Brutally honest or honestly brutal??

Someone said something to me at work today that had me counting down the hours until I could get home and blog it out. I couldn't wait to come home and pound the keys of the keyboard until they hurt as bad as my feelings did. It was one of those times where you're so stunned, you don't even shoot a quick retort back because you're too busy replaying the words over and over in your head. One of those times you spend the rest of the night thinking "Oh I should have said this!" "Next time I'm telling her that".... it was said like a joke, but it wasn't funny. Considering I am someone who is tends to veer on the more sarcastic side ( I know, big surprise to those who know me) I know the difference between what's appropriate, and what needs to be left off limits. Someone's physical appearance, their faith, their home life, and anything related to an obviously painful time for that person, is not something I will make a joke about, ever.


I remember learning that lesson when I was 14 years old. I have been witty and sarcastic my entire life, and up until this particular incident had been fortunate enough to never have hurt someone's feelings. There was a group of four of us- we were on the same squad and spent an infinite amount of time together, causing us to know each other very well. My three friends and I were goofing around about our recent performances at a game, and I made a joke about one of the girls. I don't remember the joke, couldn't if I tried, but I will never forget Ramona's face as soon as the words came out. They were not words that would hurt me, but I learned a lesson that day that we're not all wired the same. Ramona looked at me and said very simply, "that really hurt my feelings." I didn't know what else to say at the time but a simple, "I'm sorry", but for Ramona that was all it took, and we were back to laughing again. I learned that day to be careful when I make jokes, to evaluate the crowd I'm with, and to be sensitive to what they might be sensitive about. I was 14. Not in my thirties. This woman cut me to the core today, making a joke about something that caused myself, and my family a lot of hurt for a long time. It took everything I had to smile and allow her to continue her conversation, all the while praying in my head "Jesus please don't let me say something stupid, please don't let me prove myself a fool."



But this blog is no longer about venting that hurt. It is no longer about playing "if you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all."



I went to my family's house for dinner after running with my mother. I sat with my sister at the table and told her what happened and she rolled her eyes in annoyance at the ignorant comment, but that was it. She didn't get up and scream at the injustice. She didn't rally the troops to go slash some tires or toilet papers some trees in the culprit's front yard, heck, she didn't even say something bad about the person. She just rolled her eyes. It occurred to me after not getting the initial reaction I wanted (that my inner hurt child wanted) that her reaction was exactly perfect. My sister knows me so thoroughly, knows me and my flaws, my imperfections and my strengths, the things that make me tick, the things I get excited about. She knows the things I do really well, and she knows the things I need help on. She knows me at my absolute worst, and has seen me collect degrees and awards for as long as her little self has been alive to witness. She is my biggest fan, sitting in the audience at my college graduation crying with me. Never being jealous , but proud. She has no problem telling me I'm an idiot, and I can't remember a time she didn't have my back. She has come into our old shared room ten minutes after I punched her over some silly fight, and asked me to play school in the clubhouse with her. She doesn't take a comment as ridiculous as the one that hurt me today seriously, because she doesn't need too. She knows me well enough to know how far off base this woman's statement was, so far off base it didn't even deserve a reaction out of her. I love her for her simplicity, and even more so in moments like that.

It's incredible the power of family love. God knew me before I was born, ( Jeremiah 1:4-5 Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to nations), He knew I would be a sensitive person (great for being a psychologist, not always so great for trying to survive in a mean-girl world), and He gave me a family that hugged me when I was crying over someone making fun of me, but then turned around and kicked me in the butt and said get over it and drive on. My sister has such a faith in me, and what I'm really about, she won't even entertain a comment like the one that was made to me today, and it makes me feel invincible. I feel like I have King David's entire army standing behind me right now, and it makes the forgiveness I already showed this woman real, and genuine.



Since the day my sister was born I loved her, (Okay, technically I told my mother three days after she came home, "remember when you brought that baby home and I didn't like her?") so I guess I have technically loved her since three days after, but seeing her as a young adult sitting across the table from me and putting my hot-mess adult self in check with something as simple as not acknowledging a comment, is amazing. My family has always adored my sisters beautiful blue eyes,. It's like her sweet soul pours out of them... I love seeing them excited over my picking out the perfect Christmas present for her, I die inside when they cry because something has hurt her; they set me into tiger psycho mode, as I so lovingly refer to it, when she is scared and I need to protect her, and tonight, they rolled back in her head and simply said to me, " I love you, Mom and Dad love you, who cares", and she healed me.



