31 Days: Whatever I Want

On Fridays, I love to mess up my kitchen. It's my official day off. Although I almost always tend to a few work-related things on Fridays, I generally give myself the freedom to do very little. Mostly, I like to cook. But other than that, I don't do very much.

Or, more accurately, I do whatever I want. Because today I made two batches of brownies and a dozen cookies for the marching band's Fall Classic tomorrow. And I folded four loads of laundry. And I made a new chili recipe for dinner. That's actually a lot of stuff, just that right there. I also went grocery shopping and ran a few errands. I managed some work email. I washed some dishes.

But it was only what I wanted to do, and that makes all the difference, doesn't it?

Because what I did not want to do was take a shower, or even put on clean clothes. I pulled on dirty jeans. I'm still wearing the same shirt I wore yesterday. And I slept in that shirt.

I washed my face and brushed my teeth - because I wanted to. And this evening I used a little hairspray and put on a nice sweater and I went to watch the marching band play at the final home football game.

But I didn't put on a clean shirt.

It sort of feels like a little victory over the daily grind, you know?

I live on the edge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here's what I noticed most today; this is a REALLY good recipe! It flashed by on my Facebook feed -thanks, whoever posted it - and I thought I'd give it a try today. Delicious; spicy in a perfect-for-a-cold-night kind of way. 

And it's very, very pretty.

You're welcome.

Two-Bean-Buffalo-Chicken-Chili - find the recipe here.

31 Days: Shipping

Seth Godin writes with efficient wisdom and aplomb. He tackles topics like productivity and marketing. I follow his blog, which he updates daily.

Through his writing, I was introduced to the concept of shipping for creatives; the notion that at some point, you have to quit dilly-dallying, improving, tweaking and perfecting, and just ship. Let it go. Deliver the goods.

Here's Seth:

"Shipping is fraught with risk and danger.  

Every time you raise your hand, send an email, launch a product or make a suggestion, you're exposing yourself to criticism. Not just criticism, but the negative consequences that come with wasting money, annoying someone in power or making a fool of yourself."

Today, I shipped something - finally. And I've been dancing a little happy dance all day long.

Here's the story: The Christmas season is the bane of my existence. I hate to admit it, but putting together a series of Sunday services AND Christmas Eve is probably the hardest thing I do all year. It makes me anxious, it fills me with all sorts of unpleasant feelings, and causes people to say of me things like, "Oh, Beth hates Christmas."

I really don't.

But it does give me fits. See, Christmas means something different to everybody. Family traditions, expectations, sorrow, joy, carols, mangers, angels, candles, communion, stories...everybody has their own idea of what Christmas ought to feel like. Sound like. Look like. People have a lot of expectations at Christmas, and when they are not met, it's a big deal. Bigger than a regular Sunday experience. I feel like I can never please everybody.

But we're a creative church, and so we embrace the idea of being creative at Christmas, finding a new way to tell the old story from fresh perspectives. Incorporating the arts in relevant ways. Being authentic.

Authentic.

The second year I was involved with Christmas at my current workplace, I ran with the authentic / creative idea. We wanted to meet people where they are, and so we wrote a Christmas Eve service that was honest and raw. It was also somewhat depressing.

Because it was honest and raw.

It was called Better Days, and the stories we told wrapped around that Goo Goo Dolls song, which I'd caught on The Today Show and never forgotten. We shared moments and monologues, stories and songs of people looking for hope in midst of pain. Loss of loved ones. Divorce. Real struggles.

We answered with hope, of course; we didn't leave people hanging. It was beautiful and poignant and powerful. I was so proud of our team and thrilled that I worked in an environment where we were free to take risks to create moments.

The next day, I left town to spend some time with my brother in Chicago. I'll never forget the phone call from my boss...who told me that people were not happy with the Christmas Eve service.

And they were letting him know. They did not like Better Days. They did not like it at all.

And they were leaving the church.

They were furious. Insulted. They felt taken advantage of and hijacked. It touched emotions, but they weren't the ones we wanted to touch. They came on Christmas Eve looking for mangers and babies and swaddling clothes and angels singing, and they got pain. There was hope, but it was buried underneath a lot of dusty rawness. They did not leave feeling encouraged.

