Daily Walk #1: I want to be like Mary

Back in January, I got asked to join in with a team of writers at my church to provide daily devotionals for our congregation who are currently reading through the Bible in a year. 

I know, I know...I'm already the "paid" writer and editor at Brentwood Baptist. But it's not often I get to write in my voice and own it. So I'm passing along on this blog the ones I've written so far...

Scripture Passage:

Luke 1:26-38

Key Verse:

“I am the Lord’s slave,” said Mary. “May it be done to me according to your word.”

—Luke 1:38

Reflections:

Let’s just set the record straight. If an angel of the Lord had approached me—like he did Mary—with even so much as a “hello” or “how’s it going?” I would’ve thought I’d lost all my marbles.

So I love that, in the beginning of this passage, Luke (the ever accurate doctor) describes Mary’s initial reaction to the angels greeting as “deeply troubled by this statement.” Ha. Nice one, Brother Luke. Way to play that one down.

Moving on, had said angel informed me I was now pregnant and would soon give birth to the Son of God, the One who was sent to save all of mankind, I would’ve royally freaked out.

What will my parents think? What will my betrothed think? What will my community think? What will my church family think? Why me? Why now? What in the world?!

Good thing it was Mary and not me.

She was favored. She sensed the reality and weight of this task nearly immediately. And she didn’t ask 99 questions, require a signed contract, and demand an explanation from the Most High—like I usually do when He asks me to do something.

And wasn’t that nice of the angel to assure her of the miracle-next-door happening with Cousin Elizabeth? “For nothing is impossible with God.” That was the cherry on top of it all. It was the equals sign to the crazy equation he’d just laid out.

But this is where this passage gets me every time. Without hesitation, Mary willingly went along with His plan, even though she risked being stoned to death or shunned for what looked like the scandal of the millennium.

She was a very special 15-year-old. She didn’t nag or complain. She wasn’t worried about whether or not her skinny jeans would fit into the seventh month of her pregnancy. There was no wavering of faith or calling the angel a “creeper.”

Mary simply replied, “OK, Lord. Done. I belong to You, so whatever you ask, I’ll do it.”

That’s the kind of trust and obedience I want in my relationship with Jesus. Don’t you?

A Healthy Dose of Job 1:21

"The Lord gave me what I had, 
and the Lord has taken it away. 
Praise the name of the Lord!”
—Job 1:21

When the emotional, two-month-ish roller coaster ride came to a stop this week and I stepped off, I was still breathing and my lunch had remained safely tucked away in my gut. And my reaction to it all surprised no one more than myself.

(Cue the let's-go-back-in-time dream sequence music here.)

In March, with pen in hand, Jesus wrote in allowed a few new, exciting twists and turns into my story—things I'd prayed for, waited for, hoped for. Then just as quickly, He took them all away. Every. Last. One. Freakishly. Unexpectedly. 

When the dust settled, I thought I'd be irrevocably devastated. I thought I'd for sure change my mind about God's infinite goodness. I thought I'd call it the worst kind of trickery and blame His obvious cruelty.

But I didn't.

Sure...there were tears and questions. OK...I had a long, honest talk with Jesus. Alright...I escaped to my home state for a minute (or three). Fine...I consumed no less than 27 cups of coffee in a 4-day period with complementary conversations.

But when rocked, my boat didn't capsize. It bumped the waves, but I wasn't thrown overboard. Wanna know why? I fell back into Him—like I'm stinking supposed to, like I always say I will when the going gets rough. I landed in my deeply anchored relationship with Him.

One of my best friends, Meredith, challenged me to write out what Jesus has taught me through this short little chapter. So here goes:

