That's What I'm Waiting For

Recently, I had a conversation with one of my good friend about guys, dating, and the single life. 

Now, it doesn't take many blogs of mine to see how my past relationships have gone, pretty much everywhere but forward. 

When I was in college, I blamed my dating life, or rather lack of, on my addiction. 

When I moved to St. Louis after graduating from Indiana, I blamed it on having a serving job, and constantly being too busy. 

Now that I am in Nashville, I catch myself blaming the music industry. "They wanted fame more than me," and "They wanted a super model because they think they are rock-stars," and "They can't take me out on a date because they are broke". 

Of course, this is not all musicians. I know many of amazing guys who are musicians. I just don't seem to find any of those. 

Maybe one day.  

Anyways, I am beyond brilliant at blaming my failed dating life on everyone, except me.

Ironically, the common denominator amongst all these failed relationships is, well...me. 

Insecurity is something I have to truly work on every single day. I've never looked in the mirror and have effortlessly said, "Wow, you're beautiful. You are really something. "

Never once. 

I have come a long way, but I still have a long way to go. 

When I look in the mirror, I don't see someone covered in jewels, waring a crown.  I have to purposefully remind myself that I am a daughter of the King, and that I am worth fighting for. 

I constantly focus on myself. The truth is,  there isn't much room in my relationships because I take up about 99.7% of the room. 

I exhaust guys. 

I need an ungodly amount of affirmation that most guys can't give. 

I give them every reason to end it with me before it can even really begin. Mainly, so I don't get hurt. I don't trust guys. 

Despite years of counseling, I still resort back to walls to keep myself safe. I used to think the "right" guy would be able to knock them down. 

Wrong. 

No guy is going to have the energy to continually tear down these walls. It isn't their job. 

Back to my friend…

She has been involved with this particular guy who constantly tells her he isn't interested in a relationship. He likes her, but he likes his single life more.

She really likes him,  so giving up his attention isn't really an option. She would rather be with him than be without. 

While she was telling me about him, I felt a surge of righteous anger boil up from somewhere deep in me. 

I looked at her as if she was my own child, as if she were one of my nieces.

 "You deserve more. You deserve more. You deserve more. You deserve someone who values you, all of of you. You deserve someone who makes time for you. You deserve someone who makes you a priority. You deserve a guy to fight for you.

After I told her this, I caught a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror.  

 I needed to hear this as much as her. 

I have been in the same position as my friend countless times before. 

Let me reiterate, I'm not blaming the guys. This isn't a bash all guys post.  I know more than most how many of those there are flooding online.

Rather, this is dedicated to the hearts that don't know what they are worth, or perhaps they do, but have forgotten. 

This is dedicated to the hearts that feel the need to run to someone who doesn't handle their's with care. 

This is dedicated to the hearts that need to take a look at their own heart before giving it away. 

This is dedicated to the hearts that long for someone to love, and to also be loved.

This is dedicated to the hearts that want love, but don't know what it means to give it away. 

This is not dedicated to the hearts that like the chase, like the game, and aren't interested in finding a relationship.

This is not dedicated to the hearts that like the single life. 

 I am not God, I do not know when I will meet that person. It could be tomorrow,  or it could be 5 years from now. Whenever that will happen doesn't really matter. What matters now is how I treat my heart. 

Maybe the conservation with my friend was a wake up call, a sweet reminder, a gentle voice that was buried deep down in my soul. It was always there, I just have ignored it lately. 

"You deserve…"

The blame game placed blinders on my eyes, forcing me to look everywhere but in. In keeping score of how many times I have been hurt, and by what particular guys, I discounted all the  guys who  have been wonderful to me. 

In this case, "it's not you, it's me," rings true. 

It was me. 

What I'm waiting for, is not some tall, dark and handsome prince charming, wearing boots and skinny jeans, riding in on a Mercedes.

What I'm waiting for, is not someone who can write me the best song, play the guitar, and work it in front of a crowd. 

What I'm waiting for, is not penny loafers, a double major, and retirement fund. 

What I'm waiting for, is not a missionary, who can quote the New Testament word by word.

What I am waiting for...is me.

I'm waiting for when I start treating my own heart right. 

I have started, but I still have a long way to go.  

