I’ve been looking at my life through a pinhole, hitting speed bump after speed bump when trying to think of something to write. Writers block induced by feeling not so very interesting, intelligent, or creative right now with the added pressure of making sure an Instagram worthy image can accompany my text. Sitting here with cold coffee in hand for over an hour, I’ve been half heartedly starting and stopping silly lists of my current “favorites” or trying to eek out some encouraging post. All the while, I’m glancing at the book beside me—Bill Bryson’s “The Road to Little Dribbling”—and wishing I could just curl up with a cup of tea and read about England. Because ya’ll—I’ve been seriously missing England for the past couple of weeks. It’s not just a wish to travel and take a break from the every day, but a real missing of the actual place and the life I lived there. I spent the first half of my engagement to Chris in the UK while studying at Oxford University. Living here for several months solidified the love that had been growing since I was ten years old, when my family moved to Kenya. A former British colony, Kenya is a special mix of African and English. My family came to love certain British brands and traditions, eating Jafa Cakes with our tea and buying mini poppers at Christmas. We learned that Boxing Day was actually about “unboxing” Christmas gifts not about the sport and that the metric system really does make more sense. Something clicked this morning while I battled writer’s block: that I’ve been too focused on my life now. I’ve shut off a big part of my life—moving overseas as a child and thus having the opportunity to travel around the world (funny how travel is so much easier once you’ve crossed that massive ocean!). I’ve struggled with this shutting off instinct ever since moving back to America as a young teen: it seemed easier to just try to blend in. I got tired of being met with blank stares and uncertain questions. People just didn’t get me. So I stopped talking about or bringing it up. I started realizing how bad this was when my closest friends at college would say stuff like, “I totally forgot you lived in Kenya!” or “Wow, I didn’t realize you had been to so many counties!” It’s not their fault that they forgot. I just never talked about it out of some perverted sense that doing so seemed “pretentious” or made me look too privileged. Here’s the truth: my family is really privileged! We lived most of our life together in a free country; we were surrounded by generous, faithful family and friends; my mom made us the most wonderful home and devoted her life to her kids; my dad is a very hard working, principled family medicine-turned-ER doctor. My mom and dad were able to provide beyond just basic needs: they gave us so many experiences. And hands down, one of the best experiences they ever gave us kids was the chance to see and know the world. I am me because they chose not to stay in one town and buy a home and live “comfortably” or “traditionally.” They took some risks and did some conventionally not-so-wise things. In the middle of my dad’s career, they became missionaries. When moving back to the States, they took their savings and used it to RV around Europe for a month, one of the highlights of my life. When I was having a hard time with Kate’s adoption, they decided that I should travel with them to China to pick her up. By the time I was 21, I had been to 21 counties. Few of these were from “vacation;” most were from doing life with my family. I’ve decided to open up this box again, to start peeking back at this life-time of memories so far and sharing what I can. Being a third culture kid and traveling the world has made me who I am. It’s time to start acting like it. So, today I’m sharing some of the things that I miss about England. In the next weeks and months, I’ll be writing about some of the funny, crazy, and once-in-a-life time experiences I’ve had as a Southern-born, African-middle schooled, mid-Atlantic high schooled, New York City colleged, back to the South 20 something. Oh England, I miss:
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Despite my silence on the blog, this summer has been anything but quiet. Perusing my planner, I look back over the weeks since we moved and see that we have traveled or had guests more weekends than not. That’s a good thing! And it has meant that we have been kept busy and occupied during a time of transition. But it also means that we haven’t had the chance to really dig in here yet. Last Saturday was our first real day at home in who knows how long. It was such a treat. We slept in and then took an hour to make Norwegian pancakes (think crepes), and watched cartoons while stuffing our faces. We lounged around watching more cartoons. When the itch to do something struck, I finally deep cleaned the house while Chris addressed those sneaky little corners that still had junk in them from the move. Time—we had time! Time allowed us to talk through our budget and post-moving expenses and get on the same page with our church search. Real conversation and connection were able to happen when we let the dust settle a little and stopped doing things. In