camels and needles

Matthew 19:24

I'll say it again--it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God!

It's fair to say that it is impossible to get a camel through the eye of a needle. Have you ever tried to relace a shoe? Have you ever tried to sew a button back on with unruly string? Even thread, which is easily controllable and, not to forget, small is a bit of a pain to try to get through that tiny, sharp instrument. Imagine a big, fat beast of an animal with a name like "camel." It smells, it's dirty, it slobbers all over you. I don't even think all of the butter in the world could make that thing slippery enough to weasel through a needle's eye.

But what about a wealthy man?

This has been troubling to me, lately. I've realized that my life is consumed by electronics. It is difficult for me to read, to sit and have the discipline to finish what I start. Sure, a great fiction novel that grabs you and won't let you go is an easy read, but some of the best literature takes time and commitment to fully enjoy. It's slow moving, some of the words are tough, and in need of some fermenting. Maybe I have ADD like the rest of my generation. Is that why I can't finish Pride and Prejudice? Is that why I can't seem to get myself to sit down and read God's Word?

I desire God and long for a relationship with Him. I am not willing to believe what I do blindly. I have a deep craving to make it my own faith. Maybe this calls for change in my life, for some scrutiny and criticism. Simplicity. Solitude. Peace and meditation.

Pride is a difficult enemy to battle.

Pen Pals

Dear captivated readers,

When I was in the 5th or 6th grade, my favorite book was entitled, "P.S. Longer Letter Later." In the book, two best friends were separated when one of their families was forced to move to a different city. Having sworn to be BFF's (Best Friends Forever for all you older folks), they decided to become earnest pen pals. The book is filled with silly letters that any pre-teen girl would swoon over--boys, makeup, school, the cheerleading team and the latest fashions were all included. I must confess, I longed for a pen pal that I could write to. I'd stare at my stationary and would feel the deep hole of what was missing in my life: correspondence.



Of course, I probably would have given up after a few, choosing my N*Sync obsession and soccer tournaments over the feeling of being chained to a desk, hunched over a letter, trying to think of things to say.

But to be truthful, I walk down to the mailroom everyday and gaze into the clear plastic window of my metal-faced mail box and wish that it would instantly overflow with letters from different friends and family members, countries from the farthest sides of the world with beautiful stamps and big, black ink marking the price of postage. Like "I Dream of Jeannie," I slap my arms together and blink a few times to see if that will make them appear. Knowing my genie powers are somewhat out of practice and rusty, I'll craft a few notes to friends and lick the envelopes shut with speed. Clink, slip, clink--in they go, into the outgoing mail bin, and as I turn my back I cross my fingers and hope that in a few days, I'll see a reply.

Oh poor, poor me.

Sometimes I want to pitch my phone and my computer straight into the trash can, and this is why: because back in the days of snail mail, when it was one of the only ways to stay in communication with an individual, one would sit and carefully craft words and sentences with genuine meaning. The finished product is a jewel, a gem.

When I think about why I want to become a writer, I think of letters. Letters are a great way to start writing when writer's block is attacking your brain at full force. I'll think of someone I care about (Apree, Biddle, Jas, Momma) and then I'll pull out a blank sheet of good ol' college-ruled, and away I'll go. Each word is chosen carefully. The meaning has a purpose.

I'll sign off now, and leave you to it.

Love,
Anne

P.S. When you write, don't forget to put my full name above my school on the address.

Mascara

In this picture, I have mascara and eyeliner marks around my eyes. I don't really mind, it was taken late at night after a busy Christmas day gathering with family and a lot of food. I had reason to be weary.

Amy and I had an interesting conversation this afternoon while we took part in the daily routine most women share: putting on our makeup. I told her that there are times when I feel completely disguting when I don't have eyeshadow and eyeliner on. I look in the mirror, and the thought crosses my mind: I am incomplete and I didn't take care today to make myself look nice. I am convinced people will notice that I don't look my best.

Suddenly, a lightbulb went on. I think that I look "my best" when I paint it with dried up colors with a brush and various instruments for application I keep in a small black bag that I never lose possession of. But I am truly me when I don't have makeup on. Makeup is truly just that--being made up.

You might be saying to yourself, "wow, Anne sure is a smart one," and you roll your eyes. "She's just now getting this?"

Stay with me, stay with me.

The summer after my freshman year in high school, a friend from church introduced me to a band called S.O.K and their song "Made Perfect." A brief clip of lyrics for you:

The girl you see in the mirror isn't who I see. When I look at you, I see reflections of me. You don't like your face, so you paint over my masterpiece. You hide your face, so you hide my face, and fail to believe that I made you the way you would be most beautiful. I planned you way before universe was born. When you try to change yourself, it only makes me cry. I dont' know why you try to make better what I've made perfect.

Now, this may seem a little "poppy" and "bubblegum" but remember, I was 15. And I didn't ever NOT like my face, that wasn't the case. It was just a milemarker, a rite of passage for me as a young American girl to learn how to wear makeup and sport it daily. I was excited, of course. But this song does still strike a chord with me, years later when I no longer have a taste for boybands and the like.

The fact that Amy and I wake up every morning and apply our makeup in a routine we have fashioned to fit our particular style is just an example of how we have become warped by our culture. We both confided that we think we look better when we wear makeup, that we feel gross when we don't. I know I worry about the image I am wearing when I don't take time to present myself nicely. And don't get me wrong, I don't think makeup is bad and this is not a call for us women to throw away our Bobbi Brown's and CoverGirl's and burn our bras. I will wake up tomorrow and put mascara on my eyelashes, and I'll most likely remind myself that I am almost out and to buy more.

