/all-state band or orchestra that I could. Band geek? Yes, proudly.

One of the greatest musical experiences that I ever had was being accepted to play flute in the North Carolina Governor's School orchestra. Governor's School is an exclusive summer program designed to enhance the academic, artistic and performing talents of North Carolina's high school students. Each year, there is fierce competition to obtain a coveted spot on one of their campuses. I practiced and rehearsed for that audition like none other. And it was worth every minute.

I was part of a group of students that were as passionate about music as I was. We were exposed to all types of orchestral music, not just classical. I remember being completely weirded out by a piece that we played composed by Phillip Glass. The printed music consisted of simply beats on a page with directions about what to do with our instrument. Not musical notes, but directions that had me blowing directly into the mouthpiece while loudly banging on the keys. It was bizarre and modern and completely unlike anything to which I had ever been exposed. It was awesome.

However, the highlight of being in the Governor's School orchestra for me was being introduced to Gustav Holst's "The Planets." Oh my. I had never heard anything like it in my sixteen year old life and I was hooked. I couldn't wait for the section of rehearsal when we pulled out "Jupiter" and played that lively, rollicking piece. Even better, I won the piccolo part and playing those light, airy notes made my heart leap. Oh, and then the solemn and mournful middle section where the strings and horns join together in a reverent melody! I remember when we finally performed it for our families and friends, I sat in my chair with tears in my eyes at how achingly beautiful it sounded. To this day, I can't listen to it without being moved that same way.

The string quintet today brought back all those memories. I play classical music for my kids each morning but listening to them reminded me that a worthy purchase might be the pieces I know and love. I so miss teaching at a classical school, one that values that piece of a child's musical education. The classics, the music that has and will stand the test of time. Listening to them made my heart beat a little faster, I found myself breathing more deeply and a part of my truest self was uncovered. I'm wondering what I might need to do to truly reconnect with that part...

Wandering around Barnes and Noble

I texted Jason after school, "I need to go to Barnes and Noble and soak in some books. Be home around six." Oh yes, I needed to go to Barnes and Noble. Something about the string quintet had me thinking about the things that I deeply love. I don't know if it was really even conscious but I just knew I needed to go buy a book. A good book. One worth reading. Or maybe it was just that I needed to be in the midst of books. Either way, it was good. It was calming and soothing and I bought a very good book indeed, an old friend with whom I'd like to be reacquainted. I also found an inexpensive copy of "The Planets." Thank you, bargain bin, don't mind if I do.

Hearing a pair of owls hooting in the distance as I took Knox for his evening walk

It reminded me of when we lived here and got to experience this and this and this and this. Sigh. I would've stood on the sidewalk and listened for a while but I think I was weirding out the folks in the nearby houses. Still, it did my heart good to hear those calls and know just what was behind it all.

And to know it wasn't monkeys on the loose. Seriously, go check out the "this" links.

Hindsight

This summer has been so different from last summer. Last summer was so much heavier than many of you probably knew and certainly heavier than any of my blog posts would have led you to believe. I blogged about a lifestyle change and our silly pup, bragged on my husband here and there, but there was a whole lot of fluff in between. And the bragging on my husband? It was just to make me feel better about myself and to cover how everything was really breaking down behind the scenes.

But you never would have known that.

We were unhealthy, so unhealthy, but desperately trying to appear just fine to everyone around us. We fooled some people but those who knew us best, they knew that just under the surface something was very, very wrong. It was exhausting, that veneer, because it wasn't really us. The rest of it, the poor choices, the angry words, the cold shoulders, my selfishness, our unwillingness to be painfully honest- they were just as exhausting as attempting to hold up the veneer.

And so you had two weary, unhealthy people.

Looking back, we each tried to do what we thought might help and what we thought would get us out of that mess. Some of those efforts were good and true and needed. But we still missed each other in those efforts and we missed the point of marriage. In an earnest but woefully misguided way, we thought we were fighting for each other. But we weren't.