1. He's faithful. Always and forever. No doubt. Keep repeating it—even when you don't feel like it.
2. His nature can't be divided, so He can't be both good and cruel. He is who He is—and He's just really good. 
3. I'm a lucky girl. He's built a rock solid family and spiritual community around me like a brick wall—those who pray for, love, and encourage me. If you don't have this kind of biblical community, GET ONE.
4. The enemy is big, bad, and very real. Dude never gets exhausted trying to steal, kill, and destroy my life, dreams, spirit, heart, etc. So when these things happen, you know what to do? Recognize who it is and what he's doing. Suit up. And fight back.
5. Jesus hears and answers prayers. Every day during this chapter, I Psalm 5:3-ed the heck out of every piece of it. Each morning, I asked Him to guide and protect me—to go before me, behind me, around me. Looking back, He did. Which brings me to...
6. Romans 8:28. He's working all things out for His glory and my good. Like a boss.
7. Jesus is the giver of good gifts—all of which are beneficial. Even if what's good on the inside comes wrapped in painful, misunderstood packaging. I trust Him. I trust Him. I trust Him. I trust Him.
8. I've never been more sure that one of the things I've been created for in this life is to walk alongside a man in covenant marriage. And Jesus holds the pen in writing that story—NOT ME. 
9. I've also never been more sure that sovereign God guides my steps and has a holy, mind-blowing plan for my life. He's in the details—even the tiniest, seemingly insignificant ones. (See #6.)
10. I can encourage, pray for, and try to pull others out of a pit all day long, but ultimately, I'm NOT their Savior. That's Jesus' job, and I have no business trying to play His part.
11. For those who are loyally in love with God, there's life and more life and more life—to infinity and beyond. James 1. James stinking 1. Read it and weep. I did.

I can honestly say: "God gave me what He wanted. He took away from me what He wanted. I will trust Him no matter what. His name is worthy to be praised!"

Future Kaylan, this therapeutic blog post is more for you than anyone else. Remember it for the next time you have to get in the front seat on this kind of coaster and go for a wild ride. Except next time, throw your hands in the air and enjoy every minute of it. Repeat after me: it's a gift.

How much is that doggy in the window?

I love her. Really, I do.

But she growls incessantly—like NON-STOP. Who knows what she's saying? But if I had my guess, it wouldn't be pretty...

And she wig-wag zig-zags her fanny all over my house like she owns the place.

And she likes to dig through the trash can and ingest whatever's inside. And by whatever, I mean WHATEVER. Sick.

And she hates other dogs. Like wants to bite their faces off if they sniff too close. Not nice.

And she regularly loses her mind and tries to dig a hole all the way to China—through my carpet.

And she'd sell her soul owner for a handful of marshmallows or an Oscar Mayer wiener.

And she prefers to lie on her back 24/7 so someone—ANYONE—will rub her belly. (For the record—I sure as heck didn't teach her that trick.)

A few days ago, I took her for a walk and found her nosing around the grass. She came up for air crunching on something, looking like she'd just hit the candy jackpot.

I stepped a little closer and found her nibbling on a large pile of...DEER POOP. GAG. ME.

My prissy little bucktooth pup was snacking on wild animal pellets. It's not like I don't feed her face every day! Just another notch in her belt of things that irritate the FIRE out of me.

After scrubbing her gums until they bled and lacing her water bowl with Listerine... (Kidding!)

I do joke a lot about giving her up because of these types of shenanigans. Some days, I swear I'm going to lock her out and see if she can find herself a new home.

But I really wouldn't trade the little monster for anything. She's priceless. She's a good friend—and has been for 7.5 years.

So here's to Mia and her deer-poop-eating, trash-digging, ugly-face-growling, only-uses-me-for-what-she-can-get-out-of-me ways... Cheers!

"Lady, get these dang bows out of my hair and I'll show you what you can do with them..."

The day I ripped her from her Poppy and Grammy's arms after her 3-month stay in their home (where she also gained 17,000 pounds and got hooked on human food). She was mad. Real mad.

If looks could kill...

Those eyes, Mia. That face, Mia. You're wrong. Stop making me feel bad for threatening to beat the 'tude out of you every day!

Senior portrait. Next to last in her class. Makes Mama proud.

Her favorite spot—on my favorite blanket. Of course.

Cousins! Don't tell me you don't see the resemblance. The truth hurts. She'll get over it.

See? I wasn't kidding. She's doesn't have a ladylike bone in her body. She needs serious help.