fact, I intentionally didn’t set any “goals” for the day. I didn’t sit down the night before with my Post Its and write that I wanted to 1) talk about the budget 2) clean the house 3) exercise. Those things just happened anyway because they were all good things that we not only needed to do but wanted to when we didn’t feel “forced” to by the to-do list. My goal-setting, accomplisher self needed a chill pill. And when I took it, we had the most relaxing, happy Saturday—not because we didn’t do anything and lazed around but because my attitude toward accomplishing things shifted (at least for this one day…face palming myself this weekend because it’s been much more of a struggle!). So, to continue the good vibes, we spontaneously decided yesterday morning to run to a craft store and buy canvases and paint supplies. We were going to have an Art Day at home, complete with sweet tea and oatmeal coconut cookies (which we also spontaneously decided to make after watching our ALL TIME favorite show Friday night, The Great British Bake Off. Seriously, do yourself a favor and go watch it). Michael's Crafts is having a Labor Day sale on a lot of their painting supplies so we got two value packs of canvases (16 total!), 12 large tubes of acrylic paint, and various brushes for just over $50. It was a great buy, and we have tons of canvas left over, so I would highly encourage this as a date that keeps on giving. Now, let me be perfectly clear: neither of us are artists by any stretch of the imagination. Appreciate, study, and enjoy, all yes, but execute—not so much. As Chris likes to say, we each have “delusions of grandeur” when it comes to painting. Like, I think I may just be the next Rothko or Van Gough. But then I look at my canvas and realize I don’t even know how to properly blend one color into the next. This became abundantly apparent in my first piece, which I have entitled “Choppy Blue.” To be sure, I like the choppy look. But also be sure that it is there because Chris had not yet looked up a YouTube video on “How to Paint With Acrylics,” in which a kindly professor showed us that we ought to brush the canvas with water before we applied the paint. Such an “ah-ha!” moment. “Yellow Feather Sunset” was my second piece. I have such mixed feelings here. I was concentrating on blending yellow into orange, which I think I did quite well. Then some insane idea popped into my head and told me to swish gold stripes down the middle, something I regretted almost immediately. All my grand delusions of hidden genius went right out the door, and I became very despondent. I decided to mope on the bed checking Instagram and then cleaned my brushes and called it a day. Well, the paint dried and then looked decidedly less gross. So I decided I didn’t completely hate it, and that together with Choppy Blue and Chris’s “White Square” it may just look all right on the wall. At the end of the day, here’s what we turned up with. Not so bad, right? Thankful for okay art, good music and great tea while making it, and the left overs: blue splatters on our dinning room wall which remind me of a fun afternoon. I had a long, sorrowful talk with a dear friend last night. My heart was, and is, heavy for her. She is hurting. This morning, I found myself praying this line for her over and over as I took my shower, made the bed, and got dressed: “Lord, give her summer weather in her heart.”
I’ve referenced this quote before on the blog: it’s the closing line from my favorite Puritan prayer from the Valley of Vision. I stopped and wondered why this particular phrase was so arresting to me. Ever since I read it for the first time, back in college, on that tan couch under the grimy window of our loft apartment, it has stuck with me as a go-to phrase. It is my murmured prayer in times of chaos. “Lord, give me summer weather in my heart.” When I was commuting two hours a day on mass transit. When I got one more bad-news email at work and I just couldn’t deal with it. When a friend said hurtful words. When I’m irrationally angry at someone I love. When I’m positive that our stuff won’t fit in the moving van. “Lord, give me summer weather in my heart.” I love this line because it’s such an exceptionally beautiful image of peace. It helps answer the question in my head, “What is peace?” My heart seems rarely to be still, but I don’t know what it is that I’m aiming for. How do I be still? How do I be peaceful? Summer weather. There’s a rich, heavy quietness about it. Every day of the summer we each experience the move from cold, alert buildings to that warm bubble of outside. We slow down. Nature is in full bloom, and in this little corner of the world, full of thick forest, that means we are snuggled between thousands of massive trees, creeks, and corn fields. Breezes are gentle. Afternoon rain often comes in slow, large drops from sunny skies, rather than in winter’s piercing, icy sheets. Long shadows. Humming cicadas. All feels right and as it should be. When I don’t know how to be peaceful in my heart I remember these words. I ask God for peace like summer’s still heat. -- There’s a reason the Bible talks about peace so much. Because we need it so desperately. We