This was crushing to my boss, to my team...and to me. I had created and offered something in an effort to honor our values and the season, and I failed. In a big way. We had actually offended and hurt people.

Not a good thing for a church.

Now, later on, I did hear of people who were profoundly moved by the service; people who came for the first time that night and decided that this was a church worth coming to. They came back. There was a lady who said that she gave her life to Christ that night, because the service resonated.

So there were positive things, but they were crushed under the heels of the ones who stomped out the door and never came back.

Since then, being creative at Christmas has frightened me. I've been all those things in the Seth Godin quote: afraid of criticism, of negative consequences, of annoying my boss, of making a fool of myself. Because I got burned with Better Days, something that I'd poured my creative heart and soul into.

There's this vulnerability that comes with creativity that feels so dangerous, so shaky. You wouldn't think so, in the church; but it's there. And I've carried a huge burden every year...about Christmas.

So, yesterday I holed up in Starbucks for a long time, just soaking in the season...the story, the songs, the advent candles.

And today, I took my ideas and another couple of hours (interrupted, but that's okay) and fleshed things out. I scribbled on the white board. I got a big piece of 11 x 17 paper from the copy room and hand-wrote the entire series, using different colors and "fonts" as I wrote...making it creative. I hummed and thought and took a walk.

Finally, I bounced it off of my officemate. She understands my terror. She understands that in telling it to her, I am rehearsing telling it to The Boss. She likes it and affirms me and smiles and then we laugh a little bit and my nerves settle down.

In my weekly meeting, he says, "So what do you want to talk about?", and I unfold my 11 x 17 paper with a Christmas tree scrawled on it. I smile weakly and say, "Ta-da!" and he cheers me on.

I have a brief window to cast the vision, to get what's in my head and my heart in front of him so he can see it and hear it and decide, in a split second, whether or not he can work with it.

Halfway through, and he was still with me. I knew there was hope...

I made it the entire way through. He said, "Ummm....I like it."

Bells and whistles, people. Bells and whistles.

I don't live to please my boss, but we are creative partners, and he has to be on board for it to work. I've had some great ideas and I've had some stupid ideas. So has he. But it's October 24, and we're past the point of guessing which ideas will work. It's shipping time.

He likes it. I like it, too.

So Christmastime is here; happiness and cheer. And we have a Christmas series, a chance to tell an old story in a meaningful, relevant way. We'll be creative.

It scared the crap out of me to ship today, but I did. I walked across the hall and pitched the idea to my boss.

I shipped.

And it felt like a VERY good day.

31 Days: Leave Me Alone (Please)

Tony asked me if I'd had a good day. I affirmed that I had, and that most of it was spent alone. I said that like it was a good thing. And it was.

But I thought through that statement as I walked out of the room, and realized that it's not entirely true. It just feels like I spent most of the day by myself.

I'm not complaining. It actually feels good. A little alone time goes a long way.

I actually only had about four hours to myself. This morning I worked from home with my family moving in and out of the room. I spent another two and-a-half hours with piano students, and then another couple of hours with small group people. Tons of them. I hung out to speak with a beautiful 13-year-old who wants to be a singer, gave a kid a ride home and then got back to the house to check email and figure out what I missed.

In between all that, I had four hours to myself. I sat at a table, earbuds in, people milling all around me. First at McAllisters, over a bowl of vegetarian chili; then at Starbucks, clutching a skinny vanilla latte. I worked and focused, in and out, on a couple of major projects.

I made great progress.

And tonight, I feel energized and most happy about the fact that I had that time alone. Even though it was less than half of my work day, it feels like the biggest part of all that I did today.

I guess it's true. I have to admit it. I am, truly, an introvert.

I'm energized when I have long stretches of time by myself. I like having people around me; in fact, I think I'm most productive being alone in a busy place full of people and noise.

Weird, that. I often feel guilty about this, because I never feel like I can get anything done at the office.

Except I talk to people a lot, and I love that. So what I get done is getting to know people better. That's important, and I like that. But I don't feel like I can get focused work done on the larger projects on my plate.

