Yearbooks, Passion and the Way God Made Me

At my high school, we received our annual yearbooks the fall following each school year. So, I didn’t get my hands on the book that commemorated my freshman year of high school until the fall of my sophomore year. That was annoying in a pre-Facebook era, when we were anxious to see who was featured on the most pages and which embarrassing photos made it to print.

But it could also prove awkward when deciding what – and how much – to write when signing certain people’s books. After all, the summer was long. Three months was plenty of time to fight with your best friend, break up with your boyfriend, fall in love with a new friend or boyfriend, or completely forget how awesomely you bonded with your chem lab partner.

I’ll be the first to admit that my high school years – while certainly full of the typical adolescent angst – were in many ways blessed. I had (for the most part) the same group of great friends throughout all four years, and my now-husband was my only boyfriend. But that didn’t stop me from experiencing – or, in some cases, creating – drama. Oh, no, it didn’t.

For several years, starting in junior high and ending much later than I want to admit, I had a crush on a certain boy in my class. And in our freshman year, we sat next to each other in one of our classes and developed a friendship.

[Of course it was a friendship. I was definitely the girl who was considered a friend.]

We were pretty close. Or, at least, I thought we were. So when it came time to sign yearbooks the next fall, I took his book to class with me. Because I needed more time for signing than the three minutes between bells allowed.

A couple hours later, we met up to return each other’s books. Immediately, I flipped through my already-worn pages to find what he’d written. As I saw the two lines that likely included the words “stay cool” or “You’re so smart…and a great friend,” my heart sank.

I would have given my Dean Cain locker poster to take back what I’d done. Because I had covered an ENTIRE PAGE in my friend’s book.

Ack! I knew the rules. Entire pages were reserved for best friends and actual girlfriends. The girl you exchanged notes with in English class but had no real interest in dating? She had a four-line limit and should really keep it the margins of the less-important pages. You know, perhaps the pages dedicated to French Club or future business leaders? But definitely not the one blank page inside the back cover.

So embarrassing.

But, honestly, not so unusual for me. I have always tended to fall hard and fast for a lot of things – boys, friends, TV shows, new curtains – and inevitably find myself on the “feels more deeply” side of things. I can’t help it, though. I’m a passionate person. It’s just the way God made me.

For more about the way God made me, check out this month’s post at (in)courage.

A Remarkable Faith :: Wedding

This is the second week of my Remarkable Faith series, where we are reflecting on our most memorable moments in our faith walks. I’m saying “our” because I want this series to be an opportunity for you to share part of your own remarkable faith, not just a time for me to tell more stories about my life. So, check out the weekly topics and link up when you have something to say! And if you don’t have a blog but would like to share, please, talk to us in the comments.

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When I originally thought about writing a post about a wedding that’s influenced my faith, several weddings came to mind. First I thought of my friend whose dad discovered he had an aneurysm just days before her ceremony and still managed to do the twist with her at the reception. Then I thought of another friend whose family and in-laws were so against her marriage that the entire weekend had a palpable tension and discomfort. I thought of the weddings I’ve been in, from bridesmaid to personal attendant to gift book person to pianist to soloist to photographer. I even thought of the beautiful wedding that was everything I’d plan mine to be (if I were planning my wedding now, 11 years later), including the month, the colors and the flowers.

But when I sat down to write, none of these weddings seemed significant anymore. The wedding that has been most influential to my faith is one that I didn’t attend.

Just a few years out of college, two of my best friends got married – and didn’t invite me. I saw the pictures, and it looked beautiful. Both the bride and the groom, once the people I thought I knew best, looked incredibly happy. And I wasn’t there.

While I knew that we’d had some awkward moments, the three of us, since they started dating in our senior year, I had no idea that they were holding onto unresolved anger and possibly disappointment with me. Until I found out about their wedding from someone else, I didn’t know that at least one of them had been mad at me for FIVE YEARS. Five years in which we’d hung out, eaten together, e-mailed back and forth, and even sat together during our graduation ceremony.