need it when we are shocked and horrified by senseless acts of violence against innocent fellow citizens. My heart aches that we still live in a place and time where men are hated, suspected, and killed based on the color of their skin. How, Lord, do we still live like this? Sin hurts so badly. It is so ugly and disgusting. Yes, we live in a place and time where a man is killed because he was driving an old car with a taillight out and his skin was black. And therefore he fit a stereotype that spoke danger to an officer. Yes, we live in a place and time when men believe god is asking them to blow up people for his kingdom. Yes, we live in a place and time where it is politically incorrect to defend unborn children’s lives. Yes, we live in a place and time where white teenage boys shoot praying black people in a church in the south. And yes, it is all evil and unjust. That is the power of sin. It is a wretched stain. It is death. All over social media people are posting things like: “It’s 2016: c’mon people.” “Why in this day and age?” As if somehow being in the year 2016 makes sinful people more enlightened. Sadly, the fact that it’s 2016 and not the “dark ages” doesn’t make a real difference at the soul-level. We are still broken. There will always be violence and injustice as long as “this place and this time” is this side of eternity. Oh, how it breaks my heart. But I know that it breaks my God’s heart even more. And so I can only rest—find summer’s weather—in the fact that because he “so loved the world he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16). “For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him” (John 3:17). We so desperately need saving from days like these. Thank you, God, for loving us enough to save us from the sin that makes us kill one another. I turn again to the Repose prayer (which you can read here, but I would encourage you to buy the full Valley of Vision as well): “I have cast my anchor in the port of peace, knowing that present and future are in nail-pierced hands.” If I had to describe my ideals for a home in three words (or phrases) I would say cozy, eclectic, and tells a story. Home should be a safe-haven, the one place in the world where you can be you fully. I love that our new home is just that. It tells our story: the silk painting from China that we bought at the Great Wall, the water-color maps from Paris, New York, and Oxford, dozens and dozens of political philosophy or theology books from college, the red Persian rug that was in my family's living room in Kenya, seashells from our favorite beaches. I also love that in this home we don't have a coffee table in the living room; instead we just have a large open space with a sheepskin rug, perfect for plopping down at the end of the day for a few cartoons and chocolate chips.
Most of our stuff is hand-me-down or antique, and what isn't Chris and I saved up all last year to buy when we made the move down to North Carolina. We bought our couch and the orange chairs on Craigslist and they were GREAT deals. In fact, we even found our house on Craigslist. Sure, there is a lot of sketchy stuff, but if you do your research and keep an eye on the market you can uncover some amazing gems. Okay, so the stunning desk and credenza (which, I should add, isn't finished yet. It needs to be painted and have the doors attached). Those were handmade by my niffy, talented hubby. He is such a great artist and builder! I really wanted a slim, simple writing desk to put in front of the window to take advantage of all our gorgeous afternoon light. He took my idea and ran with it, desinging the entire piece from scratch. The hairpin legs and leather drawer pulls were even his idea. The sheepskin rug and the leather poof were bought from a wholesale auction. Lamps are all from Target or Homegoods for less than $30 each. The wooden stumps were also made by Chris, and were from a tree in his aunt's yard. We bought our vintage bird and vegetable posters for $5 each at the Natural History Museum in New York, and then made simple hangers for them with thin pieces of wood from Lowes. Curtains: West Elm Bookcases: Ikea Leaning ladder shelf: Ethan Allen: this model is from years ago, so I doubt it's on the website. We snagged this piece when my college neighbor was moving out of the building. $80 for this shelf, a side table, and a large dresser! Dining room table: Ikea: We bought a slab of wood from the as-is clearance section and then got the legs separately. Best of both worlds: customized and cheap! Dining room chairs: Overstock,com White side table: Ikea: we have three of these and love them! Desk chair: second hand from Restore So without further ado, here's the living room! Other rooms are still works in progress, to come to Honeybutter and Blue at some point in the future. :) So much has happened in the past month that the actual move seems light years in the past. Between then and now we have:
And that’s just scratching the surface. Depending on the day all this transition is either really fun and exciting or really overwhelming and not fun at all. On the not-fun days I find myself missing New York and New Jersey. Missing not exactly our circumstances from this period of life but the concept of comfortable. The past week had me in a particular funk: disgruntled, easily annoyed, irritable, and despondent. Flipping through my phone (the worst possible solution to these problems, I might add), I realized that I hadn’t looked at a single picture I had taken from the moving weekend. I had been avoiding looking back on those high-stress, crazy-out-of-the normal few days, full of so much hard work and change that you collapse in an exhausted puddle of dusty clothes in the middle of the barren, finally cleaned out kitchen and simply refuse to go on. The thing is: moving is just so hard. It doesn’t matter if you have the absolute best friends and family helping (like we did!), plenty of time to get everything done (like we did!), money to be able to afford the necessary vans and boxes and food for crowds, etc. (like we did!)—it’s just a difficult thing to do. Now, I held it together really well. We had fun. Music was blaring. Pizza was consumed. All boxes ended up fitting into the UHUAL. Holes in the wall were spackled and tubs were cleaned. Cats were not lost. It all got done. But it only got done because of our amazing families. I kid you not, Chris and I regularly stop in the middle of cooking dinner or driving to church to remark that we have such cool families. Both sides so selflessly served us this month, as they always do, and we think they are just the best. The week before the move was mainly full of me packing boxes, the turtle in the race to the finish line. One. Box. At. A. Time. Later in the week my mother-in-law and the youngest Svendsen siblings came to the house to help deep clean. I remember this being one of the token panic days, so close to the end (we move in two days!) and yet not looking anywhere near to being done, junk oozing from every nook and cranny. Thankfully, Bethany and Aiden’s cool composure under pressure helped calm my nerves (below: keeping calm and carrying on). The last few days before the move also included a run to Ikea for our new kitchen island and a few bookshelves as well as a very relaxing, fancy dinner with the in-laws at an amazing steak house (where I promptly forgot to take a single picture). Day 1 Chris and I take the Intentionally Relaxed Approach when it comes to moving day. Morning of, we walked to our favorite diner for one last Nutella and strawberry waffle and then visited the local florist on our way home to get flowers for our landlady who lives downstairs. After this slow start our helpers began to trickle in, and long story short, our whole life was crammed into the UHUAL and trailer by 10pm that night. Day 2 North Carolina and New Jersey being so far apart, there was simply no way we could load the truck, drive south, and unload all in one day. So, we spent the night at Chris’s parents’ house after everything was loaded and again decided to take the next morning slow, sleeping in and enjoying a yummy breakfast before honking our way down the road. The morning was filled with coffee and tears. Highlights of our driving day include Eloise being a boss navigator, Chick-fil-a for lunch, only being able to travel 60 miles an hour the entire trip because of UHUAL limitations, the never-ending drive because of said speed restrictions, singing along to the full Hamilton soundtrack a total of three times, and a late night Mickey Dees stop for breakfast sandwiches and yogurt parfaits in the middle of no-where North Carolina. Arriving at the new home at around 11 p.m., we grabbed the keys and then headed to a nearby hotel to partake in such simple luxuries as mattresses and running air conditioning. Day 3 LAST DAY OF THE ORDEAL. By this point we were exhausted but also ready to be done with the whole thing. The need to be done outweighed being tiered, and we dutifully rose for the 7:30 alarm, meeting my excited and more-refreshed family who had driven from Virginia the night before to meet us. While the boys and some new friends from church unloaded the truck, my mom and me grabbed biscuits from a local favorite—Sunrise Biscuit Kitchen—and coffee from Starbucks for everyone. Coming home an hour later, piping hot beverages in hand, we were shocked that most of the truck was already unloaded. The process is so much quicker on the unloading side of the equation! Amy and Kate went to fish in the pond behind our house while the adults put together furniture, cleaned the kitchen, and unpacked boxes. We took lots of breaks and even went to a second hand sporting goods store in the afternoon. This kind of casual is good for me. There is no way I could ever get close to being done—catching up to “perfect”—on a day like this. Best to just let go and enjoy being with the people you love. We ended the day with a Mexican dinner at a festive restaurant and an early to bed—the first night in our new home! As I said above, moving is totally exhausting. It drains your physical, mental, and emotional strength. It makes the normally little things—like missing an exit or not getting quite enough sleep—seem like life-shattering events. I woke up Sunday morning, the day after we had officially unloaded in North Carolina, having a complete meltdown. I kept saying over and over, “I just can’t find the thing. I just can’t find it.” “It” being literally anything I could think of. Brush, a pot, tissues, my jeans—everything was haphazard and I had absolutely no clue where anything was. Moping around in sweatpants, I dragged myself from room to room, sprawling out on the floor and crying if I was unable to locate something immediately. It sounds really funny to me now. I’m more rested and things are in order again. But for these couple of weeks they weren’t, and that’s okay. I put on my big girl panties and just kept swimmin through the boxes. And I’m thankful to report that I now know where all my pots, tissues, jeans, and brushes are. ~SNEAK PEEK OF HOME!