Seeking His Truth Above It All!

“Just when I think I’ve reached the center of my heart, I inevitably discover inside myself whole worlds and galaxies that terrify me." –Audrey Assad

I’m getting ready to move to a new state in a few weeks… and I’m afraid.

I’m not afraid because I think I’m making the wrong decision. Actually, I haven’t felt so much peace about a decision in a very long time. (Which might be a good reason to be terrified all its own.)

I’m afraid, because what if it happens again?

What happens if I go somewhere and I come up empty?

I’m afraid of walking away empty handed again. Heck, I wouldn’t even be walking away from it. I’d be basking adrift in sheer empty handedness, just as I have here these last few years.

Nothing in Nashville turned out like I thought it would. I didn’t land the perfect job (whatever I thought that once was), nor did I even come close to it. I didn’t meet my dream guy, I didn’t find a community, and I connected with very little that met me on a soul level. It’s been okay, but it’s been hard.

I think that somehow describes the last two years of my life here. ‘It’s been okay, but it’s been hard,’ and that’s really where the struggle lies for me. For as hard as things have been, there have also been things that have made me okay. People and moments that have steadied my heart and breathed much needed calm into the chaos.

My roommates, who have become some of the closest friends I’ve ever had, and who’ve embraced my journey every messy step of the way.  My current place of employment, which has given me more practice at loving people and pursuing leadership than my last three jobs combined, and the people there who’ve both taught and tested me in all the best ways. Small moments where God reminded me that I wasn’t abandoned here. A person, a flower, a sunset, even a southern rainstorm.

It’s an odd mix of fears, I suppose. The fear that life will disappoint me again, while fearing that things will never be as ‘good’ as they are right now. It’s the fear of plateauing at twenty-four with no idea of what my life is supposed to look like. If there’s really a book in me, let alone another blog. If I’ll ever have a family of my own or be stuck fighting the same old ghosts 'till the day I die. If there are other people who long for relationship as deeply as I do. If there is even a calling on my life at all.

"Sharing your weakness or experience doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.” –Kelli Segars

It was while my roommate and I quietly drove into town for coffee yesterday morning, plugging our Sunday vibes into some classic U2, that my mind pressed play on a montage of my decision to move to Tennessee, and all the faults in my reason. I was running from my problems (mostly my pride), not realizing that your problems don’t move just because you do.  All I wanted to do was prove that I could overcome, prove that I could make something of myself.

Two years and a lot of grace later, I could care less if I ever “make” something of myself. I’ve realized in time that our stories aren’t about what we did, but who we became.

I don’t like who I’ve been becoming here, and I’m willing to embrace a new level of hard to be more than just “okay.”

There’s a movie called “Room” that came out last year. I won’t give away too much (RedBox it–it’ll screw you up good), but the story revolves around a young mother and her five-year-old son named Jack who’ve been held captive in a garden shed called 'Room’ for several years. Jack has never been been outside Room, having been raised in it, but as he gets older, his mother begins to tell him all about the magical world that awaits the both of them just outside its walls.

When the two finally escape, his mother discovers that the world she promised her son isn’t the world she was once familiar with. Her parents have divorced, her mother has moved on, her friends have grown up, and everything is different. It wasn’t magical, and it certainly wasn’t what she expected.

Jack explains that because the two of them don’t know what their world is supposed to look like anymore, that his mother says they should “try everything” to see what they like. Cheeseburgers, ice skating, gardening, whatever they want to do. Over time, the two discover that there is still beauty in the world that lies outside Room–it took the two of them creating a new normal to find it.

I go into a new city with so many dreams and aspirations. Things I hope to do, see, accomplish, uncover, etc. It’s silly of me then, to walk into this new world expecting fearing it to look like my old world, even my current world, when all I need to do in order to combat my fears is walk into it ready to create new magic, something better than “okay,” a new normal.

Life may not be what I expect it to be going in, but if I’m willing to try, it can be so much more.

I think Jesus was a feminist.

Really. I think He was.

More on this in a minute…

I think modern day feminism has lost the plot. Feminism used to be about women having the same abilities as men and being able to use them freely. It wasn’t about “rights” we had to try and “earn,” but a freedom that was always there and deserved to be implemented.