I didn’t know. And I found out when a mutual friend showed me their wedding photos and let slip that they didn’t invite me, because they hate me.

Hearing that crushed me, it really did. I immediately e-mailed both of my friends and tried to find out what had happened. Over the next few years, thanks to my persistent (and undoubtedly annoying) e-mails, I found out what I’d done to make one of them so angry. The other one – the bride of that wedding I wasn’t at, someone who’d promised to always be my friend in the way that young girls do – has never responded to any of my messages.

I’ve apologized – more than once – for the mistakes I made that upset my friend so badly. And I truly am sorry. If you’re wondering what I did – and what this has to do with my faith – I promise it’s all connected.

When I was in college, my faith was very black and white. My personality was what you might call – rightfully so – rigid. And I was, on occasion, judgmental and narrow-minded. It was the combination of those less-than-impressive traits, combined with a dose of insensitivity and obliviousness (it’s a word; I looked it up), that led me to hurt my friend and damage our friendship beyond repair.

I was wrong. But acknowledging that doesn’t change what happened. And the evidence has shown me that it doesn’t fix what is broken between us.

The funny thing – and I most certainly do not mean ha-ha funny – is that my friends would probably like me a lot more now, if they knew me. If they knew the me I am today, I think we’d get along even better than we did before things got so ugly. I’m not the same person, and a lot of that has to do with what I believe – and the questions I have that I now realize I don’t know the answers to after all.

This story is vague, and I’m sorry for that. I can’t share any more details than this. Actually, just sharing this much has turned me into a soggy mess. There’s not a week that goes by without me thinking of my friends – and regretting our loss. And, you will probably not be surprised to know, there’s probably not a month or so that goes by without me regretting it to the point of tears, sometimes ugly, shuddering tears.

It’s a huge loss. And for me, it started with a wedding. But despite the grief I continue to carry over the whole thing, I’m also thankful for what I’ve learned through it. I’d like to think I’m a little less rigid and judgmental these days. And that is a good thing.

This song hits me in the face every time I hear it, and it seems like the best way to close this story.

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Has a wedding played a part in your story? Was your wedding – or someone else’s – a memorable moment in your life? Do you have a remarkable faith?

If you write about this on your blog, please link up! (And remember, use the URL for your specific post, and include a link back to Giving Up on Perfect in your post so others can link up, too!)

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A Remarkable Faith :: Baptism

A Stream into the Sea in Kauai

Today begins our journey through Lent, reflecting on our most memorable moments in our faith walks. I’m saying “our” because I want this series to be an opportunity for you to share part of your own remarkable faith, not just a time for me to tell more stories about my life. So, check out the weekly topics and link up when you have something to say! And if you don’t have a blog but would like to share, please, talk to us in the comments.

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I’m not going to talk about my baptism today. Mainly because there have been three, and that’s weird. (It’s what happens when you are, essentially, a Protestant mutt – and a story for another day.)

The most memorable baptism I’ve ever witnessed took place in a little rural church about 15 years ago. I had a close friend in high school who was the sweetest, funniest, most talented guy I knew – but he had a drinking problem. As his concerned friend I, in turn, had a nagging problem.

I have the tendency to mother people I care about most, and this relationship was no exception. Every time he partied or binged or otherwise went off the deep end, I railed at him about how irresponsible and immature and just plain wrong his choices were. I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right. I was a lot of fun back then.

Seriously, though, I’d seen the damage that alcoholism can do to a person and a family firsthand, and I didn’t want that to happen to my friend. And he said that he wanted to change, so I was only trying to help.

Finally, though, I realized how completely unhelpful I was being and how unlikely it was that my friend would change. So I wrote him a long letter (yes, kids, this was before the days of sending melodramatic messages via text) and told him, basically, that I was giving up on him but I would never give up on God. And I promised to keep praying for him – and to stop nagging.

Many long, adolescent angst-filled months later, a miracle happened.

My friend and his family began going to church, and one by one, they were all saved. They decided to put their trust in Jesus and live their lives for Him. Please don’t get me wrong. I am not taking credit for that by any means! Because, really, I’m pretty sure nobody makes that kind of decision based on a teenage girl’s incessant harping.

