All Things in Common

On Thanksgiving, we gathered at my Grandmother and Grandfather’s house in South Carolina; we—my brothers and sister and parents, and my aunt and uncle and their four children, whom we hardly know. And I wondered about the intentionality of creating family, of putting so many people together who are so very different and who are yet connected by the very blood that is pumping life through each of our veins, moment by moment.

I have much, abundance even, for which to be thankful. But I found myself on Thanksgiving Day, wishing for more. I was wishing that I knew my cousins better and wishing we knew how to act in a way that would make everyone comfortable, make them laugh and high five and stick their tongues out at one another. But we never did those things together when we were very young, and so we found ourselves each whispering quietly to our own siblings and giving each other eyes holding pointed sibling meaning.

As the evening slowed its pace, I was left wondering how to go about cultivating an environment of ease— a home where things are not sacred, but relationships are, where hugs and headlocks embody the same affections, and where every person want to be there, looks forward to being there, longs to be there in that place where love reigns.

I have had similar thoughts about creating community with intentionality. In my church we speak highly of having everything in common and living in community together. And we all wonder aloud what that really looks like. We wonder about sharing our cars and our homes and even our money freely with one another, and I think we all wish we were capable of that. So what stops us?

I feel protective of my money and the things I have because of it. I work hard for little, and feel the selfish pieces of my humanity come out with strength. I tell myself that I share what I can, but do not have enough to really give it to be held in common. But isn’t that the point? Isn’t the idea that if we do not hold our things sacred, but we share them, give them up, give them away, that we are then freed from the bondage of selfishness and materialism that ties us up so fiercely?

I wonder what it would take for us as Americans, as Christians, as selfish, broken human beings, to learn to live like this:

Acts 2:42-47
And they devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. And awe came upon every soul, and many wonders and signs were being done through the apostles. And all who believed were together and had all things in common. And they were selling their possessions and belongings and distributing the proceeds to all, as any had need. And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favor with all the people. And the Lord added to their number day by day those who were being saved.

Maybe that sounds terrifying to you, or maybe it sounds thrillingly freeing.


If we long for greater depth in relationships, to have more abstract things-- like humor and joy and gratitude-- in common, perhaps the key is to first intentionally give our material things to have in common. Wouldn't you rather share your home, your table, your time, for the sake of relational abundance than to keep to yourself for personal comfort? I fear that my little bubble of middle class material wealth will block me from an abundance of joy and depth of relationship that are available should I only choose to share.

I pray this for you & your community this season— an awestruck spirit, a glad & generous heart filled with praise, and a deep understanding of the grace that saves.

What I did during my Thanksgiving break.

Don't think I didn't hit the bulls eye, 'cause I blew the crap out of it.

I did not harvest any animals, however. They did not want to be my Thanksgiving feast.

And yes, wearing the cap backwards does actually help with accuracy.

My Best Friend's Wedding

This girl has been my best friend since we were fourteen. We played basketball together, went to parties together, shopped for prom dresses together, skipped school together, roomed together in college and have supported and loved one another through a whole lot of shit. And that makes me smile.

Tomorrow Lindsey will marry Cade in a beautiful old church, in a gorgeous white dress, in a wedding ceremony we have been dreaming about since the day we discovered Tacori diamond ring advertisements. And I will stand beside her, holding her bouqet, and I will cry for the love and the joy and thank God that she has found this man to journey with through life.

And so our lives enter another season and we feel the changing world and all its surprises.

Be blessed, dear friend. Oh, be so richly blessed.

I love you, flooz.

An official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle!

I've been thinking about Christmas and our culture and how we've made it all about gifts of things.

And I've been thinking about the love of Jesus and the Gospel and how everything is all about the gift of him.

And I'm wondering about how we can change our culture, so that Christmas is all about the Gospel and the gifts are all about the love of Jesus.

And I don't know, honestly, but I'm trying to figure something out. Even if it's just a small something.

Why I love to party

In the past ten weeks I have thrown the following parties: Bachelorette Beach Weekend, Stock-the-Bar & the-Game-Closet-couples-dinner-shower, & a last-minute quarter-century games in the park birthday bash. I decorated, baked, made costumes and cleaned up the mess afterwards. OHHH, I LOVE a good party!