These days, feminism “earns its rights” by taking them away from men. It’s allowing women to live independently apart from the opposite sex in a we-don’t-need-you-to-be-happy philosophy, and that’s really where the issue begins.

Example: I went out to grab a case of bottled water the other night from Trader Joes. I went in only for the water, so I skipped grabbing a grocery cart and decided to carry the case both to the register and the car. If anything, it gave me an excuse to flex my muscles and burn some extra calories.

Over the course of my five minutes trek through the store, I had two or three male cashiers run and offer me aid, to which I politely declined. Each asked if they could either grab me a cart or carry the water for me. None of them disputed when I said ‘no,’ they respectfully let me on my way and told me to have a nice evening.  

The next day, I told a friend what had happened, and how I thought their willingness to assist was both a sweet and gentlemanly gesture.

“I dunno, I consider myself feminist,” my friend shrugged, “and I would have been upset.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’re capable of doing it by yourself. They shouldn’t have even asked.”

I thought about that comment through the course of my day, you know, 'cause I tend to overthink things until they wind up here for all the world to read. I came to a striking conclusion: Could it be that the rise we’re seeing in Peter Pan Syndrome is a direct result of the feminist movement?

This isn’t a groundbreaking idea. I’m sure there are 9,000 internet studies out there I don’t have the time or the attention to stop and read. It’s just that I HAVE to wonder if women wanting the responsibility of men has something to do with men not feeling the need to step up anymore. The reason why men are afraid to commit in relationships or live audacious, authentic lives of self-sacrifice and leadership. The women want it so badly, why not let them have it, right?

But IS it right?

I’m all for women’s rights. I like voting, working, and wearing pants. I like knowing that I have the freedom to be able to carry my own water and be able to nicely tell people I can do it myself. It’s a healthy freedom that should belong to ALL people, whether they are men, women, black, white, disabled, or have chicken legs.

The problem, is that the pro-woman figure we once fought for has spawned into this big, ugly Alpha woman. The kind that says we shouldn’t have men asking to hold our water for us because it’s asserting dominance over our sex, when really, all they’re doing is exercising their basic right as men to lead us with kindness, and we consistently decline it for all the wrong reasons.

That’s why I think Jesus was a feminist.

I say that, because I think Jesus was pro-women. He wanted women to follow Him, He allowed them a distinct place in His ministry, and most importantly, they carried a very special place His heart. In a culture that looked down upon, even murdered the harlots and whores, Jesus publicly sat and dined with them. He encouraged them, embraced them, and told them their destinies were greater than their pasts.

While we can go deeper and get into the whole “woman in leadership” debate (another time, another place), there is no denying that God’s heart towards women is huge, and that He ultimately calls women to do things that can and will shape the course of history. Where would many biblical heroines be if it were for their bravery? (Esther? Rahab? Mary? The OTHER Mary?)

The world today is not pro-women. It’s pro-allowing women to do lots of crazy things, but certainly not pro-women. It’s backwards and objectifying. It tells women they have worth, yes, but also how they have the right to step on people to prove it, or that they are fearfully and wonderfully made, and how they ought to flaunt it for the rest of the world to see.

Being pro-women isn’t showing off your buttcrack on Instagram.

I care too deeply about the role of men in society to see it reduced to providing sperm and earning paychecks, and it rattles me to the core knowing that we as women might be playing a part in the steady decline of men and soaring catapult of boys.

I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own water, but you’d best be sure if a guy offers to carry it for me, I’m going to thank him and let him know that his leadership is meaningful. And there are gonna be times when I’m too tired to carry the darn water, and when he offers to carry it for me, I’m gonna give him the privilege of doing so.

The producers from the TV show “Nashville” came to film at the coffee shop last week. Which if you’ve never seen the show, is nothing like actually living in Nashville. Unless you only listen to country music and think The Bluebird Cafe is where all the celebrities hang out. Not the point. (BTW, Keith Urban prefers Starbucks.)

Along with the crew’s arrival, came one of the first real weeks of spring the city has seen since, well, last spring ended. (Funny how that works.) To commemorate both the shoot and the upbeat change in weather, my boss livened up the store with a few cheery spring items, including decorations, dollies, and a bouquet of beautiful, brightly colored flowers. The main centerpiece for our celebration of all things spring, we placed them directly by the register so everyone who came in could admire them.