I don't know why people say the things they say sometimes. I don't know why I said whatever it was I said on the bus to hurt Ramona that day, but I know that the cliché of treating others how you want to be treated is legit. Saying something mean about someone, to their face or not, and disguising it as "prayer request" or saying, "poor thing", or laughing after and saying "just kidding" it doesn't make it okay. I think of Psalm 55:21 " The words of this mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet they were drawn swords". Smiling while saying something cruel doesn't make it okay, it just simply makes you look happy saying it. There are many people that loooovvvee to say "I'm just brutally honest", but in reality, they enjoy the brutality more than the honesty. As angry as my pride wants me to be, I have to remember they were simple words from someone who probably didn't know better. My mother has told me many times, "you can't expect non- believers to act like believers, you just love them, and show them the grace of God, because you are a believer. I thought of Luke 23:34 a lot today, (mostly to help me keep my mouth quiet) - Jesus said, " Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing." Jesus was hanging from a cross with nails in his hands, and I can't forgive a couple of words said against me?



It just reminds me to be careful what I say, smiling or not, so that I don't hurt someone the way I was hurt today. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a sister to roll her beautiful blue eyes at them.

"The Coolest Jeans Ever in History"

They were the  most amazing pair of jeans I had ever seen. In all my thirteen years of fashion expertise, I KNEW those were the jeans that would launch me into seventh grade stardom.I dreamt of all the amazing things that would happen to me as soon as I owned what I was now referring to as, "the coolest jeans ever in history"... I would become class president (halfway through the school year), I would be asked out by the most popular guy in school (who at the time was three inches shorter than I was).. on and on. I did not, however, think I would actually own them. As good as I had gotten at not asking for things by simply suggesting our purchasing an item "for Christmas", my eyes could not hide how much I loved these jeans.

My father worked graveyards when my sister and I were younger, causing my mom to spend weekend afternoons looking for ways to get us out of the house. Walking around the mall was always one of our favorite pastimes. Growing up, we were no where near poor. We had everything we needed, plus some. But we did not have room for extravagant items. Name brands were fewer and farther in between, and most of our wardrobe came from Target (as an adult I can't imagine anything greater then the wonderland that is Target).  My sister would spend hours picking and choosing items when she would shop, and always looked great as a result. I, on the other hand, was like a tornado whipping through these stores and picking one of  everything I could until I reached the end of my budget. We loved fasion as little girls, we just didnt always have the money for it. To buy clothing from the mall, THE MALL!?!??!?, was a big deal to us.

Which is why it never occured to me to dream out loud that the "coolest jeans ever in history" would be mine. How could I evem fathom I would own a pair of flared, light wash jeans, with black and white stripes down the side? (I mean, who is THAT lucky :)) When my mother had me pick out my size and a couple of shirts to go with them, I remember my heart pounding so hard with excitement at the possibility these jeans could be mine. Trying them on was amazing. THEY FIT! "The coolest jeans ever in history" fit me!!! I couldn't stand to ask my mother for the clothing she allowed me to try on, the disappointment would destory my dramatic seventh- grader self if she said no. But she didn't. She took my clothing to the counter and she put them on lay-a-way. Four weeks later I owned those jeans.. and two new shirts!.... and I wore them a TRILLION times.

I think of that moment often, usually when I'm at the counter to pay for something. I am not limited in the clothing I can buy anymore. It has become less exciting to buy something from the mall. I am not rich by any means, and neither are my parents, but it has been a long time since we've worried about paying a bill. I am on my own now, and there are rare occasions I can't buy something I want because I don't have the money. I was leaving Target (wonderland) the other day, thinking about "the coolest jeans ever in history". There was a time when anything extra was just that, extra. It was a huge deal to me, and I wasn't just appreciative I was indebted. I would look forward to a sleepover at my friends house for weeks sometimes, now I go anywhere I want, when I want. I always dreamt of the life I can now live when I was little, but the thing is, it's not what I thought it would be. I miss the overwhelming excitement of getting a c.d. I'd wanted for weeks. I miss saving my allowance to purchase a name brand shirt or overpriced pair of shoes. I miss EVERYTHING being exciting. My version of anywhere I want is probably funny to world travelers and others with more monetary possession than I, but that is irreletative to me. The point is, waiting, building an excitement towards something and finally acquiring it... there's something special to that. God promised the Israelites the promiseland- but there would be work. Abraham was 99 years old before God gave him his first child, and a nation was born from him. Sarah was an old lady before she bore sons, and Mary's cousin was told she was barren when God blessed her with an offspring.

Not everything in life loses its value if it sits on the shelf awhile.