I'm waiting for when I can give away more love than I need to receive. 

I'm on my way, but I'm not there yet. 

With both hands, one waving a white flag, I surrender, once again. I'm done blaming everyone but myself. 

This is dedicated to my friend's heart, my niece's hearts, even my own heart…Above all else, Guard your heart.Treat it with care.  Be gentle and kind to yourself. Celebrate the glorious, beautiful, perfectly imperfect mess that each one of us is.

"Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built up against it" 

Carving Lincoln

Over the weekend, my friends and I decided to carve pumpkins. 

Instead of doing a ghost, haunted house, or cat, I decided to do Abraham Lincoln. 

I haven't carved a pumpkin in over 23 years. Needless to say, I had forgotten how time consuming it is. 

The first thing you do, when carving a pumpkin, is clean out the inside. 

You have to stick your hand, or large spoon in, and get out all the seeds and gunk.

This can be a process. 

The second thing you have to do is outline your design.

Using a push pin,  I stabbed tiny holes in the shape of Lincoln’s face on the surface of my pumpkin. 

It took forever. 

This is also a process. 

The final step is to start carving your design.

Away at Lincoln’s face I went. ..and went…and went.

This took commitment and concentration. 

I wanted to quit shortly after I started. 

This can be a very discouraging process. 

Because I find deeper connections in everything, I thought of how carving a pumpkin is kind of like our lives. 

"Dig In"

For as long as I can remember, I have always focused on the outside. 

I’ve worked relentlessly at making the outside, “perfect.” 

The problem with, “perfect,” is that it does not exist. 

And even if you get close to the societal definition of, “perfect,” you realize you aren't any happier or satisfied. 

When I wanted to change my behavior, God had to start with my heart. 

Like a pumpkin, He had to clean, and continues to have to clean, the garbage that’s in my heart. 

He has to purge the idolatry, envy, pride, and control within. 

It hurts during this phase. My insides don’t like being torn and ripped apart. 

However, this is what is necessary for change. 

What I failed to see while carving my pumpkin, and in thinking about my own transformation, is that you can’t skim over this phase. You can't use short cuts. 

Whenever I tried to speed up my recovery process with bulimia, I ended up failing.

Instead of taking my time, and allowing God to work on my heart, I ended up sliding back right into the same patterns I had grown to hate. 

Because I rushed this phase last night, I ended up having to go back and continue cleaning out the seeds. 

You must take your time. 

Be patient, with God, and yourself. 

"Looks can be Deceiving"

After outlining Abe's face, I started connecting the dots. 

It wasn't pretty. 

Up close, Abe’s face looked like a random display of jagged lines, not forming any sort of human face. 

There were many moments I questioned if this was going to work.

 I had given up hope that my pumpkin was going to resemble any sort of Lincoln, even a hipster Lincoln.   

I often times question my life, the paths I have taken, the marks I have made. 

Why couldn’t I have gone on a straight path? 

Why did I have to take a ton of different tracks?

Can God really use my Ministry and Psychology degree, food service experience, assistant job, broadcasting work and songwriting passion for His good? 

It all looks like a series of random paths leading nowhere. 

However, this isn't the case. 

Again, Looks can be deceiving. 

"Let the Light In"

It wasn’t until I placed candle ight in my pumpkin, that I saw Lincoln. 

Without the light, it was a series of carvings, that didn't make much sense. 

With the light, it’s a masterpiece. 

Like a puzzle, I don’t understand how everything in my life will fit together. 

The good, the bad, the ugly and the beautiful, it all looks random. 

But when I let God in, and allow Him to work through me, everything changes. 

The hardships and sidetracks have a purpose. 

The moments of loneliness have meaning. 

The perceived pointless jobs are vital.

When I allow Him to be the Master Carver, He makes a mansion out of my mess. 

Right now, I can't see what He is carving. 

All I know is that it hurts.

If I am being honest, I am a little irritated by how slow He is going. 

But,  He has His reasons.

Life may not make sense to you right now. 

You may be stuck in a job that you don’t like. 

You may be stuck in a city that you don’t like. 

You may be struggling to accept the cards you have been dealt with. 

I don’t know why life can’t be a straight series of dots. 