Funny thing about working in food service: When it gets busy, small things are forgotten quickly.

You know. Small things. The neon “OPEN” sign wasn’t turned on… you left that one guy’s grilled cheese on the panini press for twenty minutes… oh, and we forgot to water the flowers every day.

I came in to open the shop at 5:00 am a few mornings ago, only to be met by a vase full of crusty, brown, drooping flowers.

They looked a lot like I do when I finish my morning workout.

I didn’t want to throw the flowers away, mostly because I didn’t want my boss to get upset. In a last ditch effort to try and save the remaining flowers, I trimmed them down, pruned the mushy stems, and moved them into a smaller Mason Jar with a cup of fresh, cold water. By the end of my shift that afternoon, not only were the flowers the main attraction again, but standing straighter and perkier than ever.

“Wow,” I smiled and pointed to a few of my co-workers, “it’s amazing what some fresh water can do for dead flowers!”

I hate it when I unintentionally say spiritually relevant things.

I got a job in Boise, Idaho. I start in a few weeks. I’m leaving Nashville at the start of May.

There’s more I could say, and SO much more I’d love to be able share, and I know in time, after I’ve caught my breath and I’m able to process the rate at which life is changing, I’ll be able to do a much better job of that. (God knows I’ve been sitting here racking my brain for days on how to blog about this and you’re already stuck reading a pointless prologue on my job and a stupid TV show.)

In the meantime, as I’ve prayed for days on end for God to give me some profound thought or supernatural perception, I messed with some dead flowers.

These last several months were very personally unhealthy. Spiritually. I was spent. My goal to try and blog once a week fell flat after January when I realized I was trying to expel words I just didn’t have inside me. At least, not without forcing them out, and I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t be an Ex-Lax blogger. (That’s a terrible analogy. Don’t use that analogy. Don’t be like me.)

I was depressed, lonely, and soul sick for something new to appear, for fresh soil to present itself. I think sometimes, God momentarily allows us to hit the place where we give up on what our hearts long for. Without hopelessness, we’d have pretty crappy grasp on the concept of gratitude.

New chapters aren’t easy. For all the redemption and beauty they offer, every blind step comes with its own set of fears, losses, and desperate need for faith. All of which I’m experiencing and then some. New soil is worth it, but it tests us. Both who we are, and what we claim we believe.

I had this cool thought yesterday: When you think of your favorite movies and TV shows (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T SAY “NASHVILLE”), what makes them great isn’t so much the concept, as it is the characters involved. The quirks and personalities that tug at our hearts are the people who morph a clever idea and turn it into something far more–a GREAT story. You slowly fall in love with who somebody is becoming, you root for and believe in them and want to see them succeed at whatever they’re setting out to do. 

I want that to be that to be me again. I wanna believe in the person I’m becoming. I don’t want the “what” in my story to mean more to me than the “who” I’m becoming.  

It’s time for the barren places to find life again.

I’ve been known to make bizarre decisions based on nonexistent realities.

For example: My hair.

For the past two years, I’ve been telling myself I can’t cut my hair. Because if I wind up making eye contact with a cute guy who loves Jesus at a coffee shop somewhere and he walks up and is all like “did you see Spider Man in the new Civil War trailer and BTW wanna get married?”, I want my hair long in our wedding pictures.

This is Sarah Logic.

I’ve been told by hairdressers for years that my hair is, for lack of a better–or less offensive–word, ‘memorable.’  I’ve toyed with the idea of cutting it for awhile. I’ve even skirted around it by getting the occasional longer-than-usual trim every couple months. Fact is though, in the last 24 months, I’ve fried the crap out of my hair with hot tools and mutilated it with various red dyes. Not only is it memorable, it’s unhealthy. Heavy duty, organic treatments I’ll pay an arm and a leg for leave it soft, but nothing fixes the damage that’s still there afterwards.

It’s not a matter of “I should probobly cut it” anymore. It’s more like, “How SOON can I cut it?”

Yet I don’t. Because what if I get married?