Isn't it strange, though, that we are almost subconsciously ashamed of our clean faces, the ones we were born with?

I look in the mirror at my thick eyebrows and lengthy eyelashes, at the zit on my cheek (thanks to a dirty cell phone keypad) and my chapped lips and hopefully, I can be more aware that I am looking at the natural me that God created. It isn't just a canvas to paint over to improve. I am healthy, and lucky. Blessed, to be honest.

My roommate and I are geniuses.

going about my business

I've been thinking a lot about road trips lately. Sometimes I have memories that I immortalize, put on a pedestal and set a halo above. One of those is a road trip.

It was early evening in late July. The sky was a deeply perfect blue, and as the sun set, the darkening hue became more and more majestic. We were driving through Utah, and were halfway to our destination: Santa Barbara, California. I'm sitting in the passenger seat, talking casually to my sister and reading Harry Potter on and off to my mom who was driving. We stop chatting for a second and notice the rock formations and red-stone canyons we're driving through. They're breathtaking. Against that blue color, the glowing red rock was something out of my Freedom-of-the-West/Want-to-be-a-lonesome-Colorado-Cowgirl dreams... It made me wish I had a guitar to pull out and start plucking away at, with a country twang and a forlorn song to croon around a campfire.

A lot happened on that roadtrip. Relational breakthroughs were made, dreams were discovered, bad hair cuts were bought. In an attempt be somewhat discreet about my family and our dynamics, I'll keep it short. My parents have two daughters, me and Katie Rose. I'm the loud drama queen who can be straight as an arrow because of my ability to drown in guilt and remorse. My sister, though, is quiet and serene who has chosen to be the complete opposite of me, no matter what. I liked salad, she didn't. I liked pizza, she didn't. I hated orange, she loved it. I was an Abercrombie girl, she was sporty and refused to wear makeup. When I hit my teenage years, I have to confess, the bully rights given to an older sister got a little out of hand. I don't blame her for not really liking me, in all honesty. But on this roadtrip, common bonds were formed. We both decided we liked long car rides. We discovered that we had similar tastes in music, and the fashion trends that she was starting to adore were some that I had already dipped my feet into.

Roadtrips can bring so much life and learning.

I'd like to start in a far away city, some place out here on the east coast. Maybe Boston, or D.C. I'll leave a metropolitan city and make my way back home to Colorado, passing through Hickville's and Po-dunk towns alike. Some will be exhaustingly boring, some will change my life. Folk music, jazz, and a little bit of classic rock is a necessity. A cowboy hat and big black sunglasses are a must. Just imagine all those stops at gas stations to load up on Red Bull for the late night drives, and the rainstorms you'll encouter that will make you wish you never left. But when I open the garage upon arrival at my destination, and I'm throwing away the trash I've accumulated over the miles, I think I'll feel a tad more full, more whole, and a bit brighter.

It is my favorite luxury right now, my dearest dream to think about as I doze off into sleep at night.

Damnit, where are my keys?

long black limousine...

On a recent trip down memory lane, I revisited my old slow dancing days. The driver of this journey was a good friend of mine, Kevin, who is Asian and amazing. He scribbled on and on in his blog about the different songs, the revised technique as he gained bigger and better levels of cool, and how this has taken him to a sense of self he wouldn't have otherwise gained. The philosophy of slow-dancing by Kevin H-to-the-When.

Do you ever find yourself a little lost in someone else's words?
Well, after reading, it was like I woke up in a bar in a completely different city very, very confused. I'm not saying Kevin's words are like a drug (although, he and a few others would argue that they most certainly are), but the memory was a clear enough picture for me to be transported back in time.

Out here in Boston, I find myself often thinking about the amount of miles crossed from Colorado to college. Miles of land, miles of experience -- miles of laughter, grief, confusion, understanding, love and loss. And somewhere on that journey, there was a little bit of slow dancing with Kevin himself. And with all of that said, don't think that I am just a sentimental fool locked in this closet of a dorm room, mosey-ing through old photographs and listening to Patty Griffin.

Oh, someone pass me a Kleenex.
I can assure you, there isn't too much of that.

All of that is said, though, so that I can say this: that all of those awkward middle school dances, high school proms, and everything in between have brought us to this point in our lives. Whether that be Berkely, Colorado State, Missouri or Boston,
my greatest fear is that, in effort to exchange the
teenage,
pimply,
smelly,
awkward self
for a newer, shinier college-attending adult YOU,

we will lose the character that has been built inside us by the friends we have lost and gained, the times we went ice-blocking at one in the morning, where we broke curfew and our parents grounded us, when we had our first kiss, our first love, and our very first slow dance.

An interesting picture: maybe no one ever told the pirates of old that, in fact, the treasure they seeked so earnestly laid within them all along. They walked and paced, they faced death and danger, all while following a map with a big black X on it so they could unlock a chest filled with gold and jewels. The turn the key, they open the chest -- and within their own chest, their heart shines and radiates with a glow that no one could ever take away -- so that even if there is no gold or jewels, they still have within them a sense of self that is more valuable than any amount of riches they could acquire.



To wrap this up, after graduation, I embarked on a journey with a map in hand. Most of us did. But it doesn't matter where we wander, and what we come to in the end. If we can remember that all we seek lies within us, and if we can hold onto that, well... we'll gain more than any of us could ever imagine.