remember

Two years later, the words are still true.

09.09.09

It's good to look back. On that date, I never knew what would be around the bend for me. I'll tell you this, it included boots and freedom and authenticity and grace and tears and laughter and funerals and goodbyes and goodbyes where I never said goodbye but it just happened and hellos and opportunities and answers to prayer and disappointments.

But every moment has meaning and hope because of the one who loved me and gave himself for me. I have prayers that may never get answered. I'd be lying to you if I said that doesn't hurt. But here's a prayer I do have that God will answer. It's for you. Consider Jesus. If you never have before or if you've written him off because of experiences in your life, please consider him again. He loves you. He really, really loves you. I can't imagine life without him and I want that for you. And if you feel at little tug in your heart right now, it's him. He's saying I love you. 

happy days are here again

I want this coat

We're two days away from my favorite time of the year: the 'ber' months. It's a time for cute coats, boots, turtlenecks, scarves, pumpkin flavored everything, and the much anticipated red starbucks cup.

And Disney.

Oh how the Disney bug is already bubbling inside me again. This time of year, I always want to go to Disney. always. And it's not for the rides or the smiles or the audio-animatronic presidential figures.

It's for the magic.

It's for the yellow striped table umbrellas hidden down by the old swan boats that everyone seems to ignore in their rush to Space Mountain, but where I go to read and journal. And even dream.

It's for an empty Main Street, long after the rides are closed, with only the sparkle of old-fashioned street lights and the sounds of ragtime and the occasional When you wish upon a star to keep you company.

It's for Cinderella's golden carousel--even though I firmly believe it belongs to Mary Poppins--because there is something about riding a carousel horse that is just like twirling while dancing. The girl in me never, ever tires of it. Because in those moments, I stop thinking. And I smile. And I simply live.

And then the carousel comes to a screeching halt. Just like life. 

The curse of overthinking

A child has no trouble believing the unbelievable, nor does the genius or the madman. It's only you and I, with our big brains and our tiny hearts, who doubt and overthink and hesitate.

So says Steven Pressfield, author of Do the Work: overcome resistance and get out of your own way. My uncle recommended this book to me based on my last post and now I very much regret that I did not use the word malaise instead of funk. But isn't that just like life? Precisely when you need the very thing that will both describe and help you get out of the very pit you are in, the word escapes you. Because it is a French word. And my primary (only) language is English.

I would love to say that I am cursed by a big brain, but I am not. But I can most assuredly say I am cursed by overthinking and therefore doubt and hesitation. It is the three-headed monster, I tell you. A triumvirate of personal demolition. And I do not think it is by accident that this book arrived on my doorstep this evening. So I am very much looking forward to this weekend. I see this book, Starbucks, a comfy chair, and a thick jacket--because the temperature inside that shop is positively ridiculous--in my future. And then I will be incredibly motivated to do all sorts of soul-enriching work which we all know I won't do, but hopefully you'll get a blog out of it at least.

Grandaddy

To some he was JohnUnderwood, to many he was Harold, to a few he was Daddy or Pops, but to me, he was Grandaddy.


My granddaddy had a sense of humor. He had me convinced that you had to deflate the air in your tires to go from winter air to summer air. If I was blocking his view of something, he told me I must have been drinking too much mud. And for years I worried about this ailment that plagued him whenever he just wanted to sit and rest. He had this darn “bone in his leg.”

When I was little, I had so much fun going to his office supply store, Sikes, and banging away on the cash register (although I don’t think he particularly liked that). He taught his children, who consequently taught me, the importance of orderly and stocked shelves, the ability to pack just about anything with the best use of space, and the value of hard work and making an honest living.


Grandaddy worked hard and took pride in what he did. He even mowed the lawn on his tractor wearing a crisp white button down shirt. For the longest time, he would buy each of his granddaughters a new dress for Easter -- the frillier the better. I think he loved having a house full of people. We would have easter egg hunts in his yard, pool parties in the summer, and piles of presents at Christmas. His mantle eventually got too short to hold a stocking with every person’s name on it. And you could guarantee that you would get a big fat orange and lots of walnuts at the bottom of every stocking. As a kid, there was hardly anything less fun than an orange and some nuts, but that was Grandaddy sharing some of his southern childhood with us.

I’m proud of having a southern grandaddy because I was taught the right way to drink coca-cola: with peanuts. I know not to put sugar in cornbread, that collards will make you strong, and to have a healthy dose of suspicion if you go to Cracker Barrel and the cook is a Yankee.