Ode to Daddy on His 60th Birthday

There are so many things I could say about my Dad, but here are just 60 you should know as we celebrate his 60 years of life today:

1. He loves social media—including Facebook and Twitter—and has high hopes of being a famous blogger one day. The man is nothing if not consistent from week to week. (Check him out.)
2. He likes numbers and calculations and predictions regarding the first two items mentioned, including but not limited to mileage, budgets, ETAs.
3. He doesn’t particularly like wearing lots of clothing. In another life, he was definitely meant to live in a nudist colony or pre-sin Garden of Eden. TMI? Ahhh, yes, but it’s the truth.
4. He’s a living, breathing countdown clock to the next thing in life (e.g. how many days until I fly back home, how many hours until we reach grandma’s house, how many years until he can fully retire).
5. He calls the refrigerator an “icebox,” says pants are “britches,” and will only refer to underwear as “drawers.” Brotha was raised in the south for sure.
6. He pronounces washer as “warsher,” fork as “fark,” and exercise as “extercise.” And my personal favorite—any word that begins with “chi” comes out sounding like “shi.” Chicken is shicken, chitlins is…you get the point.
7. He can play one song on the guitar. One song—“Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” (I’d like to see you rock that one in a church service on Sunday, Pastor.)
8. He hates leftover green beans. And isn’t much of a fan of pasta and sour kraut.
9. He thinks my mom’s cooking is the next best thing to sliced bread. Because she makes her own bread. And it’s the best bread he’s ever tasted. He practically refuses to eat anywhere but in her kitchen. And he’s pretty much spot on.
10. He has no sense of fashion whatsoever. For instance, when mowing the lawn, he rocks a sweatband while wearing gargantuan old-school headphones while sporting socks that come up to his kneecaps. Boom. And he’s proud of it.
11. When he can’t remember the name of something, he substitutes words that sound similar (e.g. Asperger’s Disease becomes Asparagus Disease, quinine becomes quinoa). He feels it still does the job for getting his point across.
12. Tells people he has “leprosy” in his feet. What he really means is “neuropathy.” (See #10.) He’s special.
13. He loves God’s Word with every fiber of his being. Lives, breathes, eats, digests, and regurgitates it. And can quote it back to you like a freaking encyclopedia.
14. He loves pouring life, hope, encouragement, wisdom, character, truth, and integrity, etc. into the pastors he works with each week. And 88% of that happens in his corner office at the local Braum’s over a cup of coffee.
15. When I’m home for a visit, he likes to go on long walks with me through the neighborhood or lay down next to me for an hour or so when I crawl into bed at night—just to laugh and talk about life. Precious memories.
16. He’s literally my pup’s favorite human in the world. She would fight to the death for that man. He has her hook, line, and sinker.
17. He sends me random text messages and voicemails every week saying he loves me, he thinks I’m beautiful, and he’s praying for me. See why I’m still waiting for the right man to come along? It takes a lot to live up to what I’m used to.
18. Speaking of praying, he’s my biggest prayer warrior (next to my mom). He intercedes for me every day—multiple times a day. When I was in high school, I woke up in the middle of the night to find him kneeling next to my bed, praying for me and calling out to the Lord on my behalf. That’s a good daddy right there.
19. He’s repeated this mantra to me my entire life: “Trust and obey, for there’s no other way, to be happy in Jesus.” Now, it’s stuck.
20. He memorized scripture with me when I was young. The one I remember best is Isaiah 41:10. We’d quote it back and forth to each other over and over: “Fear not, for I am with you. Don’t be afraid because I’m your God. I will strengthen you. Yes, I will help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
21. He can grow a full-bodied mustache and sideburns to top them all (and 89% of the time does it just to irritate the fire out of my mom because he knows she hates it).
22. He still likes to flirt with my mom after 37 years of marriage—and even when we’re not there to see it in person (trust me, I know this because I’ve been the victim of a tragic butt dial where I heard every detail of one such flirtatious encounter).
23. He spends an inordinate amount of time in his “man cave” every evening participating in a variety of activities: exercising, e-mailing, balancing his budget, and watching reruns of Andy Griffith, Three’s Company, and Bonanza.
24. He lives in the black or white, yes or no, right or wrong, one or the other perspective of life. There aren’t too many gray areas with this guy.
25. He’d do anything—and I mean anything—for his family.
26. He likes to consider himself tech savvy and stays up-to-date on the latest gadgets. We’re working on that.
27. He used to pick my brother and me up from school, take us home, and make us after-school snacks in the Fry Daddy. One plate was covered in tator tots and another was layered with chicken nuggets. And the third plate was for dipping—half ketchup and half honey. Needless to say, that’s also the same year my mom went back to work full-time.