~ Two years ago today I married my favorite person. It was a gorgeous, sunny, not-to-hot, not-to-cold spring day. I woke up at about the time I am writing this (7:30), light streaming in the window, and had the funniest sense of calm and ease, as if the whole world was in slow motion and all I had to do was glide through the day. I feel like I could write every moment and detail from our wedding: the whole day is impressed on my mind. Chick-fil-a for brunch with all the girls; happy music and mimosas as Rosalind did hair; the Keeler boys shuffling in and out of the kitchen until they were exiled; Amy sitting stoically while having her hair curled; Mama gracefully orchestrating everything; Daddy walking in to see me in my dress for the first time; praying with the bridesmaids and him before we left for the church. Freaking out when we pulled up to the church and the parking lot was packed; Mrs. LeAnne taking my hand and looking in my eyes and telling me it was okay, that we could do this; The absolutely surreal moment waiting with my dad before we walked down the aisle, when contrary to what we expected he was calming me. And then the moment the doors opened and everyone turned and I saw Chris and every ounce of that building panic and nerves from the past hour just melted. I was calm again, walking down the aisle. Communion and hymns with those we loved most; realizing it was hard to stand in a ball gown and heels for 40 minutes in front of 200 people; Laura smiling at me when I gave her my bouquet; being scared to say our vows in front of people. Then, being married. All the little memories from that day—it was at once completely overwhelming and completely wonderful. What I loved most about that day was that it honestly wasn’t about just me and Chris. It was about our people, family and friends who have stood by us and loved us as individuals and as a couple. We were celebrating them and the role they had played in our lives. Our siblings, our aunts and uncles and cousins, our grandparents, our teachers, our best friends, our youth pastors, our small group leaders, our life-long and new friends, and most importantly, our parents. God has loved us so well the past two years. He has faithfully brought us together. He has given us tenderness after days of sarcasm and rushed, “roommate” communication. He has helped us forgive after explosive fights, bite our tongues when about to announce that the we are yet again hanging up your wet towel, and given us each a heart of protection over the other person, when others might brush them off. Chris is my favorite. He is undyingly cheerful, generous, and truly kind to everyone he meets. He is ridiculously smart and talented and basically excels at whatever he tries. He is patient, gentle, and funny. He is forgetful, private, and too optimistic. He is quick to say sorry, to lend a hand, to jump into a conversation and say what he thinks. He knows when I need to be pushed and when I need to be comforted. He really loves (and respects) his mom and really respects (and loves) his dad. He is a natural leader who loves the Lord fiercely and wants His will for our family. I think it’s important to only marry someone you are proud to be with. Chris, I couldn’t be more proud to be your wife. Happy 2nd anniversary! **All picture credits go to Rachel May Photography. We love you, Rachel!** I must be a true pessimist—I always assume the worst. The great thing about being a pessimist is that you are often pleasantly surprised. The world isn’t always awful! How wonderful! This first week in North Carolina has taught me just that. Because I hate “CHANGE” (I always blow it up in my head like that), I assumed that a big move like this would most likely be de facto bad. My instinct is to think that because something changes it inherently overwhelms any good that might come along with that change. Certainly, our whole daily rhythm has been torn apart, exacerbated by the fact that we aren’t actually living our new “normal” yet. Chris has a FULL schedule with his MCAT prep course and won’t be slowing down until after the test. In the meantime, I won’t begin working full time (more on that in an upcoming post!) until the end of July, so I’m just here hanging out, enjoying some non-stress time, and managing all the “life stuff.” Things are very different, but it’s all new and exciting. We love being in a wide-open space with trees, woods, and biking trails. We love our new home and how it perfectly remedies some