I worked an (almost) 10 shift at my job a few days ago. It was long, busy, and exhausting. Halfway through the day, I was miserably cranky and fed up with asking people “what size” iced coffee they wanted.

It was while I was scurrying through the kitchen delivering an order that my attention was drawn to the Pandora station we were currently listening to in the store. Namely, “Here Comes The Sun” by The Beatles.

“OH! This song reminds me of The Parent Trap!” one of my co-workers exclaimed.

I saw that movie 3,907 times over the course of my childhood. I never remembered that song being in the movie.

I Googled it. She was right.

I hate when that happens.

In the moment, the song struck a particularly different memory.

Little over a year ago, me and six band guys were traveling the world by van to play small, sold out acoustic shows across the country. We had four beds, no heat, and hardly slept. It was one of those moments in life I knew I’d someday look back on fondly. 

Key word there being 'someday.' 

I’d eventually miss the ghettomobile with the broken axle we temporarily called home, but when it’s February and it’s 9 degrees outside and you’re shoving a space heater next to the empty space by your feet as you try to fall asleep on the bench next to the door, you don’t have a tendency to miss much. Except maybe heat. And beds. And normal life.

One morning in-particular, I woke up before 5:00 am and couldn’t fall back asleep. Usual for the rough, overnight drives we made. I’d normally hop into the passengers seat and watch the uneventful view zoom beside us as I’d slowly drift off for another 30 minutes of not-so-peaceful sleep. Turns out one of the band guys had already been sitting there for an hour, recording the darkness through the windshield on his iPhone.

“I’m making a time-lapse of the sunrise.”

He wasn’t kidding. He sat there for several hours trying to catch the sherbet colored sunrise over the barren West Texas plains. Once we finally got to the church where the band was playing that evening, we groggily slogged our way into catering for breakfast and listened as said band member attempted to perfectly loop his time-lapse footage to the chorus of “Here Comes The Sun” in order to make the perfect 15 second Instagram video.

He did this for two hours.

TWO HOURS.

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY TIMES YOU CAN LISTEN TO “HERE COMES THE SUN” IN TWO HOURS?!

(Don’t find out.)

He finally perfected the video. It got whooping 147 likes. We celebrated with coffee.

“Should I try it again tomorrow?!” he asked.

I told him I wanted the passengers seat back.

That memory hadn’t crossed my mind once until that unsuspecting moment standing in the coffee shop.

I briefly excused myself to the bathroom… and I started to cry.

Maybe it was hunger, maybe it was being on my feet for nearly seven hours, or maybe it was the rude lady who had just asked me to re-make her bagel because the last one was “too done,” but something in me was triggered and I was hysterical.

It took me a week to chew on it. As the days passed, I began to understand that I wasn’t crying because I was sad. I was crying because it was just that–a memory. Not something I regretted, or missed, or wanted to do again, but a portion of life I’ll forever get to cherish for what it was.

I suddenly felt ready. Ready to move on, to look back on the hard times and see them as sweet memories. I knew what I’ve known deep down for a long time…

I need to let go of some dead things.

I’m currently 1,600 away from home, staying with some of my closest friends in Boise while I prayerfully consider the possibility of moving to town in order to be closer to an authentic community. I explained to one of those friends several mornings ago how frustrating it’s been to have well-meaning acquaintances continue to tell me to hold out hope for finding that same kind of fulfillment where I am.

“Sometimes, being a Christian means you just need to grit your teeth and bare it,” one acquaintance said. “That’s what God wants.”

Is it?

I know there are, and always will be, seasons where God asks us to do things we don’t want to do. Heck, that was basically 2015. However, part of me thinks 'grit your teeth and bare it’ is a false, if not hopelessly damaging theology.

I’ve said it before, but I’m NOT condoning that you always jump ship when times get tough and the commitments you’ve made get too hard. It may not be time to change the soil, but time to get to soil that is heather. (Please don’t file divorce papers today because 'Sarah said it was okay.’ Seriously.)

Still, when it comes to matters of living life more abundantly, I have to wonder if God gives us more grace than we realize.

I shook my head as my friend’s car barreled down the street and I took a sip of warm coffee.

“I know it depends on the scenario,” I sighed,  "but I think God says it’s sometimes okay to let go of dead things.“

My own words smacked me like a sack of bricks. Maybe five of them. Across my face.