But as you might imagine because you knew him too, my grandpa is so much more than this. To know Grandaddy is to know his love for Grandma. Not only was he by her side every day of her illness, he longed to see her again every day for fifteen years. Just last week he reminded me he married “the most beautiful girl in the world,” an “angel in the church choir.” His is a love story we don’t see much anymore. He shows us that love really can be eternal.


To know Grandaddy is to know his love for the church. In looking at pictures, I saw a stained glass window and a white church and learned that the pew inside is where he first put his faith in Christ. Grandaddy his given me so much, but his greatest gift is giving me a spiritual legacy. His house has always been filled with the redemptive sounds of gospel music. I think he bought rows of tickets for every show that First Baptist Church of Orlando ever put on for the Singing Christmas Trees and Easter presentations. Faith and music seemed very important to him. It’s no wonder he married  the prettiest girl in the church choir!


To know Grandaddy is to know his love for family. He used to sing to me “A, you’re adorable, B, you’re so beautiful, C, you’re as cute as cute can be...” Only recently did I learn that he didn’t sing that just for me :) He loved all of his girls--daughters and granddaughters. He let us know we were beautiful and taught us the type of man we should wait for: one who would love us, provide for us, protect us. He reminded us never to settle. He loved his son and grandsons. I remember him teasing the boys mercilessly by calling them “girls,” but I think in his own way he was showing them how to be tough, how to fight back, and how to defend. In some way, we have all been shaped by what he taught us.

To know Grandaddy is to know his love for his Savior. I never once heard him grumble against the Lord when life got tough. Honestly from my perspective, it always seemed like he treated it as a blessing to get to care for Grandma and spend so much time with her. I’m sure he would have preferred a different story to have been written, but he responded with diligence and integrity to the circumstances God gave him. He spoke often of “the pearly gates” and rightly reminded us that this world is not his home.


On the day Grandaddy died, I had the honor of reading Psalm 84. The text describes that one day in the presence the Lord in Heaven is better than a thousand days anywhere else.That’s a little hard for me because selfishly I wish the Lord would give me a thousand more days with him...or even one more day. But my great hope--our great hope--is that today is not goodbye. In one week, we will celebrate that Christ conquered death. He faced death alone so that those of us who trust in Him, would never have to. Even in his last breath, Grandaddy was never alone. He went from Jesus by his side to Jesus face to face.

 

The final verse of Psalm 84 states “Blessed is the man who trusts in You.” Grandaddy wasn’t perfect. In fact, he had a lot of flaws. But the funny thing about God is that He doesn’t want the people who have their act together. He wants the people who know they are flawed and yet put their trust in Him -- not in themselves, not in their accomplishments, not even in their family legacy. Our great hope is Jesus Christ. His love is deeper, stronger, and wider than we can even imagine. And one day, we will see Grandaddy, Grandma, and Jesus--face to face.



I love you, Grandaddy.
December 8, 1921 - April 12, 2011


Eulogy given in honor of John Harold Underwood, Sr. on April 16, 2011

quit playing games with my heart

If you walk with God for any amount of time, then a day will come when you will wonder if He is callous or wicked. Sometimes He doesn't answer prayer, but it's easy enough (for me anyways) to convince myself that I didn't pray well enough. But other times -- like today -- He does answer prayer, but in the most backstabbing, spiteful way. It's one thing to feel screwed. It's another thing altogether to feel screwed by God.

Thankfully a pop sensation of my high school days gave me words to express my anger. "God - quit playing games with my heart" (Oh Backstreet Boys, I always knew you loved me).

So I told God that. And He didn't get mad at me and lightening didn't strike. And He didn't use mind-controlling super powers like Jasper (ooh, Twilight) to calm me down either. Instead, He asked me to keep talking to Him. And you know what? I did. Because in that moment -- when a wound that is just starting to heal got ripped open by the only Surgeon who has the power to heal -- I knew God was real. I knew without question that it was God who was wounding me.

We convince ourselves that God doesn't hurt us. And when we do get hurt -- and it's not by our own sin -- we wonder what happened to the good God? What happened to our dearest friend, our healer, our savior?

The answer? He's still there. He's a surgeon. He's cutting deep -- but you can trust Him because He's not reckless. Every pain, every disappointment, every hurt has purpose. And that purpose is far bigger than playing games with your heart. He's making you -- and me -- more like Christ. We're losing us and gaining Him. That's a good thing.