28. He can get pretty animated and like to embarrass the women in the family at times—and I secretly love every single minute of it.
29. He likes to be intricately involved in my life—hearing the details of my day, spending time in my world, being friends with my friends. Just for that, he gets a call from me every single day between 5:00 and 6:00 p.m. for a daily update.
30. He has the mannerisms and stubbornness of his daddy and the kind, gentle, sweet spirit of his mama.
31. He doesn’t like to hem-haw around on the phone for too long. Never has. Never will.
32. He says he doesn’t care, but either gets mad or gets his feelings hurt when he loses in family card and domino games. I think it’s all a show.
33. He’s the greatest encourager known to man. He always knows the right thing to say to lift your spirits. And if he can’t think of anything, he’ll make a few other suggestions. (Bonus: he’s a suggester.) 
34. He has faith the size of Texas times 74. He’s got faith for every person in our family, and then some. It completely oozes out of him.
35. He likes to walk on the treadmill in his Man Cave wearing nothing but tightey-whiteys and tennis shoes. That’s right—you heard me correctly. (Told you he didn’t like clothes.) Thank goodness my mom is the only one who ever witnesses this.
36. He can lose weight faster than any human being I’ve ever seen.
37. He’s freakishly wise and refreshingly genuine—all the time.
38. He would sign up for the Hotter than Hell Bike Race if it weren’t in August and…well, hotter than hell. He talks about doing it every year. (Just do it already, Dad!)
39. On that note, he likes to hop on his bike and ride for miles and miles down country roads to practice for the Hotter than Hell Bike Race he’s never going to sign up for.
40. He’s the fastest eater I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure he even breathes in between bites. He’s practically a magician. He’s all, “Now you see it. Now you don’t!”
41. He loves having his family home for the holidays. Like l-o-v-e-s it.
42. He’s fascinated by history—so much so that he’s contacted random people all over the U.S. as he’s researched our genealogy and constructed our family tree, which now contains information of a lineage that goes back into the 1400s.
43. He likes to stop and read all the historical markers on roadtrips.
44. He has the best smile and laugh of anyone I know. Ever.
45. He’d rather lie in a pile of slithering snakes and stinging scorpions than ever be caught dead rooting for the Longhorns. He’s a Sooner fan for life. Boomer!
46. He taught my brother and I how to build a fort, dig a hole, light a fire, etc. when we were kids. If the world falls apart, we could probably solidly survive on our own because of him.
47. On family vacations when I was a kid, you could always pick him out of a crowd because he was carrying the 87-pound monster of a camcorder, recording every detail of the trip. I’m glad he did because a few years ago, he took all those ancient VHS tapes, created a DVD library of my childhood, and gave it to me for Christmas.
48. He coached my little league softball team and pee wee basketball team. And he never got upset when we lost or the time when I got the ball, dribbled it down to the wrong end of the court, and scored for the other team. He just enjoyed doing it together.
49. He can drink black coffee by the gallon. Waiters in local restaurants now see him coming and don’t even take his drink order anymore. They just set a mug and a whole pot of java in front of him and let him go to town.
50. He’s an AVID reader. You can always find him with a book in his hands.
51. He’ll drive 50 miles out of his way to save 10 cents a gallon on gas. That man loves a good deal at the pump.
52. He constantly reminisces on the good old days. He oftentimes says, “Remember the time when…”
53. He’s a little bit of a hoarder—but only in the confines of his Man Cave. He says he likes to hold on to stuff for a rainy day. (Little does he know, my mom likes to sneak in and clear out the junk every now and then. Oops.)
54. He’s passionate about collecting things—coins, baseball cards, etc. Who knows why? See #53.
55. He still likes to comb an “up” in his hair—55 years later from the time he insisted his mom style it that way.
56. He’d probably sacrifice his first-born (aka me) for a piece of chocolate sheet cake or banana split if they were the last ones on earth.
57. His ideal sleep cycle would begin by going to bed at 4:00 a.m. and finish by waking up at noon. Unfortunately, I inherited his squirrely night owl ways.
58. He dreams of living in Tennessee one day. Next door to me. On a farm. In the hills. Picking on a banjo. Sitting on his front porch. Smoking a pipe. Drinking black coffee. With his girlfriend, RaDonna, by his side. And telling passersby about Jesus.
59. He loves the gospel—getting in front of congregations of people on Sunday mornings and leading them to the Way, the Truth, and the Life. (Then, he likes to come home and immediately wash the “fellowship” off his hands.)
60. He’s seriously the best daddy in the world. I couldn’t have conjured up and created a better one if I’d tried. He’s thoughtful, kind, sacrificial, trustworthy, wise, funny, joyful, sincere, dedicated, loving, respected, loyal, encouraging, honorable, and so much more.