I don’t know why God continues to prune me, over and over, even when it hurts. 

What I do know, however, is that if I submit to His Will and plan for my life, He can make all the pieces fit. 

My pumpkin didn’t know that it had turned into Abraham Lincoln's face. 

We can’t always see how God is shining through us. We don't always know how God is using our messed up lives, disappointments, and trials. 

But He is. 

He is using each one of us, flaws and all,  for His story, His grand design.

He is the Storyteller and the stage is His. 

Only He can make all the pieces fit. 

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free”  -Michelangelo

Benny & Joon

I’ve never understood the Johnny Depp obsession, until now.

 

The other night, I watched the movie, Benny & Joon, for the first time ever.
Perhaps it was because I have been called, and even labeled myself as, “mentally ill,” that I resonated with the character of Joon.  Perhaps it was the misunderstood, yet charming character of Sam.
Whatever the case, I fell in love with the movie and Johnny Depp.

In the movie, they play the song, “Have a Little Faith in Me.”

I’m not sure what exactly came over me while watching the film, but I started crying.

Usually, my tears have to do with my desire for a relationship, especially while watching Romantic kinds.

But this time was different.

When the song finished, I felt as if God speaking to me, “Have a little faith in Me.”

At first I was caught off guard. I mean, duh, I consider myself a Christian, of course I believe in You God.

But do I really?

I remember going up front for an altar call many moons ago.

The pastor asked those who were in need of prayer to come forward.  
I went forward because I wanted to believe.

A lady next to me asked, “What do you need prayer for?”

I answered, “I want to believe.”
She then said, “Of course you do.”
But do I really?

What many don’t see, is that I struggle with faith.

I cling to 2 Timothy 2:30 that says, “If we are faithless, He remains faithful,” and in Mark 9:24, “I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief.”

I have moments of doubt and uncertainty.

While we have nature and His Word to show us facets of God, He remains a mystery. I rest in the fact that like an ant understands the internet, is how I understand God.

Right now, I must have a little faith in God when it comes to the music.

 

As I have mentioned before, I heard God tell me that music was part of my life nearly 5 years ago.
The interesting thing is that when God told me that, I wasn’t doing anything with music. In fact, I was hiding from music.

Fast forward to today.
I have already had one song picked up by a Nashville country singer, and  currently have three on hold, which can only be explained by God.
I think He enjoys blowing our minds.

My friend wrote me an email the other day and said, “Amy, I have been praying for the songwriting for you and God told me that you are much too eager. He wants you to trust Him.”

Ouch.

The truth is that I have been much too eager.  I’ve had a taste of my dream, and I want more.
I've failed to remember that everything that has happened with music in my life has been in God's time.
Instead of letting life happen, I’ve tried to figure out how to make it happen on my own.

Is this the song that changes everything?
Is this person going to pick up this song?
If not them, is there someone else?
Should I be talking to this person or that person?
Should I stay at my job or look for something else?
Should I go back to school for music?
Should I start a non-profit that combines ministry and music?
Should I submit my writings here or there?

Literally, my mind replays these questions over and over, over and over, and over and over.

All the while, God is telling me clearly, “You are too eager to make it happen on your own and now. Have a little faith in Me.”

Instead of wearing yourself thin, believe in Me.

Instead of trying to calculate every move, rest in Me.
Instead of living in the future, be in the now.

In the past few days, I’ve purposefully stopped trying.

When I am sitting on a patio outside, I look at everything around me. The people, the trees, the leaves, the cars passing by. 
When I am talking to someone, I have tried to listen, really listen.
I’ve stopped waking up with a list of what I need to work on, such as eat healthier, go work out and write in my journal.
Instead, I breathe in, and thank God for waking me up another day.

It’s not easy.

I crave to do, rather than just be.

Sometimes, God just wants you to believe in Him.

It’s as simple as that.

Have faith in His timing.

Have faith in His love for you.
Have faith in the fact that even when we doubt, He remains the same.
Have faith that whatever your situation, and circumstance, He is still God.

I don’t claim to know the reasons why bad things happen in this world.

But they do.
What I rest in is that while it doesn’t make sense to my human, finite mind, it does to God.

He is the internet, I am the ant.