So if you're like me and feeling a little broken, a little shattered--take heart. The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. (Psalm 34:18)

On Censorship

Censorship has been on my mind recently. From controversy last week regarding a highly esteemed RTS/Orlando professor resigning after his views on Genesis 1-2 sparked fires among mainline evangelicals, to a comment I posted within my organization being removed today for its own controversial stance -- censorship is apparently all the rage.

Christians silencing Christians. Hardly a fulfillment of Christ's prayer for unity.

I'm frustrated that Christians are primarily characterized by what we are against. How might our world be different if we were characterized instead by what we would die for?

Call me a Yalie

I love strategic plans, campaigns, milestones, and finish lines. Back in the political frenzy of 2008, I decided to create my own campaign trail. It was a two-year plan with clearly defined objectives: Date in '08; He's mine '09.

If you've followed this blog much at all, you are aware of my need for an addendum. And so, January brought with it a new tagline: Try again in 2010.

However, trying again in 2010 is not so much about getting the guy as it is about returning to the real me. Or, more accurately, the me I've kept hidden. My blogs are lengthier and a smidge more serious. I wear vests and oxford shirts. I say "no" with far less guilt to parties and phone calls. I wear heels because being on the taller end shouldn't preclude me from sporting cute shoes. And if I see a bouquet of flowers I like, I buy them because buying yourself flowers doesn't make you lame. (okay, I may be trying to convince myself of this last point).

All this is to say, I decided that beginning March 1st I would thoughtfully read one business or leadership book a month, one theology book a month and take one online class a month. Ideally I would have a literary classic thrown in there, but man do I hate reading the classics. I still blame my high-school literature teacher for this.

Now I have 24 lectures on Game Theory from Yale University to look forward to! By the end of this month, I hope to converse on such ideas as dominance, backward induction, Nash equilibrium, evolutionary stability, commitment, credibility, asymmetric information, adverse selection, and signaling.

Somehow, I do not think I will be invited to many more parties....

on grief and love

I went to a funeral today. I used to think death was easier if it was expected (with a 1.5 yr battle with cancer, we knew this day was coming). But it's not easier. I suppose it's because we were never meant to die.

I went to a friend's party right after. We had a do-over birthday because last year was the big 3-0 and it was lame. But in God's extravagant love, on this year's birthday, she got engaged.

Naturally, this dichotomy couldn't escape me. On the one hand, a life cut short. On the other, a dream-come-true do-over. But we all know that real life doesn't give do-overs. She didn't actually turn 30 again. Real life gives one shot. And that road to blessing is often wrought with thorns.

You know how at weddings most people look at the bride walking down the aisle? Well i'm the girl who looks at the groom. And in this funeral, I didn't look at the guy in the casket at the end of the aisle. But I looked at his wife. She didn't wear black. In fact, she wore a beautiful turquoise dress. And I don't know this for certain, but my hunch is that this was his favorite dress on her.

You see, this guy who died, he lived like a champ. And he loved his wife. Not in the newspaper obituary "he is survived by his wife, whom he loved" kind of way, but in the you can see it in his eyes on every slideshow picture, kind of way. And she loved him too. Through every inch of those covenant vows. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live.

So through the funeral and the party and the swing dancing tonight, that's what i've been thinking about. I want to love and be loved just like that. That's my far-fetched wish. Don't get me wrong--I also thought about Christ and how all of this is only possible through Him--but that's another post of its own. For now, this is my raw, unfiltered emotion. I should be grieving a friend. Instead, I find myself hoping for a future. Not hopeful, mind you. Just hoping. It's a jaded hope, but hope nonetheless.

Grief and hope. Mourning and dancing. Love lost and love found. These were the themes of my day. (Which means if you asked me how I was doing and I said "fine", I lied).

holy week

I can't get enough of this song.

http://us.dada.net/music/mattmaher/empty-and-beautiful_275510m.html

You fought the fight in me
You chased me down and finished the race
I was blind but now I see
Jesus You kept the faith in me

More often than I care to admit, I believe in a do better gospel. You know, the gospel characterized by hard work, determination, charity, even a little compassion and forgiveness mixed in--and oh yes, plenty of guilt, shame, and futility. It never ends well. I ought to know. I'm trying all the time.

The do better gospel is futile because it's a false gospel. The true gospel is not about how hard I work. It's about the finished work of Christ. It's His obedience unto the cross. His conquer of death. His permanent reign. His very presence, working in me.

Christ in me fought the fight
Christ in me finished the race
Christ in me kept the faith

the trouble with girls

Girls are trouble, no doubt about it. We love and we love deeply. We give each other hugs and chocolate and cards and pieces of flair. We let each other know that the certain guy doesn't make valentine's day special--you are special. We remind each other that Jesus was single. We are relentless in our hope. We make plans, ensuring that we will not be alone. And we wait.