Painful circumstances added to our already weary hearts.

On July 6th, I mailed a letter that would cut ties with my father. It was a painful decision but one that I made with a great deal of thought, prayer and counsel. I couldn't repeat the dishonest cycles of intentional pain and deceit that he was directing towards me and the people I loved the most. I chose not to participate in it anymore.

Less than a week later, the man I called my stunt dad would unexpectedly pass away. Two weeks after that, Jason would move back to Texas in order to provide for us financially in a way that Chattanooga had not been able to offer. We wouldn't have called it a separation then, but it was. What would happen as a result of that separation would change our marriage forever.

And for good.

Why am I writing about this now? Perhaps it's because our fourth wedding anniversary is tomorrow. I laid awake last night thinking about it all. When it was all happening I couldn't make sense of it. I remember saying to my mom, "I'm so curious as to what God is up to. What is the point of all this? Why would I lose my dad, Paul and my husband all in the span of a few months? What is He doing?" I wasn't angry at God, I truly was curious. What was He doing? 

I don't believe that I serve a God who orchestrates painful things on purpose. I believe that we live in a fallen world. Death happens, relationships sever, marriages falter and almost fail. I do believe that I serve a God who can use those things {if I am willing} to mold my heart into more of what it should be. A year later, I know that God was pulling me {while I dragged my feet like a stubborn three year old} towards Him and towards a greater trust in Him. I know that He used those painful things to remind me of an inner strength that I had forgotten I possessed. God used those things to refine relationships in my life that were already precious, but now, even more so.

And on the eve of our wedding anniversary, I know that God used it all to craft a marriage that is stronger and healthier {and more fun!} than it ever was to begin with. But I'll save that part of the story for tomorrow...

"Sun is shining. Weather is sweet. Make you wanna move your dancing feet." -Bob Marley

It has been three summers since I had a Teacher Summertime. There's a difference, you know. Summers in and of themselves are pretty wonderful what with swimming and watermelon and cookouts and trips to the beach {if you're lucky.} But a Teaching Summertime? That's a summer where you can do all those things and more twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for two and a half straight months and still earn a paycheck.

I didn't know it then, but it could be just for that reason alone that I went into teaching.

It's taken me a solid month to adjust to having a Teacher Summertime and I'm only just now getting the hang of it. Finally running again {hello, two month break after the half-marathon} but as I told some friends last night, I'm back to the phase of convincing my body that running is fun. My brain knows that it is and there are still those songs that, when they pop up in my iPod, remind me of the joy of finding strength in my legs and the sheer delight of racing through downtown Chattanooga. Yes, my brain knows it but all my body and my lungs can register at the moment is the sweltering humidity that lies here in the valley. Forget the whole "southern women glisten" crap. There's nothing but sweat on me by the time I'm done, dripping from forehead to chin to ground as I stretch out muscles struggling to recognize what three miles feels like.

And after a rather surprising spiritual desert in the midst of a blessing greater than I could have imagined, I'm finding my way back to the lap of my Abba. Settling into my summertime means space to listen, to think, to pray, to relish a study of this most appropriate book, Ruth. I'm a sucker for that one, it being my middle name and all. Even better has been to do a study that crawls through the verses, carefully uncovering nuggets of truth. In the uncovering, I'm realizing there's a tangible thread weaving from the Scriptures to what my heart and my spirit has been been trying to tell me. Be still...listen....do the most with where you are right now...be flexible...wait. So I am. 

Then there's this whole stay-at-home-wife gig. Temporary as it may be, it's a really great gig! I never knew I could find such delight in having time to clean, just to do those weekly chores that during the school year can be neglected for {oh, this is so embarrassing} weeks at a time. I still don't have the menu planning thing down but there needs to be some room for improvement, right? It's a gift to clean and do laundry and mop floors and vacuum in the most delightful housewifey way. A way that I know speaks love to my beloved and makes his end of day that much brighter. 