I cry when I think of the day my mom put "the coolest jeans ever in history" on lay-a-way for me. I cry because I look at where my parents are now and I see how their hard, very hard, work and the budgeting and saving they taught us about, has paid off. I cry because I am an adult, that has a couple hundred set aside to go shopping on a weekend and has to buy a new tire with it instead, and I wonder how many hundreds of times my mom had a twenty in her wallet to buy herself a coffee before work, and she gave it to me to see a movie with my friend, or spent it at the grocery store, picking up cookies for a pot luck I told her about the night before. I cry because my mom gave us everything she had, and more. If my mom had five dollars, she would give us six. Every. Single. Time. My parents taught us to be humble, to be grateful, to be appreciative. I am not a lot of things, but those three things are who I am to the core. I still find myself getting excited over the simplest of things, and I still tear through stores like a tornado when I shop. But now, when I stand at the counter getting ready to pay, and I look at the handful of items I have in my over-flowing hands, I ask myself, "would you put it on lay-a-way?".. and I end up putting more then half of the items back on the rack. Matthew 6:21 says, "Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also". My mother's heart was ALWAYS on her kids. Both of my parents' hearts. When I walk up to the counter, I remember those jeans, and my heart fills with such pride and thankfulness, genuine and overwhelming thankfullness, that my mother stood there at the counter and signed that lay-a-way sheet, that I feel like I have more than I could ever need already, and I put it all back...

Except the vaccuum bags. For some reason I need those all the time.

I died tonight in the bathtub.

At 26 years old.

 I died having lived a life comprised of a relative amount of victories, but an even greater amount of defeat.

 I died.

I imagined my funeral. There were a lot of people there. About a third, to maybe half,( if I'm allowing myself the geneorisity of imagining there were people on the outsides of my imagination I couldn't see), of the people whose opinions I have made more important than my family's,God's, and my own, since I was old enough to understand the concept of evaluation, came to my funeral. I imagined my mother weeping. I imagimed she would not be able to give an eulogy, but I imagined if she could, she would be the only person capable of remembering me as I really was. My sister was able to speak, and she spoke of memories from our years of sharing rooms and small spaces on family vacations; but when she spoke of me being a great example and someone worth looking up too, I think she lied. It is not good to lie at a funeral, but I know God will forgive her. My father spoke of a rough start; of a stubborn child who, in the very sudden end, had much more in common with him then either of us realized. I imagined Jesus giving me an eulogy, and all he kept saying was, "she had potential." Had.



None of the people I made a priority my entire life spoke on my behalf. The ones who murmured nice things about me in the parking lot or servie lobby, perhaps genuine things if I can give them the credit, spoke of my sense of humor. No one commented on my weight. No one commented on how skinny I was. No one took the time to mention that at one point, through the dedication and willpower of Joseph locked in a prison and still standing strong, that I starved and exercised myself to a size seven on my 5'11 1/2 (thank you) frame. Not one person even coughed under their breath how pretty my hair was, that I never let my roots go past six weeks. No one commented on how nice my nails were, how my purses always matched my wallets, that my make- up was perfection, expensive perfection. They didn't stand in a circle and mention how cute my outfits had the tendency to be; and that my iphone always had cute cases on them. No one even talked about my tan, and I have a CALIFORNIA GIRL TAN for Pete's sake!! You know what else these rude people didn't say about me? That I lived for the Lord. That my love for Christ overpowered me and radiated from the inside. That my words, and actions, and choices, and activities, and hobbies, and friendships, and relationships, and every single thing in between coexisted with my love for my savior. No my friends, not one person said that. Even Jesus, and he knows my heart. Because really, if these people can't lie at my funeral, Jesus sho' ain't gonna!


I have all the potential in the world. I am from the internet generation. I cannot remember a time without beepers, cell phones, instant messaging, or other social network avenues. I am from a time where we can pause live TV; the resources allotted to my peers and me is overwhelming, and the things that I, because I can't speak for the casts of the hundreds of reality TV. shows that are obviously focused on world change, have chosen to do with these resources is, quite frankly, underwhelming, at best. Jesus says in Matthew 10:32-33, " Whoever acknowledges me before men, I will acknowledge before my Father in heaven. But whoever disowns me before men, I will disown him before my Father in heaven." If I was asked in line at the grocery store today if I was saved, if I knew Jesus Christ as my Father in heaven, I would say, "YES YES YES." But the same person listening to me answer the question, is the same person that witnessed my eyes rolling in the back of my head in utter impatience at how slow the line was moving maybe two seconds prior.