But Tijuana Flats? Tijuana Flats has it figured out. They give out free beer. "Drown your sorrows!" they say. "Salute your independence!"

It's sad, really.

Sad that the former makes me bitter and cynical and the latter......well, the latter leads to kidney failure.

While I feel guilty raising my glass to independence (it's what I want for my country, not for myself), I loathe the thought of raising it to sisterhood. Both exclude men! Yet that is what valentine's day has become. And that's the greater tragedy.

So men, you know this already: girls are trouble. But we need you. We don't need carnations instead of roses so we don't get the wrong idea; we don't need pity dates; and we don't need extravagance. But we do need you. We need to be with you, especially on this, the most unlovely of days. We need to know we matter.

p.s. This is not a desperate midnight plea for sweet phone calls and dates. Seriously. You all asked for heart--I'm giving you heart.

p.p.s. Don't call me. I'll call you. (Okay, that part was a joke).

the hurt in heart

I tend to keep this blog a safe distance from all things internal. It's not that I don't want you to know what I'm thinking......okay, it is. But ever since a casual artistic rendition of my personal life revealed that I have no metaphorical windows and doors open to my heart (stupid Freud!), I've come to realize that baby steps of authenticity just might be a healthy start to the new year.

So here it is. My heart hurts. I keep believing I have successfully numbed myself to the dreams and hopes of my heart, and then--out of the blue--I'm stung. The novocaine has worn off and I'm pierced.

Tonight was an ordinary night. But this time, all it took was the intro music to the John Adams mini-series dvd (amazing, by the way!) to dredge up every hope and dream I have. Dreams for Harvard, Princeton, or Yale. Desires to be a wife like Abigail was to John. And the hope to one day understand why my passion for history and education runs so deep.

And then there's the God card.

I've come to terms with the fact that even the most noble of desires may never get met. Truth be told, they probably won't. I'm even satisfied with the results of my intellectual wrestling match with the Lord--He gives us these desires. He makes them remain unmet longings for our entire life, yet He is not evil or vindictive in so doing.

And yet, I simply do not know my role in the matter. I've tried pursuing the dreams, but the sovereignty of God has kept them from fulfillment. And I've tried the route of avoidance--a perfect mixture of zero hope plus zero expectation--and wouldn't you know, the needle of pain still pricked.

And so this is me picking up the pieces and trying a new tactic. A tactic of trusting you with my story. I'll be honest--this hurts too. But God never promised a lack of pain. And so I trust and hope again.

On freedom and matters of the heart

Six years ago I set foot on the campus of RTS, not knowing where I was headed or what I was intending to do. Who am I kidding? I didn't even know what Reformed theology was. But (I'm not even joking here), they had a great slogan, good marketing campaign, and I was hooked.

Since graduating, I have traveled to 11 countries, can articulate the doctrines of Reformed theology in a succinct and compelling way, and I use bigger words. By now, I thought I would know where I'm headed or what I'm intending to do, but I don't. And that is precisely what is so freeing about being a student again.

You see, today was my first day back in the same chair, in the same classroom, as relatively the same person. But for the first time, the pressure was off--the pressure to perform; the pressure to prove that I belong even though I am a directionless girl; the pressure to discover God's unique calling on my life.

Granted, those struggles didn't magically go away this go 'round. I still found myself questioning if I belonged, and even though I have nothing to prove academically, in my heart I believe I do. What changed is the radical freedom that comes from knowing--deep down in my knower--that God sees that heart and still loves me. No amount of Bible study, mission trips, or career decisions will make Him love me more and absolutely nothing I can do will make Him love me less. If that's not freedom, I don't know what is.

"You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same."

Here's to living authentic lives.

still waters

I went sailing this weekend in Winter Park, the second greatest spot in Florida (the first being Windermere). Now Jim, since I know you are reading, you will be pleased to know that I did not ask if there was enough gas. However, my first safety check was to ensure we had a good solid oar. (It was used).

The thing about sailing is that you have to want it. Every screw, every knot, every mast--you have to tighten, pull, and hoist those suckers. And when you're on the water, there's no falling asleep. Nope, you've got to be on top of your game, otherwise someone might switch the sail on you and knock you in the head. But the beauty of sailing is that it's worth it. Every last concussion. Because when you're on the water and its rhythmic lapping lulls you into forgetting that underneath you are thousands of alligators, every single care in the world goes away.