I love you, Daddy! Happy birthday. Now, let’s party.

Thank God I'm a country girl...

I went to the country over Labor Day Weekend. Not a country. The country. The kind of country I was raised in—with small-town people and home-cooked meals and wrinkley grandmas and precious cousins and dirt roads and tractors and hot guys wearing cowboy boots and bugs—LOTS of bugs.

That kind of country.

I was visiting my sweet 83-year-old grandma and a small gaggle of cousins in western Oklahoma. In addition to my annual Christmas visit, I started making a mid-year trip a few years ago, wanting to capture some special moments with grams because time is precious.

So I have to chronicle this most recent trip because it was so much fun. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves (with a few added captions here and there).

These are my feet and unusually large cankles, 

but not my SAS comfort shoes. 

Those finely-crafted leather beauties, 

with soft rubber soles and form-fitting velcro snaps, 

belong to Betty (said grandma mentioned above). 

I have a bad habit of stealing them from her when I arrive so I can perform everyday farm tasks (including, but not limited to, the occasional family softball game). They make sliding in to home plate 

a dream and a half.

Speaking of things I take over when I arrive on the farm... 

She lets me drive this head-turner around. 

Don't let the wear and tear on this age-old speed demon fool you. 

I could easily fit at least 17 people in the back camper 

if push came to shove.

One of the things we did was visit my uncle's massive garden to pick peas and watermelons—where, mind you, hundreds of thousands of blister bugs, wasps, bees, and other creepy-crawlies have made their home. 

Needless to say, my reactionary comments throughout the whole picking process were dang near Rated R.

Just had to throw this one in. If my mom knew I'd posted a picture of her behind online for all the world to see, she'd curse the day I was born. 

(Dad, don't tell mom, k? It'll be our little secret. K...thanks.)

Red Oklahoma dirt. Word to the wise: 

Do not, I repeat, do not lay in this stuff and roll around in it. 

It will NEVER come out of your clothes. They'll be ruined for all eternity.

This is the pond on my grandma's land. My cousins and I spent MANY a summer fishing in this very spot. And I spent many a summer gagging and faking seizures every time I had to bait a hook with an oogey, wiggly, "tobacco-spitting" grasshopper.

Grandma's house. This is a sight that never grows old. I could probably drive here with my eyes closed, using only my sense of smell, following the enticing aroma of her delicious biscuits and gravy.

See that barn in the background? That's a picker's DREAM, my friends. I was like a scrappy scavenger in that place. All I needed was a camera crew and my own TV show.

That's my Uncle Mike in the tractor, 

doing what he does best—being a farmer. 

I kind of wish I could drive one of these in real life in the city, so I could sit 9 feet tall above the ground and pick up random stuff along the way—like joggers or jay-walking squirrels or litter.

I love this sweet lady with my whole heart. She's such a godly, strong prayer warrior of a woman, who loves our family deeply. 

We brought her sacks full of peas from the garden to shell. 

She said, and I quote, "Oh, I just love shelling peas. I could do it for hours and hours and hours. Don't you just love it? I just love it." 

So cute and precious and funny and wrinkley.

 

The whole family met up in Elk City and went to the rodeo
—with box seats, y'all. Wha what?

I could write a book on how much I love this event, but I'll spare you the mush and gush. Instead, I'll just say it's one of the places I feel most at home with my people.

And look at this sweet, precious, darling, sugar-plum, pumpkin-face, baby cousin who was wearing his full-on bull-riding gear. What you didn't see was him leaning over the fence every few seconds to spit in the dirt

—like a real cowboy. Atta boy, Lukey.