Can I write Christian on my biography form? Yes. Can I mark "regular attendee" on my welcome form at church? You bet your sweet bottom. Can I check, "lived my life for God and God only"? Not even on a Sunday ( an eight-o-clock in the morning after getting off work at two in the morning Sunday). When I died in the bathtub tonight. I left nothing. I left this Earth in the same way I found it. And the funny thing that isn't so funny is, we, well by we, I mean I, can rationalize so easily, that changing the lives of five people won't matter, so why even try? I have this all - or - nothing attitude that allows me far too easily, to walk away from an opportunity to share Christ, or at times to simply behave as a Christian, because it's "just one person". Well Jesus was just "one person", and Mary was just one person, and Rahab was just one person, and they changed the world. If I died tomorrow, at least that would have been one.


When I came back from my funeral, I realized I was sitting in the bathtub, with Francis Chan's Crazy Love pressed against my forehead, in the same exact position as Julia Roberts, playing Elizabeth in Eat, Pray, Love, was sitting in the bathtub listening to her friends arguing over her current mental state. I had Chan, Julia had an Italian Dictionary. Julia was playing a character whom was going through a divorce and a difficult, transformative time in her life; and I am done playing a character who isn't. I devote hours a week to exercise. I will lose sleep to get that extra cardio in, or to make sure I have my lunch packed for work so I don't eat fast food. I get up an hour early to make sure my make-up (Bondo as my Dad would call it) is perfect, and my hair is perfect, and my outfit is perfect; but my soul is broken. I show up to work looking beautiful, and skinny, and tan (California tan, need I remind you); but I am tired, and grumpy, and stressed, and lethargic. If Christ was reflected through perfectly applied eyeliner and acrylic nails, I'd be golden; but He is not; and the second I opened my lip glossed mouth I ruin it for myself, and anyone around me. Ask me my Starbucks order, I'll smile and give it to you; compliment my hair or nails, I'll blush and whisper, "thank you so much", ask me about why I believe in the Lord I serve and you should too, and I'll clam up and spit, "I'm not defending my religion to you, go get me my latte." And we wonder why God is missing? (and by we, I mean me). Why is God missing in schools, offices, gyms, courtrooms, college classrooms, therapy offices, and coffeehouses? Because I'm a believer, and I won't even bring Him there. I would rather lay under the radar than be labeled the Holy roller and watch seas part when I come into work. I would rather my outside reflect physical beauty than a love for God that brings me a joy that radiates from within.


And I am tired, and grumpy, and stressed, and lethargic. And I am not alone.


Don't get me wrong, I promote physical activity, and exercise, and a healthy lifestyle. I am dedicating my career to focusing women on a lifestyle that promotes mind, body, soul; with God at the center. I advocate a woman taking the time to get a pedicure every two weeks, or buy a shirt from her favorite store, or WHATEVER it is that makes YOU feel as beautiful as YOU are. I love nothing more than a woman in killer shoes who walks with a confidence that screams, "I'm living my purpose". But I am tired of feeling uncomfortable walking by a group of women in church, wondering what they're thinking about my outfit, my hair, my new lipstick color. I am tired of this being how we evaluate our sisters, I am tired of this being all I am worth, I am tired of giving women the power to take confidence that should stem from my God alone, and I am tired of knowing that if I'm not walking by that group, I am a part of it.






I am tired, and grumpy, and stressed, and lethargic. I am perfectly tweezed and arched, I am smelling nice and matched head to toe, and I am tired. And I am not alone.






I died in a bathtub tonight. A bathtub filled with expensive bubble bath and Epsom salts. I went into that bathtub excited to let the warm water soothe my sour muscles, and a good read to convict me and take me away for awhile. And I heard the water dripping, "you're wasting your time"; drip, " but it's not your time to waste"; drip, "when does it become about more than this"; drip, "your life is empty because you serve two masters"; drip, "twenty years at the same church and you're barely more than an attendee"; drip, "should have said hi to the lady on the treadmill next to you"; drip....."should have"....drip....."what a wasted opportunity"....drip.....tired....."I'm so tired"...drip..... grumpy....drip....... and then I died in the bathtub. And when I walked out, I was alive in Christ. For the first time in twenty years of church attendance and Christian lifestyle (attempts) I really got that verse. In a way true to God and all His glory, I walked out of the water, and I dried off, and I got it.


I am still tired, but I am excited. I am not grumpy, because I have no reason to be. I am not stressed, because half that mess wasn't important in the first place, and the half that matters is being handled by God, far more powerful than me, and I am not lethargic.. because I am alive and made new again in Christ.


If I die a week from now, trust you, me, there will be people at that funeral that will say, "I finally started seeing her love for Christ, she seemed so happy in her last days". And who knows, maybe one of them will have been touched by me. One is enough. One is beautiful. I just hope, that the one I touch, knows me well enough to know, I wear MAC, even at my funeral. Make sure they get that right. Amen.