Life comes and goes in seasons. In harvest seasons, plants produce fruit. In dormant seasons, they wither away and come back again when the climate is right. Then there are seasons when, frankly, the plant dies, and it’s not coming back. You can spray the crap out of the thing with organic chemical treatments, but no matter what you do, and no matter how much you grit your teeth and bare it, the thing is NOT coming back to life,  and it never will.

Perhaps because it’s not supposed to.

I cut my hair.

Like, a lot.

It’s not all gone, but all the dead stuff is. The gross looking dry crap that kept me from running a brush straight through it after every shower for the last two years–completely GONE.

And I learned something.

I’ve given up on holding onto things when I know I’m supposed to let them go.

I haven’t given up on meeting my husband or taking wedding pictures (even if it’s not over Spider-Man at a coffee shop.) I haven’t given up on any of the dreams God has placed in me. I know I’m gonna see them one day if I keep mustering up the stupid amount of faith it takes to see beautiful things unfold.

One of my friends posted a list of 2016 resolutions to achieve on Facebook.

At the very top of her list: “Master eyebrows on fleek.”

I think her eyebrows are already pretty fleek. (Fleek is a good thing, right? Cause if it is, they’re the fleekiest.)

I’m not against setting personal goals when it comes to starting the new year on a different foot. In fact, among my top areas to work on this year is “take better care of myself.” Stop biting my nails, workout at least every other day, get regular haircuts, etc.  It’s not selfish to treat ourselves better. I’d go as far as to say not enough of us do. We can get so busy trying to save the world, that we lose track of ourselves in the process.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting perfect eyebrows. Let’s not forget one of my 2015 goals was “learn how to wing my eyeliner” (hashtag NAILED IT), but I fear our highest priorities are quickly placing the temporary over the eternal.

We’ve become more about how we look, and less about how we live.

I have trust issues.

This isn’t a secret. It’s not even a surprise. This is something I’ve noticed about myself for many years, but only recently felt ready to acknowledge. Because really, you can’t get well until you’re ready to admit you’re sick.

I’ve been hurt a lot in the past. From growing up in a broken home, to being bullied throughout adolescence, to making some less-than-wise choices when it comes to former relationships, to things I’ve said and done to beat myself up in the past.

After awhile, your best defense against pain is to develop a thick skin. It’s much like flinching after a paper cut or the immediate resistance after stepping too close to an open flame. You withdraw. You stop trusting altogether. You love until it feels comfortable, but stop before it gets dangerous.

When you stop trusting, you tend to overthink things. It takes you longer to answer simple questions. You wonder why someone would invite you to their kid’s birthday party. Surely it was a mercenary invitation. They feel sorry for you, right? Why else would they want you there? Same with dinner dates or phone conversations or holiday get-togethers. While there is always a deep level gratitude for being included, there is also always that small shield you leave raised on the inside, the one continually echos: “you’re not wanted.”

I was recently invited to dinner with some former co-workers.

The scenario played out as it always does. I was immediately grateful and excited, but the wheels started turning, and I began overthinking it.

“It’s a mistake… they don’t really want me there… maybe they didn’t mean to invite me… me being there will make it awkward…”

I went back and forth for almost 48 hours before finally sitting down at my computer and preparing to respond with a no-good “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

But something funny happened.

As I heard that familiar echo–the one telling me how unwanted I was–I felt from deep inside me a surge of bravery, rising to finally say what I’ve so desperately wanted to say to those echos for the longest time…

YOU’RE WRONG.

I RSVP'ed yes. I’m really looking forward to it.

Our worship leader said something compelling during church tonight.

“I can’t allow myself to trust God wholly if I don’t allow myself to know God fully.”

Wow.

‘Known’ is a powerful word to me. It holds a lot of meaning, and an abundance of weight. I have it tattooed on my freaking foot for goodness sake.

So when my cynical heart carries the burden of distrust, not only am I keeping myself from knowing anybody… I’m keeping myself from being known.

And that stuff will preach.

I’ve allowed the shield to keep me from loving dangerously for far too much of my life.

In 2016, I want to learn how to trust again.