Dad, cousins, and I ran (ha)—yeah right, walked—the 5K to support the Elk City Booster. It was hot. And I mean... 

H-O-T, 

sweating bullets, 

wanted-to-die, 

take-me-home-Jesus, 

need-to-cool-off-in-a-vat-of-ice-cream-after-this-is-all-over 

kind of heat.

They may or may not have started tearing down the finish line when I crossed it, but we made it!

Can't have a proper rodeo without a proper downtown parade. The entertainment was priceless. And I kid you not...there was even a very large man riding a horse with his boom box duck-taped to the side of the poor creature.

This picture was taken right after I wiped the drool off my mouth and picked myself up off the concrete. 

Give me a man riding a horse...

with a 5 o' clock shadow of stubble on his face,

wearing boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt,

and I'd leave the normalcy of my 9-5 in the city 

to be barefoot and pregnant on a farm in the middle of nowhere 

for the rest of my days.

My cousin let me jump in the saddle and go for a ride around the arena on this ol' girl. Her name is Mod. 

She's looks innocent enough, right? With her hair all tied up in pretty ribbons? And her head bent low in humility? 

Ha. On the contrary, she's a sassy lil' devil with an attitude.

Look at her. Just look at her. 

She's already smartin' off and complaining 

and asking for a drink of water in the 102-degree heat. 

Suck it up, Mod. Giddyup. Let's go.

I shouldn't be so harsh on Mod. She really is a sweet girl. 

She even made me look like a bad-a** cowgirl in this photo op. 

Thanks for the memories, Mod. I'll get off now so you can breathe again.

This is what one calls "working the sheep." 

My cousins (see cute brother-sister duo above) make BANK on them at competitions. They're experts at making these guys behave and look pretty for the judges—all because they "work them" for hours and hours every week so they'll be ready.

So they showed me how to do it. Let's just say...I smelled like a 

sheep's butt for at least a week after this photo was taken. 

The stench stays with you. 

P.S. No, I don't have a Bump-It in my hair. That's just my natural Texas Tease. Leave a comment if you'd like a private tutorial.

Rodeo #2 – Gah. Sigh. Love. Dream. Drool.

Just put me out in the middle of the arena and let me lay in that red dirt for the rest of my life with the cowboys and bulls and broncos stampeding around me. Heaven.

Wait. My clothes. Never-ending stains. I forgot. Nevermind.

Daddy wanted to enter the Dodge Ram drawing so bad. 

(You wish, Pastor. Mama would throw a fit.) 

But he stood there posing next to it, looking like he already owned the whole dadgum kit and kaboodle. So I obliged his little fantasy with a photo to document the encounter.

God bless, 'Merica. The end.

I'm telling you, people. The country does a body good. 

Try it. Drive 30 miles outside of your city and stand in the middle of a field. Then take a big whiff. Once you can get past the pungent fragrance of cow manure, your lungs and the depths of your soul will thank you.

Yes, they're real...

So let me just make something perfectly clear. On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being slightly thought-provoking and 10 being "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up from the soul-slaying I just received," this blog post is probably a –0.25.

That's because I'm going to talk about mascara. That's right—as in a plain old beauty product. 

It's just that when I find something cosmetically lifechanging, I feel like I need to share it with the world. And, by "world," I mean the four people who follow this blog, which includes my dad (Hi, Dad!).

Now, for the backstory. I went into Sephora (the mothership of Beautyland) back in the spring, looking to break free from the pain I was inflicting upon myself using Givenchy Phenomen'Eyes. Great product. Bad execution (literally...of my eyeballs).

One of the girls took me to the mascara counter and showed me Benefit's "They're Real" Mascara. She whispered, "This is the best mascara I've ever used. It's got magical powers or something."

All of a sudden, I felt like I was in NYC's Chinatown, being led through the hidden door in the wall to the secret room that holds all the fake Coach and Kate Spade purses. You know what I'm talking about? I think I may have even looked over my shoulder a few times to make sure I wouldn't get caught.

So I made my purchase and tried it out the next morning. She was right. My lashes looked A-W-E-S-O-M-E. I immediately did a Herkie in front of my bathroom mirror and proclaimed myself an addict. Thank you, Sephora.