I'm finding time for meeting folks for lunch, quick road trips to new cities where old friends now reside, two hour jaunts at a random poolside {hour for the front, hour for the back and I'm done!}, an hour or so at Greenlife to read or write, and walks or evening games of fetch with Knox. There's finally time to explore some parts of Chattanooga that I haven't yet. Time to make multiple trips to Sweet CeCe's or listen to award winning musicians by the Tennessee River or watch movies in the park. Time to read new books or reread other favorite blocks of word candy.

Time.

Yes, my summertime has been just lovely and it's not done yet. 

Starting Fresh

Hi, there.

Remember me? Leslie Ruth? Resident southern drama queen, lover of all things pop culture, wishy-washy but determined runner?

Well, I think I’m making my way back.

I’m pretty sure I disappeared back around March. A culmination of many things has conspired to steal my blogging mojo, and I’m not sure if I let life’s challenges get the best of me or if I took the break that I needed to. Either way, it’s nice to finally make my way back to this space. This fresh, clean, white space that is ready to be filled with words and pictures!

Because it’s summer, people. And that means lots of yummy food and drinks shared with friends…

New photography techniques to be explored {helloooo, manual mode!}…

 

Objects of beauty to be found for inspiration…

And many, many hats to be worn, of course!

Here’s to weathering the storms and for the growth that it brings…

I'm Still Alive

Can we just agree that there's not going to be any kind of post of any kind of substance until after May 28th? Because, you see, that's when I'm finally free {for two and a half months, at least} of what is known as my job and I'm thinking that perhaps it will be after that when I finally get my mojo back.

Thanks for coming back here even when there's nothing new. See y'all in a few weeks...

Love,

Your Southern Drama Queen

“It's amazing, isn't it? Most of the time she goes around without the sense God gave a goose. Look at her. I mean, one crisis, and she's Scarlett O'Hara.”

Before there was Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte, there was Julia, Suzanne, Mary Jo and Charlene. Four smart, savvy, fashionable {well, for their time} and unapologetically Southern women who embodied what female friendship could be.

I was between the ages of nine and twelve when it aired and it was one of the few “grown up” shows I was allowed to watch at that time. I asked my mom yesterday if she thought it was too much of a stretch to say that a good part of what I learned about being a Southern Drama Queen, I learned from watching “Designing Women.” She replied, “Well, if you were between nine and twelve, you were pretty in touch with your drama queen side at that point, so…no, not too much of a stretch.”

Told you I started early.

Although a great deal of the dialogue went right over my head at that age, I still loved that show as much as any “kid” show those days. If I knew anything then, I knew the value of southern women having been surrounded by four such aunties since the day I was born. So I soaked in the witty banter between those four. While I enjoyed Mary Jo’s sharp sense of humor and Charlene’s delightful naiveté, it was Julia and Suzanne who I wanted to see the most.

Maybe it was because they were sisters and I understood that relationship too. I reveled in Julia’s quick words and “put you in your place” speeches. I was in awe of how she could fearlessly stand up for her beliefs, her friends and her sister. I think I was probably channeling a little bit of Julia my senior year of high school when I confronted the punk sophomore who had been spreading vicious rumors about my freshman little sister. I don’t think I was as long winded as Julia might have been but, I tell you what, I backed that boy up to the lockers like a pro. And when I asked him if he understood me? He answered, “Yes ma’am.” Darn straight you do.

What drew me to Suzanne? I think it was the complete and utter girly-girlness of who her character was. She was unapologetically feminine and I loved that. A little narcissistic, sure, but she loved being a woman and all that came with it. She loved being sexy and attractive, she worried about what others thought of her, she wondered if her weight somehow defined a part of her femininity. What woman can’t relate to that? The little girl version of Leslie could, which makes me a little sad now. I was keenly aware of my weight even though I shouldn’t have been. To this day, I can still vividly remember the episode, “They Shoot Fat People, Don’t They?” when Suzanne faces her twenty-five year high school reunion and confronts the fact that she’s heavier than the beauty queen self her classmates remember. It garnered one of my favorite of Suzanne’s one-liners, “I know I’ve gained a little weight, but y’all act like I should be shopping at Georgia Tent & Awning!”