If I could, I think I'd sit at Starbucks three days a week, earbuds in, getting work done.

On weeks when I have small group (two of them now) or rehearsal, I'm very "other-focused". I'm listening and looking and caring and sincerely trying to be about the other people. It feels very "giving", at the risk of sounding all uppity. But that's how it seems to work; I function in those moments as someone whose main focus is equipping other people. I wouldn't say that's necessarily hard work, but it does seem to deplete my resources somewhat.

So I really like being all by myself. I think it helps me get my work done. It seems to energize me.

I think that makes me sort of weird. So I try to be more normal, and work some in the office. Except I don't get my work done.

Somehow it balances out. I'm just thankful for my job, and the flexibility, and the opportunity to help people. Balance is the name of the game.

31 Days: Making Art

This was the day in which much mercy was revealed.

And grace.

And there was beauty, as well; along with a change of scenery, a new perspective and thoughts of shadows and light.

My creative team meets each Tuesday. We plan services - song ideas, skits, videos, transitions. It's fun and challenging and the best job in the world, but for a creative person, it can be exhausting. The every seven days cycle is inescapable. I have no fight in me for those who would say that the liturgy is pointless, that a set plan for worship lacks creativity or meaning. I respect and admire and have worshiped sincerely in a liturgical service. But our calling in this season is to do things a bit differently - not better, just different - and so we stretch ourselves creatively to find ways to connect Truth and Beauty and Grace and Jesus to a room full of people who are often longing for some vibrant, meaningful encounter that they have missed in other contexts.

Context is everything. And sometimes, we forget. We get in a rut. We see things the way we've always seen them. We forget to be surprised.

We forget what it's like to not know something.

So today, I took my team on a surprise journey. We piled into the Big Red Suburban (I felt like their mother, rather than their leader...) and we found ourselves at Sunshine, Art and Lessons, where my friend Shelly Crawford was waiting for us. She gave us a brief overview of how to use the tools she provided. She gave us paper.

We sat around the table and it felt like kindergarten again. Except, not really; because instead of a five-year-old's joy and anticipation of "getting to color", there was a sad undercurrent of insecurity.

"I can't draw."

There we were, a table full of highly creative and talented people, suddenly stilled by fear that we couldn't do art.

(At least I felt that way.)

(And I know I wasn't alone.)

But Shelly was gentle and kind, and she told us how to look at an apple but not really look at an apple, to simply look at an object. To squint and look for the dark and the light. And then to circle the darkness, to wrap the charcoal around the shadows.

Our teacher.

"Make it dark first. Then pull the light out."

It was all about the eraser. And the metaphors; oh, the richness of this creative process and the raw parts of simply being human and alive.

"Don't worry about making a mark that you think is wrong. There is no wrong. It simply becomes part of what you are creating. Just blend it in and keep going."

This is deeply resonant for me this week. And I noticed this; that I have to be reminded, sometimes in blindingly painful ways, of the need to surrender to the process.

Whether drawing an apple with charcoal or sketching a life.

Surrender.

A man and his apple.

Ben colored outside the lines and broke the rules. It was beautiful.

Ben and Elijah.

The finished products.

My team. I love these people.

31 Days: Treasure

Today I noticed a man who marries a woman with five kids moved to the point of tears when speaking words of affirmation and encouragement regarding one of those said kids.

Such a man is a treasure.

31 Days: A Nap

It was a beautiful day in central Virginia. Our church gathering was wonderful.

The sky was blue, the leaves are on fire.

After church (which is, for me, also work. Which is, for me, always a bit odd...) we spent some family time in the kitchen. My girls set off for Harrisonburg and we went outside for a bit.

Sunday afternoon naps are a rare luxury; I take one every chance I get. Today, I did a bit of work while the football game was on (go Steelers!) and began to doze off. Eventually, I gave up; put the laptop down and curled into a corner of the chair. The football game continued; the phone rang; the door slammed.

I napped.

When I awoke, I had a quick flashback of Sunday afternoons in the late 70's and early 80's. The football game would be on and I'd be stretched out on the floor with one of the oversized pillows my folks kept for that very purpose. Every Sunday, it seemed, I'd sleep on the floor; I would have stayed up late watching Saturday Night Live, gotten up to sing in the church choir and ended up "exhausted".