A few weeks ago, I went back for a fresh tube, but they were sold out—and had been for WEEKS! Disappointed, but in desperate need of something to coat my lashes, I bought some rando brand that I'm not even going to give the time of day on here and started an online search for my beloved Benefit. But everything online was sold out too.

That led to my arrest for stalking the cosmetic employees at Sephora every day of my life. Kidding. But I did harass them by phone at least three times a week until they confirmed it was back in stock. Because that's what a junkie does until she gets her fix.

Well, hallelujah and praise the Lord! They got a shipment in last week. I ran a few red lights and broke a few speed limits to get there over my lunch break, but I coasted in and purchased as much as my bank account would allow.

Girls, I'm not asking you to branch out from your own mascara, I'm telling you to do this. Trust me. I wouldn't lead you astray. And you won't regret it.

Waiting on winter to turn into spring...

As a single woman, I have my ups and downs. And I'm not the only one. I have these conversations all the time with other young women, so my craziness doesn't seem so crazy when I know I'm not the only one. But sometimes it gets lonely out here.

The ups are the days I could shout from the rooftops, my moving car, and any and all social media outlets for the world to read: JESUS IS ON THE THRONE! WE GOT THIS, Y'ALL!

The downs are the days when my attitude is sorry, no good, and very bad. The days when I feel like I suck at life. The days when I want to stay under the covers and feel sorry for myself. The days when a pint and a half of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby is the only thing that'll soothe my achy breaky heart.

This morning was dark. Real dark. And it's been coming on for a few days. I can always feel it brewing and bubbling up like a storm. So I wasn't really surprised when all hell broke loose in my heart and head this morning right before church. 

I was ugly crying on the inside—and I mean UGLY crying like when Chris Crocker begged the world to leave Britney Spears alone via YouTube (don't watch if you don't want to hear the F-bomb casually thrown out every four seconds). Which, in turn, made me act like a butthead to those around me.

So after lunch, I made a mad dash home to take my place on my face. I needed an intervention of the holiest kind. I willingly laid myself on the altar of give-me-the-soul-lashing-I-deserve so Jesus could put me back into my right mind.

I always forget that going to Him is all it takes to turn my world right side up, to tweak my attitude, to align my thoughts with His. So I dove neck-deep into the vat of His Word this afternoon and just stayed there to marinate for a bit.

There wasn't a specific passage that led me to a conclusion. It was simply taking my one of my dearest friends Karla Worley's advice: "When you approach the Word, you're approaching the person of Jesus Christ." (That word of wisdom changed my Bible-study-lovin' world.)

That was all it took. I went into the presence of Jesus and He was there. And here's what I got: It may be hotter than hell in the middle of August, but the season of my life is smack dab in the dead of winter. And that's exactly where He wants me to be.

It's not a winter that means death or hopelessness. It's just a time when things are eerily quiet, when there's no growth, when the evidence of life and movement are lying hidden and dormant.

This isn't exactly the season that a spring/summer-kind-of-girl wants to be living in. But it's where the Lord has me. And He reminded me that I can't have the spring, the summer, or the fall without the winter. Because He meant for all four to be put into play in this life.

The good news? I won't be here forever. I have to believe God is always active and moving. He never meant for me to live in one season for the rest of my life. And even though this season seems longer than I'd like, another one is coming. It's on its way.

During this time, there's a lesson to be learned. It won't be the only winter moment of my life. There will be plenty more where this came from—seasons that will hopefully shove and squeeze me into the narrow-turned-narrower-turned-even-narrower path of sanctification.

So I have to remember that, in all seasons, He's good, He can be trusted, and He's for me. Always. Period. End of story. Even when it seems like I'm all alone and He's hiding from me in a cave somewhere in the Alps. (Duh. He's not.)

And, in the middle of all this, I have to remember what the infamous Eldredges like to say: "We live in a great love story, set in the midst of a war." Amen? Amen.

So here I sit, in the middle of winter...

living in a constant state of prayer...

standing firm against the enemy...

wearing all my armor...

calling Him faithful...

staying alert...

and waiting on the first sign of spring.