 “Have a little faith in Me”

-God

When, "Thank You," Hurts

 “Why didn’t you like him?” my friend asked.

“He didn’t open the car door for me, and he was on his phone the entire date,” I replied.

Manners mean a lot to me.

My parents raised me on, “Please,” and, “Thank You.”

One of my biggest pet peeves when I served were guest’s lack of manners.

To some guests, I was invisible.

They would run me around ragged, asking for every little thing, and never once say, “Thank You.”

The 6 years I served taught me more about life than any college course will.

I learned humility.

I learned that a smile can change everything.

I learned that people can surprise you.

I learned that people are picky and complicating.  

I learned that manners matter.

It should be no surprise that the gentleman mentioned in the beginning of this post did not get a second date.

Last night, I forgot my manners.

It had been a hard day at work. Not physically hard, rather, emotionally.

I currently hold a job that’s the complete opposite of my passion.

I sit in front of a computer for 8 hours, staring at numbers, staring at the clock.

I am not good with numbers and data. In fact, I failed college math two times.
I hold a Psychology and Ministry degree, yet, I am in Administration and Business.  

As I sat in bed last night, I asked God, “How long?”

How long till I am able to make my passion my career?

How long till I find a job that uses my talents?
How long does this in-between phase last?

After, “How long?” came, “Why?”

Why does everyone else seem to have it figured out?
Why does my life look the exact opposite of what I thought it would look like? (Meaning, I am not married, with a mortgage, living in the suburbs, driving a minivan).

Why do I even  continue believing that I can make my passion and talents my career?

I have heard the voices of those who tell me my passion will never be my career. The voices that say, “That is not real life”. The voices that tell me to stop dreaming, to find a job that is more reasonable,and reliable. I hear voices that tell me to give up on my dream.

Thankfully, I have stopped listening to those voices.

Instead, I have learned to listen to the Voice who knows everything about me. 

The Voice Who calls me to walk on the water and believe for the impossible.

After my dance with self-pity and making it all about, “me”, I opened the Bible.  

Without fail, like so many times before, it hit me….

“Let them sacrifice thank offerings and tell of His works with songs of joy,” Psalm 107:22

It was as if God was telling me, “Thank Me.”

I didn’t want to Thank God.

I didn’t want to reflect on all my blessings last night.

I wanted to sit in self-loathe and complain about how life isn't fair.

That is not what God wanted.

He desired my sacrifice.

He sacrificed His only Son for me, yet, I could barely sacrifice a simple, “Thank You.”

So I started saying, “Thank You.”

Thank you for my health.

Thank you for my family and friends.

Thank you for the miracles of Faye, Edgel and Nick.

Thank you that I have a job.

Thank you that I have shelter...and so on.

 

And again, without fail, I was brought back to this great truth that seems to be one of the hardest for me to learn:

I am not God.

I can’t stop the wind and the waves.

I can’t figure out the reasons to all my, “How Long’s?” and, “Whys?”

I can’t begin to know what will happen next.

What I can do is to Thank Him.

Thank Him when it hurts.

Thank Him when it’s not fair.

Thank Him when I don’t understand.

“Let them sacrifice thank offerings and tell of His works with songs of joy,” Psalm 107:22

Last night, I forgot my manners.

However, this morning, I said, “Thank You.”

“Thank You for waking me up this morning. Thank you for a job to go to. Thank You that You have a good plan for my life. Thank You that You are God, and I am not.”

Beer or Vodka?

St. Louis was a city of, “firsts” for me.

My first grown up job, my first apartment, the first time I dated a musician, the first time a musician broke my heart, the first time I had to break someone else’s heart, my first dirty martini, and my first encounter with Faye White.

“Beer or Vodka?”

“Excuse me?” I answered.
“Beer or Vodka? What do you wanna drink? Beer or Vodka?”
I looked down at my shoes, hesitating with what to answer.
“Oh, I’m good. Thanks though.”

Faye White was 75 going on 31.

I asked her once why she didn’t have mirrors around her home.

“Because when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize that old lady,” she said.

Faye smoked like a chimney, cursed like a sailor, dressed like a debutant, and loved like an unorthodox Jesus.

Faye only bought clothes from the Neiman Marcus catalog, salespeople annoyed her.