And the speech she gave when {with cruel intentions} she is awarded Most Changed at the reunion…well, it struck a chord with me then and I’ve never forgotten it.

I guess maybe I deserve this award for the Person-Most-Changed, but…not for the reason you think. Last night I got my feelings hurt because I came to this reunion thinking I was beautiful and what I find out was that I'm fat…at least you think I am. But that isn't the biggest change in me. The biggest change is that the old Suzanne wouldn't have shown up here tonight. She would've just gotten thin before the next reunion and then she would have gotten even. But I'm a little older and I hope a little wiser than that person used to be.

A lot of things have happened to me...We had a lot of dreams together and there's no point in pretending some of mine came true and some didn't.

I met a little boy from Africa tonight whose family died of starvation and I realized that I spent the whole day at home worrying about the fact that I had too much to eat. I'm not sure the old Suzanne would have appreciated the absurdity of that but this one does.

Some of you men wanted to know about my bra size, but I’d rather talk about my heart because…it's a little bigger than it used to be. The old Suzanne wouldn't have forgiven you for the things that you said, but this one will. Because when I look around this room tonight, I don't see receding hairlines and the beginnings of pot-bellies and crow's feet. I just see all the beautiful faces of old girlfriends and sweet young boys who used to stand on my front porch and try to kiss me goodnight. And you can remember me any way you'd like, but that's how I'll always remember you.

And so I thank you for giving me this award for the Person-Most-Changed, however you intended it. I'm gonna treasure it because… #1. I love trophies and #2. I earned it. Thank you.

I’m grateful for the role that “Designing Women” played in my growing up. I’m grateful for writers that wrote southern women as strong and smart, not silly and ignorant. I’m grateful for hilarious one liners that we still use in our family today. I’m grateful for the life of Dixie Carter and all that she added to my understanding of what it is to be a southern woman. We’ve lost a great one…

What I Know of Love

love, I made it mine
I made it small I made it blind
I followed hard only to find
it wasn't love
it wasn't love

love of songs and pen
oh love of movie endings
takes out the break
leaves out the bend
and misses love

love not of you
love not of me
come hold us up
come set us free
not as we know it
but as it can be

love's reality
is not a passing bravery
it holds out hope beyond what's seen
the hope of love

love not of you
love not of me
come hold us up
come set us free
not as we know it
but as it can be

{“love” by Sara Groves, go listen here…}

----------------------------

Four years {and four days} ago, Jason proposed to me. It was sweet and surprising and delightfully perfect in its imperfections. A blustery wind and my {unknowing} mocking of his chosen proposal spot was not what Jason was expecting, I am sure. But I said yes! And the rest has been…well, not boring.

When I wrote about our engagement day, I said, “For so long, I’ve dreamed of what my love story would look like. This story, our story, is the best one I could ever hope for and the only one I want.” I truly meant that but I had no idea what it would entail in the years to come. I had no idea that our story would include multiple moves, unemployment, betrayal from those we had trusted, heartbreak, depression and separation.

None of those things occurred to the idealistic southern drama queen who was madly in love with a cowboy from Texas.

But I also had no idea that our story would include laughter {oh, so much laughter!}, adventures in travel, adventures on stage, a freckle-faced pup and, best of all, the miracle of God’s redemptive love. You see, the story that I dreamed of back in February of 2006 is part of a bigger story, one that has been written since the beginning of time.

In their book Love & War, John and Stasi Eldredge write,

“God created marriage as a living, breathing portrait laid out before the eyes of the world so that they might see the story of the ages. A love story, set in the midst of desperate times. It is a story of redemption, a story of healing; it is a story of love. God gives us marriage to illustrate his heart toward us. It is the deepest and most mythic reality in the world—that love is true, that God pursues us.

