We're what happens when two substances collide*

There’s a pile of pine and OSB in my backyard, carefully stacked next to a CAD representation of what it’ll be post- sand, stain and assembly.

There’s a storage room full of saws and power tools and then more saws that I don’t know the names of, but that are faithfully dragged out onto the back porch nearly every weekend, and then put neatly back away on their shelves.

There’s a section of the crawl space that’s been cleaned, organized, and dedicated to camping and backpacking gear, which is grouped by type of activity for quick access. 

I could write a dozen more things to help paint a better portrait of my husband, but at the end of the day they’ll all fall short – he’s also smart, thoughtful, and so, so funny, among other things. But the reason each of these things specifically strikes me is that they’re each a display of his creativity. That pile of wood was stacked with a vision. Those tools are used to make bowls and furniture and countless other treasures. The camping gear was organized with a carefully imagined trip in mind.

I love seeing the way his creativity manifests itself as an extension of his logical personality. His vision is always clear from the start. It’s so different than the creativity I’ve come to know.

Creating something has never been a neat or organized or even efficient process for me (Philip could tell you about all the half-finished projects I have lying around the house). There needs to be a moment of inspiration or an excuse to get my hands messy. And then, when the inspiration hits, there’s no process, no caution, no logic. Will this turn into something cool? Maybe. Will it become something that just takes up space on a shelf somewhere in the house? Also, maybe. Is it worth the risk? Ask me in a few hours. I wish I could say that I had some grand vision to create things that solve problems, but usually my vision shifts and morphs with the project until I’ve made (or written) something I never expected.

When we first got married, these differences were intimidating. I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to his expectations of an ideal wife. I was emotional and unorganized and wildly inconsistent, and he was so sure and steady in everything he did. It was almost paralyzing, and so I threw myself into becoming all of those things – creating meal plans, filling in our calendar, organizing the house. None of those things were bad, but they didn’t allow for the kind of creativity and spontaneity I knew and love. It was exhausting. I was trying to manufacture a personality built on his sense of creativity and logic. He had never once asked me to do this, and it failed miserably.

These days, we’re a little less concerned about the way our personalities lead us to do things. But yesterday, he left for band practice, while I stayed home and painted the living room. My paint job wasn’t meticulous by any means, so I slipped into old patterns and began to worry about how it wouldn’t meet his practical standards.

His response when he walked into the house later that night?

“Oh, it’s fine. It’ll even out later.”

We’re different in nearly every way. And it’s beautiful.


*title partially lifted from an Andrew Bird song, because I’m too tired to come up with something clever, and it fits.

**We did a writing challenge at work a few weeks ago and I'm moving all the pieces back to my secret blog that isn't for coworker eyes.**

A few weeks ago, a very public figure died. He’d been dead for no less than 24 hours before people took to their computers and started sharing hateful messages about his legacy. His family was still processing his death and mourning his life, but people couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves for even just a few days. 

It really bummed me out. And It made me reflect on a lesson that’s been drilled into my head my whole life: Believe the best.

Backstory: I’ve grown up for most of my life in a church of some shape or form, but largely a nondenominational Christian church. I went to Lutheran school for kindergarten – where I got called out for telling a conversation heart-related lie to a teacher. After a few years in public school and away from church (probably not related to my lying streak, but who’s to say), we moved to Utah and picked back up on our church habit.

My parents listened to sermons in a rec room in Sandy, Utah while we had Sunday school down the hall in a racquetball court. Afterward, we all helped tear everything back down and put it in a trailer until the next week – all of us kids became experts in carrying folding chairs (which has surprisingly come in handy many, many times). Eventually, we relocated to a dilapidated old call-center-turned-church-building, where we played youth group kickball games in the basement and had concrete-floor overnighters and awkward teenage band practices, fumbling over our guitars and drums and etc.

I learned a lot of things, growing up in a church. Not all of them were great, but most of them were pretty good. Besides the obvious lessons from the Bible, there was the aspect of living in community, and learning how to serve and show up when you just wanted to stay at home.

Oh, and I learned a lot about how to make killer youth group video content. And by killer I mean cringeworthy.

Growing up, this is just what we did, and so naturally I kept doing it when I moved away to college, and eventually got married and started my own little family. It got me through a lot of hard things, but it was about much more than just that.

And then the past few years happened. Rather than go into all the boring details, I’ll give the Clif’s notes version: I began having a lot of questions about Christianity, and a lot more frustrations than I’d ever felt before. The way Christianity was playing out on the world stage was not the way I’d been taught to love Jesus. It was hateful, and it was scary. I wasn’t believing the best about the church, but the church wasn’t doing what I was taught was right.

I started questioning my beliefs, and the church that had influenced so much of my life. I knew and continue to know where I stand with my God, but I didn’t know how I felt about the church. I wrestled and very much continue to wrestle with some issues, but it’s all brought me back to that simple truth: believing the best.