Come to think of it, most people annoyed her.

Her house was like a museum.

She had a life-size Nutcracker in her family room, porcelain dolls from Switzerland and Germany in her living room, copper kettles hanging from her kitchen ceiling, and pictures of her pets covering the walls.

She didn’t believe in cooking, and used her oven to store pots and pans.
I think I get that from her.

“Why do you keep Twinkies by your door?” I asked her.

“Oh, they are for the raccoons. They like Twinkies. In fact, there is one little one that comes up to my door and just waits for me outside…holding her hands out. I named her Twinkie.”
I didn’t believe her until I actually saw the raccoon she named, Twinkie, sit outside her porch sliding door.

Everything about Faye was magical.

I had just moved to St. Louis in 2005, after graduating from Indiana University.

I had no idea what to do career wise, but decided it would be nice to have a puppy.

I went online to Puppies Next Day, and picked out a Malti-Poo puppy named, Delilah.
Delilah was winter white and could fit into a large coffee cup.
Her seller, Debbie, instantly emailed me back after I inquired about Delilah.
$700 dollars and a click later, Delilah was mine.

Debbie asked me to meet her in a Cracker Barrel parking lot, about an hour outside my parents St. Louis home, to make the exchange.

I couldn’t because of work, so I sent my dad and mom.

The first time I met Delilah, she was cowering in the back of her cage, too scared to come out.

When I finally did get her to come out, I realized something, something rather major.

“This isn’t Delilah,” I told my parents.
“What?”
“This isn’t the puppy I picked out. This isn’t Delilah.”

All it took was one lick, and one gaze into this fluff balls eyes, and I was in love.

I didn’t care that this puppy wasn’t the one I picked out, she was mine.

My mom and I decided to name this puppy Lily.

I’m not sure why I asked my mom for her input, but she said Lily.
What my mom wants, my mom usually gets.

24 Hours later, I noticed that Lily had a cough.

Being the overprotective and anxious person that I am, I immediately took her to the vet.

Lily’s 3 pound body was shaking as I placed her on the cold, metal table.

“Uh huh..hmmm…well…hmmm…ohhhh”
I tried to decipher the doctor’s reaction, but couldn’t make anything out.

 After a full examination of Lily, the Vet placed her in my arms, took her glasses off, and spoke slowly and softly.

 “Lily has kennel cough. She also has a heart murmur.”

“A heart murmur? What is that? Can that be fixed by a pill?”
“No. The kennel cough we can cure. The heart murmur requires heart surgery.”

I wasn’t living off the streets, but wasn’t swimming in green either.

I was a college graduate, living with my parents, serving to pay the bills and had just spent everything I had in savings on a new pet.

“Surgery?  Really?”

After that visit, I would visit multiple other Veterinarians in the area, praying for a different diagnosis.

My heart broke a little bit more every time I heard the word, heart murmur.

In the meantime, I called Debbie back to let her know about what I found wrong with Lily.

She said that if I had found anything genetically wrong with Lily within 48 hours, she would return my money.

I never heard back from Debbie.
I called, my mom called, my dad called…nothing.
No email, no voicemail..nothing.

I found out a little bit later that Debbie had ended up being a broker for a puppy mill.

Lily was not born into a caring, warm, and loving environment like the listing online said.

Lily was born into a puppy mill, and born with a bad heart.

Since I didn’t have the money for heart surgery, I decided to give Lily the best life possible.

I would even make special visits to Starbucks just for Lily. She had a thing for their whip cream, much like her owner.

One of the last Vets I saw, suggested me to contact Channel 2, a news station in St. Louis.
The doctor went on to tell me that this news station does public interest stories, and maybe my online experience could help others looking to buy a puppy from the internet. I could inform people on the do’s, and do not’s, of buying a pet online.

I contacted Channel 2 News, and within 24 hours, someone from the station called me back, asking to do a story on Lily and me.

On Christmas Eve morning, I received an early gift.

“Amy, wake up, wake up!”

My brother hadn’t waked me up this early since we were children.

I ignored him, pretending to stay asleep so he would go away.

“Amy, wake up! Your Vet is on the phone and wants to speak with you.”

Still half asleep, I answered the phone, “This is Amy.”