Our love is meant to be a picture of both his love and his fight. The masculine and the feminine, the courage and sacrifice, and yes, the blood, sweat, and tears—these play out for us and for the world the story of truest Love and his Beloved. God is fighting for the hearts of his people. He is a valiant king and lover, who will see his people free.”

I won’t lie, I have never felt more keenly that our love story is most definitely “set in the midst of desperate times.” Jason and I have to fight for each other daily. It is a daily discipline to remind myself that we are on the same team, fighting for the same thing. But there is something about knowing that our marriage is a picture of God’s love for His people that makes me fight that much harder for Jason’s heart and he for mine. It makes us brave and bold and more likely to go to the places that make us uncomfortable if it means we’re mimicking God’s love for us.

So I agree with Sara. What I know of love now is that it takes breaking and bending. It is not just a passing bravery, it is a daily stepping out in courage and hope for what can be. Love is most certainly not of Jason or of me, it is planted in us by the creator of love. And it is worth every tear, every fight, every tentative step into the unknown for the joy it is bringing...

-------------------------

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails.”                  

                                          1 Corinthians 13:4-8

At this moment…

I am trying with all the willpower that is in me to resist the leftover thumbprint cookies in the kitchen. You know, the ones that Jason made. From scratch. Uh huh.

I am enjoying the delicious soreness of my legs that ran fast and hard today.

I am wondering why in the world Jake is even remotely into Vienna. Seriously. WHY?

I am reading this over and over and over again. Ah, the joys of marriage and all its quirks.

I am watching this and it makes me weep with laughter as much as the first time I saw it about an hour ago.

 

I am in awe that three weeks from today I will log a twenty-five mile running week.

I am wondering if running another race with my sister {full marathon for her, half for me} will be just as much fun as the first one.

I am missing all the kiddos that call me Lulu and wishing I could see their sweet and snotty faces.

I am thinking about how glorious it is to have a three and a half day week. Winter Break? Yes, please!

I am wondering why going private on this blog hasn’t made me more inspired or more motivated to blog.

I am wishing that Bejewled Blitz on Facebook wasn’t so dang addictive.

I am thinking that just one cookie won’t hurt.

Turns out maybe Clairee didn’t have the right idea after all.

Today was not a good day. It was a very hard day. I came home from work feeling defeated and useless and oh so like a failure. Please understand, this isn’t a cheap plea for comments that will build me up. On most days I know I’m pretty dang great. Even if I didn’t, I have a husband who will remind me of that. Even tonight, he didn’t let the lies that felt like truth stay around for long.

He also finished making dinner which, let’s be honest, is sometimes exactly what a girl needs.

But it’s almost five hours later and the emotions that dominated my day are still lingering. You see, I spend the majority of my work days in a climate that is…difficult. Criticism {sometimes out in the open but mostly spoken behind people’s backs}, judgment, gossip and unreasonable expectations are the norm rather than the exception. I didn’t notice it at first. I was still in the honeymoon phase of being overjoyed at being back in the classroom. Slowly but surely, though, I realized that the normal lunch conversation {and break time conversation and after school conversation and…} was to criticize, criticize, criticize. Students, parents, each other, our headmaster- you name it, it’s free game.

And I joined in.

As much as it sickens me to admit that, I have to. I’ve spent my fair share of time critiquing everyone and everything. I haven’t wanted to. But it’s the age old problem: if everyone around you is doing it…well, let’s just say that peer pressure doesn’t end after your teen years. So I joined in and it has slowly but surely made me absolutely miserable.

To make matters worse, it’s started to seep over into my life outside of the classroom. I haven’t written here or on Facebook or even twittered all that much because of how critical I have felt all the ding dang time. I figure it’s like my mom used to say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

I don’t like being this person. No, I hate being this person. But I have to deal with what I’m given. I have a classroom full of kids that need a teacher with a better attitude because believe me, when you bitch and moan all day? It shows up in other places. Kids aren’t stupid. They’re intuitive and smart and they deserve the best from me.