My Mission Journey: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

In June, I got the amazing privilege of traveling with a team of 20 people from our church to take the message of Christ to the people of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. We were evangelism team that just happened to be doing medical missions while we were there—through an eye clinic, medical clinic, pharmacy, and dental clinic.

My technical responsibility on the team was in the pharmacy. But my real responsibility was to take the gifts I've been given and the ministry I already do full-time through BBC and use those on the mission field. My job was to tell stories—stories of life change, Jesus, poverty, healing, and redemption. (And to love on some Brazilian babies on the side.)

I blogged every day. I snapped pictures every day. And, in the midst of all that, my life was changed by what I saw and experienced. You can go back and read all the updates, see the pictures, and watch the videos that I posted throughout the week (starting on June 10).

I write this now (one month after we've returned) because it's taken that long to process. And I'm not finished. It'll continue to drip into my thought processes, my language, and my reactions for the rest of my life.

When I say, "My world was wrecked," you can go ahead and consider those four words the grossest understatement of the century. 

Here...let me try that again: "Jesus took my heart out of my chest, beat it into submission, and then broke it into the shambles. Then, he put it back together. Then, he took my mind, including everything I've ever known and been comfortable with, rearranged it all, confused the old, and replaced it with new. After all that, he took my soul and ravaged it, changing every ideal, perspective, and preconceived notion I'd ever held on to."

Does that do it? Nope. Still doesn't cover it.

Bottom line: it was well-organized trip. I never once felt fear or unsafe. It was one of the most geographically gorgeous places I've ever seen. It was home to some of the most beautiful, kind, genuine, warm-hearted people I've ever known. And, on top of it all, it really wasn't as physically hard on my body as I thought it was going to be. 

So why did I come back a broken person? Why did I have to be sent home from work two days after I returned because I couldn't hold it together? Why did my emotions furiously bubble over with the mere mention of the insignificant in my own culture? Why did I lie awake in bed every night for two weeks trying to understand what I was supposed to do with all this new information?

I still haven't figured it out. 

I prayed two things every morning when we climbed on the bus to head to the slums: 1) God, break my heart for what breaks yours, and 2) let me see you bigger today that I did yesterday. And because God heard and answered, I experienced some serious—I mean S.E.R.I.O.U.S.—sanctification. 

Before I left, my good friend Meredith said, "You're not going to understand this until you get there, but mission trips are just as much for the people going as the people you're going to serve." 

That didn't sound right the first time I heard it. It sounded so selfish. But, now, I understand. The people there were the catalyst for change in my life, and I hope I had something to do with the change in theirs. The giving and taking went both ways. 

I'm the queen of words (and not always in a good way). But, for most of what I experienced in Rio, I still have no words. Just let it be known:

• My life will never be the same.
• There is no such thing as an ugly Brazilian baby.
• The weather in Brazil is to die for.
• This is only the beginning for a lifetime of telling God's story around the world. 
• If you like feeling bloated because of all the sodium-infused meat, go to Brazil.
• I caught a glimpse of what heaven is going to be like one day.
• Outside of time with my family, I've never felt more ME than I did while I was there.
• I've never seen the bride of Christ look more beautiful.
• The legends are true: Speedos are in abundance on the beaches of Rio.
• My new life goal is to learn another language, thanks to Portuguese.
• Christ was made known and his name was lifted high among nations.

Sweet Terazina, a leper at the colony we visited. I bought this pottery she painted.

Love me some babies

One of the highlights of my life is the friendship I have with my sweet friend Elizabeth. She and her family bring my life so much joy.

Elizabeth and I once worked together in the church. We walked together every day, shed tears and joys on those long walks, ran (errr...walked) the Country Music 1/2 Marathon together, and shared an office where she got to know full well my...ah-hem...behaviors and nuances.

She became and still is one of my very best friends.

In the course of our friendship, she and her husband went through IVF (in vitro fertilization). It was a painful, nerve-wracking process for her, but nonetheless, we prayed God would give her and her husband babies.

He answered...as He always does. She became pregnant with two precious little boys, Hudson and Brayden. And I've prayed over them since.

Now, they're one year and almost three months old. I'm so incredibly grateful that Jesus let me share so many moments of that experience with my friend. And I'm thankful I get to watch them grow to know and love Him.

I love those babies so much. How could you resist their little smiles and laughs?