“Amy, a lady in Fairview Heights, Illinois, saw your story on the news and wants to pay for Lily’s surgery.”

The lady in Fairview Height, Illinois wanting to pay for Lily’s surgery, was Faye White.

I contacted Faye after Lily’s surgery, and asked her if Lily and I could meet her.
She said yes.

The 45 minute drive to Fairview Heights, Illinois, was full of unanswered questions.

What would Faye be like?
What would I say?

Should I bring her a gift?
Will I cry? Yes, I will cry. I always cry.

“Beer or Vodka?”

“Excuse me?”
“Beer or Vodka? What do you wanna drink? Beer or Vodka?”
I looked down at my shoes, hesitating with what to answer.
“Oh, I’m good. Thanks though.”

Faye White would become my best friend.

I always felt like an old soul, so it’s no wonder her and I connected on so many levels.
Her life was everything mine was not.
She was married numerous times.
She lived like a socialite, traveling in style all over the world.
She was fabulous.

Her last husband was a Son of a B****, her words, not mine.

When he died, he told her, “Faye, now I want you to buy a safe car when I pass.”
So, naturally Faye bought a corvette.

Faye and I would go out to dinner, drinking dirty martinis and eating filet mignon.

She told me when to break up with boyfriends who weren’t good for me. She told me when I needed to grow up. She wasn’t afraid to hurt me with the truth.

 Faye didn’t know I had an eating disorder.

When I got accepted into Mercy Ministries, I knew that I had to tell her the truth.
I wrote everything in a letter, describing my struggle with the disorder, and why I was going into treatment.

My mom told me about a conversation she had with Faye after I went into treatment,
“Well Mary,” Faye told my mom, “I started talking to God again.”

My struggles led Faye to her knees.

I needed Faye, and she needed me also.  

She had lost her mother and husband the year before I came around.

She was hopeless and lonely, till she changed the station from Channel 4 to Channel 2.

 During one of our visits, she said, “I never watch Channel 2, Amy. I randomly switched it one night, and that was the night I saw Lily and you on the station. I had lost everything to live for and wondered why I was alive. But, then I saw you. I knew I needed to help you. I found something to live for, you.”

I tear up just writing this.

Faye White died the month before I moved to Nashville, Tennessee.

It was as if she saying goodbye, letting me go, telling me that it was time to start a new chapter.
She moved on to Heaven, I moved to Music City.

Countless things remind me of Faye White.

The aquamarine ring I wear on my left middle finger.
Her life sized Nutcracker that now sits in my brother’s basement.
The Christmas carousel, which my parents put out during the holidays.  
The birthday cards she sent me, which rest in my right side dresser drawer.

Every day, I see her everywhere.

Faye got very sick the fall before I left for Nashville.

Every time I saw her, I would ask, “When are you going to get better?”
She would respond every time with the same answer, “Tuesday at Two.”
Her sarcasm led to the phrase that I will never forget.

Tuesday at Two.

Faye was never able to have children, however, her legacy will continue.

I have no doubt that Faye will be one of the first people I see in Heaven.
In my mind, she will be 31 years old, looking glamorous, holding a martini in one hand, smoking a cigarette in the other.

Lily and Faye both had damaged hearts in the beginning.

But in the end, both were restored.

Faye saved lily’s life, while Lily saved Faye’s faith.

“When do you think you will get better?”

Faye replied, “Tuesday at Two.”

Bangs, Not Botox

Last Monday morning, I woke up with a small rash on my face.

This morning, I woke up with a lot of small rashes on my face.
If it weren’t for make up, I would have taken sick leave at my job.

Despite knowing the truth about who I am in Christ, I am extremely self-conscious.

In fact, one of my first thoughts after getting accepted into Mercy Ministries was about fashion.
“Are they going to make me wear long dresses?”
“Are they going to let me wear make up?”
“Are they going to let me straighten my hair?”

In my mind, Christian women aren’t supposed to care about how they look.

In my mind, I am not a, “good”, Christian because I do.
Rubbish.

I have always been concerned with my outward appearance.

In fact, shortly after I got bangs cut, I realized that they hid my forehead lines really well.
I have a feeling I will always have bangs because of this.
Who needs Botox when you can have bangs?