of those super annoying things about our old place (we now have a washer and dryer and lots of closets!). We love this location and the opportunities and friends to be made here. Don’t get me wrong—I know we are still in the honeymoon stage. I’m sure there will be days of culture shock or sadness. But they haven’t hit yet, and I shouldn’t even assume, come to think of it, that they will. See, in the midst of what is turning out to be a happy transition, I’ve found myself feeling guilty for being happy and carefree. I’ve felt as if I’m not being authentic with my friends when relaying primarily happy news; the pessimistic worrier in me starts telling lies: “Life is too good—something awful must be around the corner.” “Why is God giving us these blessings?! Something’s up.” “Oh well: it will all fall apart soon enough.” It’s as if I am actively seeking out something to worry about in the absence of more difficult life circumstances and “legitimate” worries. But when you get down to it, all these worries boil down to unbelief, to a stiff hand of control that won’t let go. If I don’t get too happy, life won’t disappointment too much. The past two years have been really tough, and yet through it the Lord has been so close, teaching me more and more about joy that transcends circumstances. Now, when our circumstances are happier, I still need to be taught about joy. About how to have joy free of doubt, free of fear. My prayer is that the Lord can use the refreshed and joyful me for purposeful ministry, and that I would be able to see the good of good times. Because this week has been a good time. Our moving weekend (also in an upcoming post!) went so smoothly. My family was able to come help, and we were also blessed to have some new friends from a local church meet us at the house as well. They made us feel so welcomed right from the get-go. My wonderful mom stayed with us for a few extra days, and together we unpacked, ran errands, did loads and loads of laundry, shopped for lights and nails and spackling putty and all those moving necessities, ironed curtains, and ate chocolate pastries at Panera. She’s pretty cool. My new job has already been such a blessing and has enabled us to step right into a community. From welcome gifts of homemade jam and tulips to after-church conversations and lots and lots of restaurants recommendations, Chapel Hill has been treating us well. And to top it all off, I’ve had a burst of energy which has enabled me to do tons of little things like researching the DMV and NC license requirements, scouting out new grocery stores, joining a gym, and learning to drive on the highway by myself (ya’ll, 5 years in the city with public transportation, no hating). From the little things to the big things, I’m thankful for and in awe of a week of provision. I remember my first and last night in New York clear as day. The first time was in early high school, and the city was just a stop along the way to our family vacation in New England. Despite the fact that it was 11 PM when we arrived at the hotel and that we would have an early start the next day, my dad wanted to take me to Times Square. We hailed a cab, craning our necks to see out the window as the spider web of constant construction, nighttime garbage piles on the curb, and ever-present mobs of people passed by. Apparently when you give a cab driver directions to “Times Square” they take it upon themselves to drop you literally in the middle of it, at the NYPD station to be exact. If you’ve ever been you know exactly where that is: in the heart of New York, and what feels like the entire world. I was then, and every time since then, mesmerized, dazed, and overwhelmed. The throb of lights and crowds and cars and noise and stores leaves you in a state of semi-panic. But it also pulls you in, the sheer liveliness of it so alluring. I’m no F. Scott Fitzgerald or Joan Didion, so I’ll refrain from trying to describe that je ne sais quoi of New York. But it’s no accident that writers flock to the city, marking success by their ability to encapsulate it in words. My friends know that New York was sometimes a struggle for me—it can be a very difficult place to live. But still, I recognize and have slowly come to love that very special quality about this place, that something that artists spend their whole life striving to capture, that life of the city. My dad treated us to Starbucks and we walked around, gazing up and often stumbling into people. A year or two later we would be back, this time on a perspective student’s weekend for The King’s College. More than even the first visit I was overwhelmed (that’s a common word in my dialogue about New York!). I think it was because this time the prospect of actually living here was on my mind. I remember leaving from my parent’s hotel and walking to a little Italian place, along 1st or 2nd Avenue in Midtown. My parents were cheerful and chatty, and all I could do was sullenly eat breadsticks while scooting my chair in closer and closer to the table because about a million people were buzzing around me and bumping me and didn’t even seem to care. Dinner was bland in comparison to the sheer volume of everything going on