Yes, the planning & Excel spreadsheets involved in throwing a successful party are right up my alley; however, there's a deeper reason I love getting a lot of people together-- the kind who have loved each other for years and the kind who are just learning the way of new friendships.



It's something to do with the laughs, and the way friends who have long been apart smile in their eyes when they hug. It's something about how wine will inevitably be spilled and/or spewed amidst raucous laughter. It's in the way my newly pregnant friend Tara's husband rubs her back to keep her comfortable so she can enjoy the company, even though she's feeling sick, again. It's the way we all get the jokes without finishing the stories. It's the way we start talking about what it will be like when we all have kids & how we must always get together like this. It's the way Mandy says "I love you" to all of us, repeatedly, when she's had a few glasses of wine, the way Emily points with helpful tips, and the way Lindsey gets even louder.


And there's something in the way new friends hi-five each other after a particularly great game of kickball on a warm Sunday afternoon. It's something about grinning for pictures and eating cheesecake without forks. It's to do with the way we shield our eyes to the bright fall sunlight for greetings called out to friends arriving late. Something in the sound of giggles at the end of a truly heinous rendition of "Happy Birthday." It's about the way acting like kids creates bonds between adults-- strands of friendship stretching between the softball bases and the kickball, amidst the hulahoops and the dogs lounging in the sun, winding themselves into the sweaty hugs and arching over our heads behind the football when the sun begins to set.



I love to throw parties because sometimes, people just need to know the time and the place. Sometimes friendships happen when you simply show up for someone else, and celebrate.

A Peek Back

When I graduated from college, I moved to Southern Colorado "for the summer" and stayed for a year. I worked in a European-style cafe in a small former mining town and the days stretched out before me-- long and golden, like the shadows of the cattle on the plains.

And some days, weeellllllll, some days went like this:

__________________________________________

One day, a man came in who we'd never seen before. He was probably in his mid-forties, over six feet tall, and--it must be said--rather large. I'd like to think he was a linebacker in his day, but years of beer and down-home cooking had done him in. His thinning hair was a mousy brown, with a certain greasy uncleanliness. There was a patch sticking up in the back, untouched since he hauled himself out of bed that morning. An unkempt mustache twitched above his protruding duck lips when he spoke. I came upon the sight of him about halfway through his lunch order. He wanted soup, but without the side of bread. A sandwich but without the side salad. Coffee, extra cream. And can he please have a glass of water too? Oh, and do you have any cookies? Okay, forget the soup, add two pumpkin cookies. No maybe he wanted the soup AND the cookies.

I giggle to myself a bit and then head back to the kitchen to bring clean dishes up to the counter. When I return, I find Rachel patiently preparing his lunch, while the man is leaning largely over the counter poking into a very small box with his sausage-like fingers. He comes up with a small plastic bag. At this point he is breathing heavily, as though he's just run stairs for forty-five minutes. I won't even tell you about the breath... So, he's fiddling with this itty bag and finally gets it open, carefully turns it upside down and dumps the contents into his massive palm.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" Crap. I turn around slowly, catching Rachel's laughing eyes in the process. I smile.

"Yes, did you get everything you need?"

"Yeah, I was wondering if you could put these in for me." Put what exactly, where? He turns his head so that his elephant ear is facing me and he holds up one of the objects that have been lost in his hand. An earring. Oh you have GOT to be kidding me. His earlobe is looming above my face, pierced and waiting to be decorated. "My wife won't be off work until later and I want to get them in before I lose them." He thrusts his hand out to show me. Oh no. These are not just any earrings. These are the kind of earrings my grandma bought me for my eleventh birthday. You know, birthstone studs. Yes, that's right. Little round red jewel studs with a minuscule diamond attached for flair. He looks at me, waiting, hopeful.

Rachel is practically snorting in a failed attempt to stifle her laughter. I have no words. I open my mouth to say something I have not yet thought of when, glory to God, the phone rings.

"Oh, excuse me just a minute, I need to grab that." I dash for the kitchen. Of course someone else has already answered it, but I've escaped! I breathe a sigh of relief. Ellie asks what's going on with her baffled glance. "There is a man out there who asked me to put his EARRINGS IN HIS EARS!" I hiss.