Last Wednesday night, my insecurities took over. 

I told my roommate that if the bumps didn’t go away, I was going to just stay in all weekend.
She looked at me and said, “No, you will not do that."
And I said, “But I can’t go out with my face looking like this."
She then said, “If you do not leave the house because of your face, you are putting all your worth into your appearance.  You are saying to yourself, “I am not worthy, I am not good enough, I am not valuable."

Ouch.

Good friends aren’t afraid to call you out.
Good friends aren’t afraid to crash your pity party.
Good friends aren’t afraid to let you know you are being ridiculous.
Thank goodness for good friends.

For me, it was a rash on my face.

For you, it may be too small of lips.
For someone else, it may be being too tall.
And yet for others, it may be your nose.

While I could have let these terrorizing, not to mention incredibly itchy, dots on my face keep me from going to work, I didn’t.

 I was brave.

This whole post may sound really silly to you.  In fact, it probably should.

But for me, it was a reflection of how far I have come.   

Two years ago I wouldn’t have left my room for anything if this would have happened.

Two years ago, I would have ordered in every night, and watched church online.
But this time, I was brave.
This time, I didn’t hide.

Sometime, being brave is asking for help.

Sometimes, being brave is apologizing.
Sometimes, being brave is public speaking.
Sometimes, being brave is leaving the known for the unknown.
Sometimes, being brave is going out in public.  

Thank goodness my friend called me out on my superficiality, and reminded me of my worth.

I hope everyone has a friend like that.

Step out and shine today.

Forget about all that’s wrong and remind yourself of all that’s right.
You are beautiful.
You are worthy.
You are exactly who you are supposed to be, spots and all.

Worst Cooks In America

About a month ago, I received a call from a casting director in LA, letting me know that they were interested in casting me for a reality show.

 

The reality show was called, Worst Cooks in America, on the Food Network.
After introducing himself, he said, “Ok, first off I am obsessed with you, and want you on the show. Secondly, did your boyfriend really break up with you because you couldn’t cook?”
“Yes. Yes he did.”
Apparently some guys really take, “the way to a guy’s heart is through food,” seriously.
 Moving on…

I was on craigslist hours before he called, looking for a second job. Somehow, I found the casting call link for this reality show.  I’m not sure why I even applied, but two hours later, the casting director called me back.

Next came an interview with a different director, then a skype call with another director, and then another.
Out of hundreds of applications, they were still interested in me.

I even made it to the final casting round.
If I happened to make the show, I would fly to New York, where I would stay for 4.5 weeks.  If I happened to make it to the final round, I would come back to Nashville $25,000.00 richer, before taxes of course.

I placed the decision in God’s hands.

Sure, it would be really cool to learn how to cook from Bobby Flay, and to get to stay in New York for free.

However, if the show would demean me in any fashion, or show me in a negative light, I didn’t want it.

This week I found out that I didn’t make it.

I told my mom, who instantly wrote me and said, “Your dad and I aren’t disappointed in you”.
Before I could even start feeling bad about myself, and feel as though I let her down, she let me know that I didn’t.

Shockingly, I took this rejection pretty well.
Oddly, my friends were the ones who were disappointed.

Based off of my other blogs, you probably have a good sense at how I usually take rejection.
I complain and ask God, “Why?”
I obsess over what I could have done differently.

But this time was different.

I knew that God had the ultimate say, and His answer was, “No.”
And for once, I trusted Him.

In fact, I am shocked with how unaffected I am with them not choosing me.

I didn’t even think thoughts like, “They didn’t pick me because I wasn’t skinny enough, pretty enough, or looked good on camera.”
That is a first.

It’s as if this whole experience meant to show me how much I had grown.
It’s as if God used this whole casting call to show me how much I actually did trust Him with my life.

 And  I realized I am not scared of rejection.  

This is a good thing, because I am in music.
I will hear many more, “No’s,” than, “Yes’s.”
But, I can handle it.

I have no deep, insightful, philosophical truth to this blog except this:  Rejection is imminent.
We will all be rejected from something, or someone.  

Rejection means that you are trying.
Even though it seems like a step back, it actually keeps us moving forward.

Perhaps one day, I will learn how to cook. 
Just not today.