(My teenaged self had no idea what exhaustion was...)

My husband believes in naps. When he takes one, he goes into the bedroom and closes the door.

Me, I take my naps on the couch or the chair. I don't do the floor much anymore; hardwood doesn't have the same allure as a nice, thick-pile shag. But I park myself in a noisy place, a central location where I can hear my people move in and out of the afternoon. Of course, it doesn't end up being much of a nap...but I think I appreciate and enjoy it more, because I'm essentially awake while I nap. And therefore more appreciative of the nap.

And that makes no sense at all.

But that's the truth.

Am I the only weird one who prefers napping in the midst of a bunch of noise?

The afore-mentioned husband and me, before the napping began.
It was a beautiful day.

31 Days: Life Goes On

This morning I woke up early (for a Saturday) and made bacon and eggs for David and one of his friends. We heated up the pumpkin bread that I'd made yesterday. We had a big pot of coffee.

It was a very nice morning; it moved slowly. The air is cool, the leaves are littering the yard. The cat sits pensively, staring into the distance. I move from basement to bedroom, through the kitchen, into the hallway. There are clothes to wash, dust to collect, dishes to dry. I multi-tasked and threw together an apple crisp with the tart, tangy Granny Smiths we brought home from Carter Mountain last week. The house smelled good.

Later in the day two of my daughters came crashing through the door. It is good that their university is an easy, two-hour route through the mountains and a gentle interstate highway. My mom walked in an hour later, and we all piled into her car.

There's a traveling Brides Against Breast Cancer bridal gown show in town, and Shannon felt sure she would be able to find something she liked.

She did.

So today, I made bacon and eggs, and apple crisp, and then when we got back home I gave this new recipe a try and we had potato soup for dinner. It was amazing, if I do say so myself.

And I do.

So, today, we bought a wedding dress. And I cooked a lot.

And what did I notice today?

There was this: In spite of a wonderful day, a memory-making day, a day full of rich family connections and delicious food and notable aromatic atmospheres, it was difficult to be fully present. Sometimes, when I get a very good night's sleep (like eight full hours, after a week of only five or six per night), I cling and claw through a peculiar fog all day long. No amount of coffee clears it. Today felt like such a day. Underneath every beautiful thing was a clingy molasses, a tinge of something slow and sad in spite of all the beauty.

And I felt guilty, and sorrowful.

But then it occurred to me; perhaps this is not a particularly notably bad thing. There is a point, I guess, when all the jumping and shrieking and overflowing effervescence belongs to the bride who simply cannot stop beaming because she loves the way she feels in a beautiful wedding gown. Or to the sister, who is literally jumping up and down, babbling about getting her cartilage pierced and her hands on some diet Pepsi. Maybe to the grandmother, who walks through this new experience with a calm wisdom and a happy smile. To the assembled group in the kitchen who drink down the rich soup and say, "Yes. Yes, Mom. This is good." and then tear out the door in search of another adventure. There is still great, precious value to a day when someone carries the joy. It doesn't always have to be me.

Sometimes I just get to watch, and take it all in.

We are given these days and these moments, and regardless of our focus, our distractions and our attitudes, time marches on. Joy and wonder slip into the cracks somewhere in the room. We buy dresses and cook meals and clean kitchens and good music seeps into our ears; and whether we are surrounded by friends and family or left sitting alone in an empty, soup-strewn kitchen,

life
goes
on.

I guess thought I'd start this post with a doleful attitude, some measure of regret that an entire day has moved by with me being somewhat preoccupied. But here I am, at the end of the post, and I think perhaps I have discovered more gratitude than sorrow. Life goes on, indeed, and we are blessed to reach out and catch hold of the things that are precious - whether mundane or momentous.

Today, I made good food, and my daughter found her wedding dress. Simple and complex, mundane and extravagant. There are many things, beautiful and true, that I hold in my hands; many people who surround me. Three strong daughters, two talented sons full of promise, a sturdy, handsome husband, extended family.

Life goes on.

This is grace.