"WHAT?! Who is it?"

"I have no idea; I've never seen him. But I have to go back out there! AH!" I rustle around the kitchen for several minutes, hoping he'll forget what he asked me.

I take a deep breath and walk back. Oh bless! He's putting the earrings back into the little bag. Well, he's trying to anyway.

"Nevermind, I'm going to have Fred do it... He's a jeweler."

"Oh good. Yeah, we really shouldn't do it since we're working with food and everything." This of course, was the obvious response I should have had fifteen minutes ago. But, honestly, who can blame me? It's not like strange men come in everyday, order lunch and then ask ever so sweetly if you could please put their earrings in.

So the man eats his lunch, waves a thank you and heads across the street to the jeweler. And what do you know, a few days later he reappears, eleven-year-old-girl earrings shining brightly from his Buddha lobes. Since then, he has come in several times a week ordering his very particular lunch and coffee. Only now, he sits in the table closest to the counter and makes small requests throughout his meal. Could I please have a napkin? Do you have any half and half? Could I get an extra pickle? I need some extra icing for my cinnamon roll. Oh, and could you wash my hair while you're at it?

That place made for heaven

I know that it's just, I'm tired and I'm sick, and I'm tired of being sick. But it's also that it's nearly the holidays, and where is my life going? And why can't I set out and do something big and bold and adventerous, right now? Why can't I leave this place and come back changed? Is it because I did that already? I don't regret it, but there were mistakes in there. There were, if I'm telling you the truth. And I'm not sorry that I loved him, but I wish it hadn't made me so blind. And maybe I am sorry that I ended things badly with the one who came first, because I think I will keep looking until I find another one who is like him, but more for me.

I want to live a better story. I want the words on my pages to count for more than days gone past. Do you ever imagine observing your own life as if it were a movie? I always want to be laughing in those captured moments, but I wonder how often I am laughing in the real ones. My life is rich in friendships and in a certain kind of love there, and I am ever grateful. But I am afraid I will always feel this empty place. I am afraid that my longing for a deeper life is that place in me that was made for heaven and I'm afraid of how long it might be until it isn't empty anymore. What's more, I think I am afraid of not trying to filling it well; and by that I mean, this broken world is filled with its own beauty and I fear missing that for feeling the emptiness too much.

Are you down, are you down with the sickness?

I haven't been out of the house in 49 hours. I'm sick. My thirteen year old sister keeps checking on me and ending with, "You have the swine flu." Well thank you, precious, for your professional diagnosis. I'll be sure to cough in your face the next time you're within germ-spreading distance.

The worst part about being sick is how many long, excruciating hours there are in a day. When you're well, you looooong for free hours to do whatever you want. Ohhhhh, to have a quiet morning sipping coffee and contemplating life's meaning. Or doing laundry. Whatever.

But when you're sick, the hours draaaaaag on and on. This morning, I woke up from a Nyquil-induced sleep at 7 AM (I know that's not early, but it's Sunday, so bite me) because I had to use the facilities so badly after drinking gallons (gallons, I tell you GALLONS!) of hot tea to flush the sickness out. I had intended to go back to bed, but I couldn't. Y'all, the Nyquil knows. It knows the sun is up. It knows it's time for you to switch to it's evil twin, Dayquil. (Which is, in my opinion, far less effective.) So when I looked at the clock after catching up on 57 episodes of various television shows and it was only 10:17 AM, I was so over this illness. I was ready to be up at 5:30 AM and happily rushing around to get out the door to work. Go figure.

The grass might be greener on the other side, but it's still just grass, and there will always be another side.

time for a letter to the Internet

Dear Internet,

I'm sorry I have forsaken you. I've just so been busy doing things like scheduling 100 people for day-long film shoots and attending conferences where I "learned" that blogs are not dead (ummmm, okay, thanks), twitter is great and email marketers think Gen-Y kiddos spend more time on email than facebook (#EPICFAIL). In other words, Internet Summit 2009 left me with very little takeaway. And now I'm feeling snarky.

Also, I would like to redesign you, Blog. Well, have you redesigned. I'm over trying to be a mom blog when I'm not a mom.

Thankssomuch (kiss on cheek, kiss on other cheek),