Seeing the change in my friend’s life was incredible. He stopped engaging in the behaviors that had worried and frustrated me almost immediately. And when he and his dad were baptized, he invited me to attend.

As I watched the very small pastor stand next to my friend and his dad – both tall, large men – I just knew we were in for a [wet] disaster. Honestly, I wondered if they all needed life jackets. But somehow, that pastor stood with confidence and strength, lay them down in the water and then pulled them up, new men in Christ. (Just to be clear, he baptized them one at a time. He wasn’t that strong!)

I bawled like a baby.

In those tumultuous teen years, every event in my life was seen through a magnifying glass and felt with an intensity and sensitivity that I hope to never experience again. You add hormones to an already-emotional girl and toss her a few heavy situations like a friend headed toward alcoholism, and it’s just not pretty.

Looking back, I can see how my concern and love were expressed in such an annoying – and, honestly, not loving – way that it’s no wonder my friend didn’t respond (and his best friend hated me, although that, too, is a story for another day). Knowing – and regretting – that, I’m even more amazed by what God did in his life, because He did it despite me.

And even though I’m not a teenager walking around like a raw nerve anymore, remembering this moment still makes me cry.

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Has a baptism played a part in your story? Was your baptism – or someone else’s – a memorable moment in your life? Do you have a remarkable faith?

If you write about this on your blog, please link up! (And remember, use the URL for your post, and include a link back to Giving Up on Perfect in your post so others can link up, too!)

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The Saga of the Slippers

sew

All the women in my family sew. Sewing machines are treasured gifts and trips to JoAnn Fabric are on the regular errand rotation. My Granny sewed for a living, well before it was cool to be a crafty entrepreneur. My mom makes beautiful, functional curtains, slipcovers and pillowcases several times a year. (She likes to redecorate, clearly.) My Nana has an embroidery business, and my cousins were such accomplished seamstresses as teens that they made their own prom dresses.

But me? I hate sewing.

It’s not that it’s hard. (Although, it kind of is.) It’s that cutting out a pattern brings out the worst perfectionism in me. That tissue-like pattern paper is so darned difficult to cut, even with the sharpest scissors and especially if you’re not what one would call “proficient” with scissors.

Yes, I graduated from kindergarten, thank you for asking. But my scissor skills may not have advanced much since then.

As the only non-sewer in my family, I’ve always felt like a bit of a domestic failure. My mom dutifully taught me to thread a machine, hem pants, sew on buttons and embroider lovely samplers. But you can’t teach love. And love it I do not.

I remember one summer, my mom thought that perhaps I’d learn better from my aunt. So Nana helped me make a pair of boxer shorts. They were made of black and white cow print cotton, though I’m not sure WHY I picked that particular fabric. And I loved those shorts. In hindsight, they were hideous (I mean, come on. Who really needs cow print on their backside?) But I was so proud of those shorts I’d made myself.

Not that I turned into a sewing machine (yes, pun [sadly] intended) after that. I don’t own a sewing machine, and while I have a sewing kit, I only get it out to sew buttons back on their shirts or jackets.

And, actually, my jacket has had a loose button for more than a year – and I still haven’t gotten around to fixing it. I really don’t enjoy sewing.

I tell you all this so you will understand just how desperate I was feeling when I said last week, “I think I might have to learn how to knit.”

Wha? Me? Knit? No, I don’t think so. But yeah, that’s what I said. The reason? Slippers.

For as long as I can remember (and, I’m certain, well before that), my grandma has been making knitted slippers for everyone in our (constantly expanding) family. They aren’t pretty. And because you get what you get and don’t throw a fit, sometimes the colors are the last ones you’d pick. But they are warm. And comfortable. And what your feet need in the winter.

Sadly, Grandma is getting older and over the past few years, she’s decided to stop making slippers. I hadn’t gotten too worked up about this, because even after my (Christmas-themed red and green) slippers wore out, I had Mark’s that I could wear. They were a little too big, but they still worked pretty well.