around me: dump trucks rumbling by, jack hammers drilling, fast city walker and slow tourists jostling for the same side-walk space, beeps, hums, and oh look my spaghetti is here, thanks. My poor little first-child, introverted, cautious brain was about to explode from over stimulation in just the short 2 hours it had spent in the city. God had a lot of growing up to do in me. And he used New York to do that. The people, places, teachers, and churches I grew to be a part of challenged and shaped me into the adult I now am. New York taught me about patience. I can’t count how many times public transit has “ruined” a morning or made me late to an appointment. New York taught me about confidence and courage. I learned about who I was, apart from my family or past. New York made me tough, and reiterated the importance of hard work. This place gave me true friends who have stuck by me through thick and thin. And New York softened my judgmental spirit by allowing me to interact with so many different people from so many walks of life. I came to sincerely value the fact that people can be themselves in the city, because no matter how crazy you may look, you aren’t the craziest person others have seen that day. There is a delightful anonymity here that allows you to blend in and just be—empty space to figure out who you are and what you are going to do with this life. By the end of my five years here I wasn’t so quick to assume, so quick to be discouraged, so quick to throw my hands up in defeat. Slower to anger, slower to despair, slower to fear. The Lord used a place that I would naturally shy away from to refine me, subduing my faults and sharpening my virtues and talents. I can look back and see how maturity blossomed in the crammed subway rides and stressful shopping trips to Trader Joes, where lines for the check out stretched through the store, out the front door, and down the sidewalk. I can see how those tearful confrontations from dear friends—awful in the moment—showed me how to be a better friend and solidified my confidence in those relationships. I can see how being nudged ever so gently out of my comfort zone and into high stress college workloads, and deadline-oriented jobs, and lots of large social gatherings made me better. Being stretched is uncomfortable. But it’s good. The Lord is gentle in the way he teaches us. Sometimes I felt like I could not bear to live in this place one more day; it felt like too much—too many people, too much filth, TOO MUCH. But then I’d go for a walk to the Hudson River and see the sunset and the waves, or find a shady park bench in Madison Square Park, or witness a small kindness of a stranger, buying a meal for a homeless person, and I would be reminded of the Lord’s faithfulness. He was and is faithful to refresh my spirit. Faithful to provide. Faithful to give wisdom and perspective. Faithful to send people into my life. My last day in the city couldn’t have been more different than my first. My heart was calm. I spent the day with my husband, eating a leisurely brunch, strolling the Upper West Side, and then taking a nap in the sun in Central Park. We watched a kick ball game. We bought roasted nuts from a food stand. We pretended to shop at Bloomingdales but were really just looking for the bathrooms. I felt peaceful and at home, one of many thankful to have fallen in love with this place and had the privilege to call it home.
Work time munchies and consistent left-over and going-bad bananas prompted a search for this perfect quick, yummy, and healthy treat. Raw veggies, fruit, and nuts are obviously great go-to snacks, but sometimes you just really crave some baked goods! Carbs are just the best. So when I came across this little recipe on allrecipes.com I was pretty smitten. These Healthy Banana Cookies use just five ingredients, and I whipped them up in about 10 minutes late one night. They make the prefect little bites to throw in a Ziplock for a midday pick-me-up. And with no added sugar, the sweetness comes entirely from the banana and dates, so these really are guilt free cookies/snacks/treats/nibbles! You can click on the link to see the recipe on Allrecipes, and I've also posted my slight variation below. Instead of oil I used butter and also added a pinch of cinnamon. Happy baking!! Ingredients 3 ripe bananas 2 cups rolled oats 1 cup dates, pitted and chopped 1/3 cup butter 1 teaspoon vanilla extract Preheat oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). In a large bowl, mash the bananas. Stir in oats, dates, butter, and vanilla. Mix well, and allow to sit for 15 minutes. Drop by teaspoonfuls onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake for 20 minutes in the preheated oven, or until lightly brown. Viola! All done! I've never been a one book-at-a-time girl. Since I was in middle school I've always had a good three or four, sometimes more, going at a time. Obviously, it takes me a lot longer to finish each book, but I love being able to choose what to read based on how I'm feeling any given day. There's also the advantage of not having to wait until I finish one before starting another! (Especially when I'm at a boring part of one book: I’m looking