I also learned a valuable lesson. Sailing is a lot more fun with wind. Don't get me wrong--floating along with the current is amazing and restorative and relaxing. But once you catch the wind, once you feel its power carry you across the water, it's a moment that can only be experienced.

I don't often feel my faith. But Saturday afternoon was different. The magic hour of 4:45 when the winds picked up, all I could think about were the lyrics Jesus, be my center. Be the wind in these sails, be the reason that I live, be my source, be my guide, Jesus. He carries you. There were a few times I got scared (I scare easily), but the fear was always followed by a cool breeze. It's a poor analogy, but I'm learning that walking with Jesus is a lot like sailing. You have to want it, sometimes the still waters restore your soul and sometimes the winds kick when you least expect them, but He is always the guide. Always.

grace & love

It's a Sunday, i'm in Starbucks, and my pastor is moving away. So, forgive me if I'm a little more reflective than usual. (Given that I'm rarely reflective publicly, brace yourselves).

I love my church. We're talking, love. Head over heels, till death do us part, kind of love. And no, it's not the building. I care far too much about aesthetics to love our building. It looks Costco with a cross. Instead, it's the people. It's the leaders. These people get the gospel, and when you get the gospel, your life changes. Your demeanor changes. You serve. You love. And good grief, you forgive.

I have been around Christians my entire life and I could use a lot of words to describe many of them, but love would not be one of them. (Don't think I'm pointing fingers here, either. I'm counting myself right in the thick of them.) (And if I use "them" one more time, I will fire myself and hire a new writer).

I've been thinking about this a long time and it comes down to this: when you get the gospel, you understand grace. Life stops being about being good enough to go to God and you start seeing where He is coming to you, even now. Life stops being about working harder and starts being about Christ working in you. And if you read nothing else, read this: when you get the gospel, you understand that you are loved more than you could ever imagine. As you are. Right now. Grace says there is nothing I can do to make God love me more, and there is nothing I can do to make God love me less. And from a girl who desperately wonders if God still loves her, this is incredible news. And by news, I mean absolute truth.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday

In honor of Easter, here are two profound pieces I read over the weekend that stirred me. Check out A Good Friday Meditation and I Know What Saturday Feels Like. They will be worth your read. Trust me.

As for Sunday, Christ is risen! He is risen, indeed.

let's roll

I watched United 93 tonight. I do not handle intense movies well, even if I do know the plot beforehand. I strongly recommend seeing this movie, but not before boarding any airplanes.

distorted beauty

This is a break from my usual posts to support Dove and their Campaign for Real Beauty. In light of my recent conversion to watching The Today Show and the fuss with the Golden Globes tonight, I join others in asking, "How did our idea of beauty become so distorted?" (click on the image for a video)

starbucks cup #185

i'm sitting in starbucks and enjoying life immensely. i'm not 100% certain, but i think there will be starbucks in heaven. only, we will not have to pay and people will stop laughing when you order a non-fat with whip latte.

but i digress.

the guy at the register (brad) knew my name and i recognize the older gentlemen in front of me, although i do not know his name. he walks here every day, talks to himself, and drinks slower than i do. but i think they give him his coffee for free and i wonder if he made his own on christmas day when the store was closed. i feel bad for him because, in a way, he and i are not much different. which makes the quote on my cup all the more apropros.

"A valuable lesson I've learned from making music is to never let anyone intimidate me. Every student, celebrity, CEO and math teacher in the world has experienced love, loneliness, fear and embarrassment at some point. To understand this is to level an often very lopsided playing field." -- Anna Nalick (singer-songwriter)

please pray

I'm departing from my typical posts to ask you to pray for the climbers on Mt. Hood. One of the climbers is the brother of one of the best teachers I have ever had, Dr. Frank James. He's the President of RTS-Orlando and an incredible man of God, which is better than being a remarkable teacher or holding a PhD.

Thanks for your prayers.

reflections on home

few things beat the feel of carpet from your own home tickling the insides of your toes.

i arrived home late last night to be greeted by my favorite inside smell (cinnamon), an impeccably clean apartment, freshly washed sheets, sweet tea with plenty of ice and a straw, and one of the most touching hallmark cards ever. have i mentioned that i have the best friend in the whole world? Andrea is incredible. She has the servant heart of Jesus Christ. and i'm not just saying that. she really does. and it's not just because really nice things for me.

i talked to my little nephew Jake, my sister, my mom, and if my dad would ever get a cell phone, i would've talked to him too. the sound of a family member's voice when you're finally in the same time zone is like savory comfort food. some things just don't get better than that.