It’s one of the most important things – again, save for the Bible – that I learned from all my years in church. My parents, my pastors and even my husband have spoken this into my lifetime and time again. What it mostly boils down to is this: Quit making assumptions. Trust that people are doing what they believe is the next right thing. Rather than being quick to judge, try and understand what might inspire someone to make the decision they did. Ask questions. And if someone did make a decision that hurt you, forgive them and move on, or find a solution.

I know that there is some incredible evil in the world, and it would be foolish to gloss over them by trying to “see the bright side.” There doesn’t always have to be a bright side. But, in day to day life, and for me, at least, believing the best is a start, because it means taking a step toward empathy. I’m not good at believing the best – I’m cynical and easily frustrated – but I can’t overstate how important it is that I continue to try. Because, at the end of the day, the wide world – my church, my city, my family, and even my office – is full of broken and hurting people. Just like me. So why not give them all the benefit of the doubt?

After all, it’s what I truly believe Jesus would do. I just lost that neon reminder bracelet years ago.

a writer's rut

the words come and go but mostly they go, go, go, just out of my reach.

and so i stare at a computer screen for at least three of the nine hours in my day and wonder where they went and where they ever were and why i am doing this to myself.

but i keep coming back. it's time to take back the words and use them when i want to use them and not only to take care of this a mortgage.

"It was like someone made it out of Legos when they were blind."
  - Judy H., at some point this summer, talking about a dog. This has nothing to do with anything else that's on my mind, but it made me smile.


Six months ago everything changed for the better, and it just keeps getting better. God is using my new life in the heart of downtown (okay, that part isn't better) to help me confront my fears, like giving presentations in front of strangers, or small talk, or telling other people what they should do. My fear of elevators still hasn't gone away, though, so my thighs are getting pretty buff. That's an added bonus that wasn't part of the job description. In one week I'll be directing my first video shoot, which I think means that I'm finally a grown up. Sometimes, still six months in, I get off the phone with a client or out of a creative meeting and think, "this can't be my real life." Oh, but it is. There is healing in being in a place where people don't put down your work all of the time. I feel free and I feel confident. And that's all I have to say about that.

This time last year I was coming off of the high that was seeing P.W. live, and transitioning into a season of spending too many hours miserably working on a Black Friday ad campaign. Which, hello, there are only so many ways to say "THIS IS A BIG SALE."

This time, well, this year, I'm ready to (potentially) start creative writing again, because I don't hate writing anymore. I'm ready to enjoy the holidays surrounded by such a wonderful family. I'm ready to venture out into the snowy mountains and discover a world that's so separate from my 9 -5 (except on Fridays) city living.

God is given me so much more than I deserve.

a small moment I want to preserve in my memory:

I reached in the freezer and grabbed black garbage sack full of ice. I dropped it on the concrete several times, but it wouldn't break. I picked it up and felt around the bag. There was a neck. It was a whole, frozen turkey. Two minutes later, I heard my mother in law go and do the exact same thing.

Life is interesting, and funny, and joyful. It's a wonder what three months away from a toxic environment is doing for my head and my heart.

after my little temper tantrum i'm feeling much better about pretty much everything (well, except getting murdered in my sleep, but that's just standard out here in the wild, wild west).

my sweet, sweet christian coworker texted me over the weekend and told me she'd been searching for jobs for me. in her free time. having another christian at work -- one that isn't immersed in the culture of my church -- has been so refreshing. we can bounce problems off of each other, share verses on rough days, quote dumb old songs, and even complain together. God shows his kindness in the most unexpected ways. like bringing a missionary's kid all the way to snowy utah to come to meetings with me and remind me to get before God in the hard times.

i think the best thing is just to stay put for now and savor the good days:
the days when an email makes me laugh so hard i cry
the days my boss schedules a 'summit' so we can go to starbucks together
the days i get to write about beer pairings and football
the days when lunch break is snowshoeing up the mountain.
the days i'm allowed to wear whatever i want and drink free coffee for hours.

and of course, the miles i drive closer and closer and closer to the mountains.

the anti-love letter

today, after nearly three years of writing for a living, i am wondering why in the world i am writing for a living. i woke up at 2 am and the dread sunk in:

i have to go back to this place in the morning. and tomorrow. and the tomorrow after that.

a writing job has killed my desire to write.
a writing job has killed my creativity.
a writing job has killed any thoughts i had that i was, in fact, creative.

but then i wonder if it's just the place i'm in.

two years of chaos (which is oddly where i thrive)
two years of second-guessing (which thrives in me, but isn't healthy)
two years of frustration and no direction.
two months of micromanagement.
at least two full days worth of ulcers and tears and a racing heart.

i think mandatoryfun.com is like a bad relationship, but i can't really leave because i didn't get any other schooling.
some days it's tolerable and i forget that i want to leave. some days it's so unbearable i can't imagine staying another ten minutes (much less eight hours).

Jesus, show me what to do. and if it's becoming a forest ranger or spending minimum wage days making cookies and cakes, that's just fine by me.

rant over.