at you, Goldfinch.) The past few months (months, yes sadly. I'm a ridiculously slow reader) I've been reading a really nice set of books that cover a range of topics and styles. Mixing up the types of books I read--fiction vs. non-fiction, modern vs. classic--has not only helped me learn to develop a well-rounded writing "voice" but also keeps each type fresh and interesting. Too much of any one kind (think only Jane Austen or only Cormac McCarthy) gets really old, really quickly. So, if you're looking for something new to try, why not one of my four spring books? (All titles are hyperlinked: go check them out!) The Goldfinch (Donna Tartt, Little Brown and Company, first edition 2013, 775 pp., $30) This is a mammoth book. At 775 pages it is the epitome of the classic yet modern literary novel. Donna Tartt is known for her precision and detail, her work reading almost like a photograph: every moment caught, piercing, lengthy. She is one of the best character writers I've ever read, developing deep internal lives for each one (which accounts for the page count: it takes a lot of words to do this!). I'm only about 300 pages in, and honestly, it's hard to describe what this book is "about." It's about a boy's life after he tragically loses his mom (this isn't a spoiler, by the way). It's about the 21st century in an age of terrorism. It's about New York, and family, and growing up, and loss. I know these sound like vague descriptors, but the best novels are hard to pin down for the very fact that they are about the big, vague things in life like "love" and "beauty" and "pain." In any case, it's worth the read, although I need to remind myself of that because, as I mentioned above, I'm at a boring part and I refused to go on. Must, keep, going. Not to mention, this won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2014 and was short listed for the 2013 National Book Critics Circle Award. The Road to Little Dribbling: Adventures of an American in Britain (Bill Bryson, Double Day, Penguin Random House, 2016, 400 pp., $28.95) Thanks to my dad, I've been a Bill Bryson fan for a while now. Nobody combines travel, memoir, and humor like Bryson and I sure do love him for it. This book (and his many others, by the way) is just a delight. Mainly for the fact that it is light. And we all need that sometime. However, despite the humor while frolicking across the quaintest country in the world, he delivers some piercing insights into modern Britain. He is able to lovingly critique needless bureaucracy in the government, laziness in the youth, and the alarming loss of British social mores that once lost will be lost forever. Will we lose the land of crumpets, rambling walking trails, and pubs?! Not if Bryson has anything to say about it. Food Rules: An Eater's Manual (Michael Pollan, illustrations by Maira Kalman, Penguin Random House, first edition 2011, 224 pp., $23.95) This is just a fun book. Michael Pollan is a celebrated New York Times columnist, journalist, professor, and food-writer star, best known for The Omnivore's Dilemma and, most recently, Cooked (which was also made into a four-part Netflix documentary that I highly recommend). What I loved about this book was that he tackles the question of nutrition with graceful common sense. His goal is to help bring back a more simple and healthful relationship with food. The book brings together 75 "rules" that help the reader re-think the food they eat, with the overarching mantra: "Eat food. Mostly plants. Not too much." One of my favorite rules was number 57: "If you're not hungry enough to eat an apple, then you're probably not hungry." Covering three main questions: "What should I eat?", "What kind of food should I eat?", and "How should I eat?" Pollan gives us a sensible, easy, simple way forward out of the common-place Western diet of highly processed, sugar-filled "food like substances." Make it Happen: Surrender your Fear, Take the Leap, Live on Purpose (Lara Casey, Thomas Nelson, 2015, 220 pp., $15.99) I'll be honest: I'm not normally into this kind of book. The vast majority of inspirational, self-help type of books reeks of quasi-spiritualism. But not this one. I'm only a few chapters in, but I can honestly say that this book is one of a kind. Casey has a passion for helping women live on purpose. Think about it: it's one thing that we in 21st century America are desperately seeking to do and yet more often than not failing at. The majority of Americans lives in a rushed, stressed, constantly striving lifestyle that doesn’t make them happy or feel fulfilled. Casey reminds us that we were made for a reason and that God desires for our lives to be lived for his purpose. It's been a needed kick in the pants for me: I can make what matters to me happen. There is always time for what matters. Yes, it means sacrificing other things. But if you care about it, it can happen. Exercise, cooking, quality time: you--I!--can make this happen. |
Authorwife to a med student and mama to three under three, seeking the joyful and learning to live by faith. Find me on Instagram and Pinterest or shoot me an email. I'd love to hear from you!
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