I want to lean in despite the past, and regardless of the future. I want to say “yes” to the risk of being open. I want to know people and allow them to know me back, messiness and all. I want to worry less about motives and trust God’s plan for my life. I want to believe I’m as loved as I’m told I am.

Because I AM loved. You and I. We ARE loved.

And that doesn’t make us immune to pain, because the reality is, even in our bravery, there will still be times when we’re hit by arrows and it hurts like hell. The beauty of our bravery lies in staying open long enough to find those people who will run to help nurse our wounds, the people who will hold our hands when we ache the most, and walk with us when we’re ready to stand up again. The people who desire to know us.

I’ve been devouring the words of Donald Miller lately.

It started when severeal friends suggest I pick up Blue Like Jazz, and before long, I found myself snapping up copies of everything he’s ever written on Amazon for six cents + $5.90 S+H. (I’m logical li'dat.)

In several of his recent works, he touches on what he calls the earthy void–a kind of gnawing loneliness that can’t be fixed this side of heaven because nothing on earth can or ever will fix it. The hole he’s talking about in this sense is our soul reminding us that we’re meant for more that what this world offers. It’s the longing for eternity and communion with God Himself, the day when Christ will draw us close and make all things right again.

We often use earthy relationships to try and fill that hole within us, when the truth of the matter is, even other humans can’t satisfy our need for completeness. The only thing those kinds of relationships can do, is help us walk through the loneliness together. To have someone with whom we can walk hand in hand, someone who understands the hollowness we’re feeling and wants to experience it together.

The concept sounds rather morbid and depressing when it’s put into digestible terms (Lord knows I’m not going to attempt to be half the creative genius Donald Miller is), but really,it’s a valid assessment.

I can count on one hand the number of people in my life who fully grasp this kind of earthly loneliness. Friends I’ve spoken with who, much like me, tend to feel completely alone in a sea of people. I’m thankful for those friends. They’re the kind of folks I want to be doing life with, those who know that we can’t fix each other, but we can make it through together till everything is made new again.

It basically kicks co-dependency in the face and makes relationship more about partnership than it does perfection.

However.

I’ve been feeling especially burdened as of late with this whole loneliness concept.

While I have friends who get it, they also happen to be friends who live thousands of miles away, in towns I don’t get to visit every single day. 

It hit me out of nowhere like a ton of bricks at work this morning. I couldn’t explain it. I felt so bitterly, disgustingly lonely, and it’s not because there weren’t good people around me, because there were. In that moment, the only thing I desperately wanted was to be near a community of people who understand what it means to be alone together, and make the reality of our emptiness an adventure while we’re here.

I suddenly wanted the hug from a friend who believes in my story, regardless of how chaotic and nonsensical as it may be is. I wanted the gentle kiss of a lover who knows what it’s like to want more and hold each other close. I wanted the understanding of a mentor who knows what it’s like to hurt so much and be able to say that life, regardless of temporary suck factor, gets better.

I stood there. Behind the register. Ringing up coffee. For no reason, ready to cry.

I excused myself to the restroom had gave myself a quick moment. A few warm, wet tears slid down my cheeks. I quickly blotted them dry, being careful not to smudge the eyeliner I spent 20 minutes trying to wing perfectly that morning so I’d be able to face the world with confidence.

I began to ask God why it was necessary for me to feel so lonely. I didn’t expect an answer, really. It was more like one of those prayers we pray to make God feel guilty about the unjust act He’s committing against us.

Even back at the register as I rang up several more drinks, the thought wouldn’t escape my mind.

“God, You know how badly I want to be around other people who understand this. Why is it that I have to be by myself in this?”

It was while I was brewing a fresh pot of medium roast that the sudden epiphany struck. 

In some seasons, loneliness is a gift.

We often pray for God to set us in community. Thing is though, it’s not just about "community.” We don’t need more warm bodies, we need more open hearts.

It’s better to be by yourself than with the wrong crowd.

And in all my prayers that God would make me less lonely while I wait for Him to lead me to a place where I don’t have to be lonely all alone, God reminds me that solitary loneliness only makes community loneliness all the less lonely when you’re finally together. That even though I want the hug and don’t have it, or how I want the kiss and still haven’t got it, or how I want the leader to tell me it’s alright and have yet to hear it, it’s okay. 