So how do I do it? How do I stand outside such a critical environment that certainly isn’t going to change anytime soon? I’m doing my best to not even enter into the conversations. I’m stopping myself from asking the questions that I know will lead to more criticism. I probably need to memorize some Scripture to say to myself at crucial moments. It feels overwhelming. It’s so ingrained in this particular culture that trying to change it seems absolutely futile. I don’t even know that I’m supposed to try and change it.

But I am supposed to act differently.

I’ve taught at another school that has showed me and trained me in a different way. Not perfect, but different. I need to honor that. I want to honor that. I want to honor who God has made me to be and the teacher he has created in me.

I’ll get up tomorrow and try again. I will. It’s going to be really hard and I know I won’t get it right all the time. But I will try.

{This post may self-destruct in a couple of days. I know my blog is private and all but I have no desire to be dooced anytime soon. }

To Everything There Is A Season

And the season has come to go private with my blog.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while. Pondering what that might mean, weighing the pros and cons, laboring over a decision that might hurt some people’s feelings {lordy, that sounds vain} but will ultimately grant me quite a bit of freedom.

I love my blog. I love writing. These days, however, I find myself doing too much self-censoring before I even start typing. And then I don’t type at all. I’m learning that not typing, not writing, not feeling free to release my thoughts on my blog is not healthy for me at all. I need that outlet.

When I started this little diary only a handful of people knew about it. I know my readership {can you call about 80 readers a day a “readership”? I am.} has grown and I’m so grateful for the little circle of new and old bloggy friends that I’ve made. But….

It’s time to go private. For me, for my heart, for the words that need to be set free on my own little piece of the internet.

I’ll probably be back at some point. I won’t flatter myself to think that you, dear reader, might check by that often to see if I am back. Who knows? When I come back it might be under a whole new blog. Now. Wouldn’t that be an adventure?

Thanks, y’all…

Love,

Leslie

{I’ll be sending email invitations to friends, family and those of you who I have an ongoing friendship/bloggy relationship with. If you’d like an invite to continue reading, feel free to leave your email address in a comment. I’ll probably be pretty particular with these so please don’t be hurt if you don’t receive one. Thanks for understanding…}

Haiti

I’ve never been. I’ve never traveled across the ocean, looked its people in the eye, seen the poverty for myself, carried those images back in my heart.

But my friend Meredith has.

There is a group of high school students at Trinity that has been preparing to travel there to help however they could and I know their young hearts are aching for those they’ve never met.

My home church in Durham, NC has a long-standing partnership with pastors in Haiti and I can imagine that there are some folks at Blacknall Presbyterian that would hop on a flight tonight to be in Port-au-Prince beside their brothers and sisters in Christ.

So what do the rest of us do? We pray. We give. We pray some more. And maybe we give some more so that the folks that are there to help have what they need.

• Text "Haiti" to "90999" to donate $10 to the Red Cross -- The US State Department very quickly put together this number to channel relief contributions directly to first responders who will be on the ground there. {The $10 will show up as a charge on your next cell phone bill.}

• Text “Disaster” to 90999 to give $10 to Compassion International’s Disaster Relief Program -- They will be working directly with the local churches who knew where these families live and will be providing immediate relief to them. {This will show up on your next cell phone bill as well.}

• If you give, go over to Kelly’s Korner and leave a comment on this post. She and her husband are donating $1 for every comment that is left.

• Head over to the Tasty Kitchen blog and enter a giveaway that is, in turn, giving to Haiti earthquake recovery efforts. The Pioneer Woman and her family are donating 10 cents for every entry. That may not seem like much but given that she usually receives over 12,000 entries per contest, it could really add up.

Twenty bucks, two texts, two blog comments. You in?