Until last week. I put on his my slippers and walked out to the garage. Immediately, I hopped onto one foot. Why was my right foot so cold? Had I stepped in water?

No. The bottom of my right slipper was completely torn open. It was busted. Just like Jimmy Buffet’s flip flop in Margaritaville. (I blew out my flip flop / Stepped on a pop top / Cut my heel, had to cruise on back home. I don’t know why these things pop into my head. But they sure do.)

My first reaction – I have to learn how to knit. – was replaced by reason. I quickly moved onto this thought: How can I convince my cousin Jenny to learn to knit? And then, doubt creeped in: Are they knitted? Or crocheted? What is the difference, and why can I not remember this? Finally, I remembered Etsy, the home of everything handmade and homemade. And so began my search.

Many, many pages appeared when I searched for “knitted slippers.” But after clicking and scrolling and clicking some more, only one shop had the answer. But one shop is all it takes! And charliebear saved the slipper day. This family of crafters makes slippers exactly like my Grandma’s – and charges less than $10 for them! It was a slipper miracle.

slippers by grandma

Today, I received my new slippers in the mail. Just a few days after all my moaning, groaning and general gnashing of teeth, my feet are toasty warm again.

Do I wish I had the sewing gene that seems to have skipped me? Do I wish I had more patience and less perfectionism, not to mention a basic mastery of cutting with scissors? Do I wish my Grandma could still make slippers for me? Absolutely. But since none of those things are likely to happen, I’m incredibly happy to have found someone else who makes slippers.

And I am beyond thrilled to NOT have to learn to knit!

Do YOU like to sew? Or knit? Or embroider? Or hem pants?

This post will be linked to Things I Love Thursday at The Diaper Diaries. Image of sewing machine by House of Sims.

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Five Years Ago in Five Minutes

Mini DV Deckphoto © 2006 Brian Gurrola | more info (via: Wylio)

As my TV show came to a close and my throat got even more scratchy, I began feeling desperate. I’d had a great post planned for today, but despite having an interesting topic, I was coming up empty. I had no words. No inspiration. No mojo.

And so, as I became more anxious for a blog post – and bed, I pulled up a drafted idea I’d saved a few months ago.

It was only this morning that I remembered Lisa-Jo’s Five Minute Friday prompt. But I figure it’s never too late to write something real. So, here goes . . .

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Five years ago I was in a weird place. An in-between place. A confusing place.

We’d left the church plant a couple months before and returned to our home church. Because our Sunday school class – the place we felt true community, real fellowship – had pretty much disintegrated after many of us left for the new church, we had to find a new group to hang with on Sunday mornings.

We jumped right in, shopping around for a Sunday school class that fit us. After three attempts, though, we’d basically exhausted all the options for young – or not-so-young – married couples, and we were frustrated. Disappointed.

On the work front, I had left my job at the ad agency for another agency in town. I worked in a beautiful old building on a street that smells like coffee and looks like Sesame Street. The position I’d taken had lots of opportunity, and my manager was a brilliant woman I knew would teach me a lot.

Unfortunately, I was miserable. My new job – the one that was supposed to save me from a place that had become frustrating and ugly – demanded crazy hours and a dedication I couldn’t muster, all for clients that sold mind-numbingly boring things like horse vaccines.

[I'd convinced myself that I could write about horse vaccines, because horses are nice. And healthy horses are even nicer. But the truth was I couldn't do it. Just. Couldn't. Do. It.]

As if those two situations weren’t enough, under the surface of normal, everyday, fine-thanks-for-asking, our finances and marriage were pretty rough.

Looking back, five years ago was not the best place I’ve ever been. So as I look at today and feel like it’s weird . . . and confusing . . . and definitely in-between, I am so thankful that today’s “place” is WAY better than five years ago’s!

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Well, that was a bit longer than five minutes. But in my defense, I have a certain three-year-old itching to build a new house from her blocks. So, that’s a short, unedited look back into my life. And now I’m going to play with some MegaBlocks!

What did YOUR life look like five years ago?

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