Those things will come, and one day, they’re gonna be great.

Right now, I’ve been given the chance, the gift. The invitation from Christ Himself that whispers quietly "Can this just be you and Me?”

Maybe He’ll have something to tell the world once He’s through teaching me. 

Hi.

We’ve never met. We probably never will. You’re famous and play football sometimes and I’m not famous and I type words onto a computer screen sometimes.

I also make not-fat, no foam cappuccinos for upper class white people for roughly 32 hours each week.

‘Nuther story.

So I hear you got dumped.

I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry.

I don’t take broken hearts lightly. I hate sadness. I wish I could give every sad person in the world a hug and a bowl of ice cream and a puppy. Those things may not be able to fix broken hearts, but they sure can serve as a placebo while the healing begins.

I’ve had my heart broken a few times before. It sucks.

Never by a guy though. Guys don’t ask me out.

‘Nuther story.

Rumor has it she broke up with you because you’re saving yourself for marriage and she couldn’t get past it.

She left you because she didn’t want to wait to have sex with you.

SHE LEFT YOU BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T WANT TO WAIT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU.

That’s crappy. That’s really, really freaking crappy.

And I’m happy for you.

I’m extremely happy for you.

Not because I’m some diehard fangirl who hopes you’ll somehow see this and think of me as a suitable replacement (regardless of what my mother says), but because from the bottom of my heart… you’re worth more than that.

You’re worth more than a girl who refuses wait for you.

See, I talk a lot about love on this internets thing. Which means I tend to get a lot of messages from people–mostly young girls–who are in relationships with guys who are pressuring them for sex. Some of them succumb, some of them don’t. Most of the time, they’re asking what I think about the situation, wondering if they should stay with them, and if having sex (when they really aren’t ready to) is actually such a bad thing.

You know what I tell them?

I can’t make their decision for them. It’s not my job, and honestly, it’s not my right.

I do, however, ask them a question.

“What are you settling for?”

Who are you with whom you love so much, that can’t love you enough in return to respect your boundaries?

Men worth being with don’t pressure their girlfriends into sex when they want to wait.

Men worth being with don’t force their girlfriends to do anything they are even slightly uncomfortable with. EVER.

That’s what makes him a man worth being with.

And maybe he has a history. Maybe he’s made mistakes. Maybe he’s had sex with 10 other girls before them. Maybe they’re not sure how to feel about that.

We mustn’t forget that who somebody was yesterday does NOT have to dictate who they choose to be today.

Regardless of who he’s been, and in light of who he’s becoming, if he loves her, he’s still going to wait for her.

Love isn’t angry, nor is it conceded or self-seeking.

Love is patient, and love is kind.

Some famous prisoner said that once. Maybe you’ve heard of him.

I think you’re worth more than a girl who isn’t wiling to wait for you.

I think you’re worth a girl who sees that and celebrates it.

You’re worth a girl who shares your passions and encourages them, who drives you to be a stronger man than you were yesterday, who would never ask you to compromise your beliefs, but challenges herself to keep you growing in them.

Love sees a greater need and lies down its own agenda.

I’m waiting like you’re waiting, and if your reason for waiting is anything like the reason I’m waiting, it’s because you know your body was created for a covenant and promise.

So of course you understand how when you’re single, and the days start to feel lonely, and you wonder if anyone will ever care for you like you hope they will, it’s tempting to forget why you’re so selective in the first place.

And let’s be real: It never sucks to get attention.

“What are you settling for?”

What DO we settle for?

Perhaps I’m crazy, but I don’t want to settle for anybody. Not anymore.

I’m not talking about high and lofty expectations being met (nobody is perfect), but man, I just wanna be with someone who inspires me to be a better person each and every day. Someone who helps me to be a better friend, a better daughter, a better lover, a better fighter, a better everything.

Especially a better child of God.

God knows I need all the help I can get.

I know your heart is still hurting. No amount of double-spaced cliches and encouragement can make the sting go away. I only hope to let you know that I’m proud of you. Lots of us are, and those who aren’t at the very least darn sure respect you. Even if they’re too scared to admit it.

Keep on keepin’ on.