Here's why God is cool (in case you didn't know)

I had the best full circle blessing today.

So I've been toying with the idea of selling my wedding gown for the past several years (if you don't know the back story here, call me sometime and we'll chat). It's been an emotional struggle for me, letting that go, because I've attached a lot of doubt to it, and a lot of guilt - "What if I never have another wedding dress?" etc. I thought about donating it, but I wanted to be able to give my parents some of their money back... so finally, with the move and the physical and emotional "stuff" purging that came along with it, I mustered the guts to post an ad on Craigslist and let it go.

This is the email I received tonight:

"Hi,

This is the dress of my dreams.....I saw this dress two years ago and I have done everything to get my hands on it. The wedding store in Portland that carried this dress actually closed the weekend before my appointment to go try it on. I was devastated.....once I saw this dress, I have never looked at another dress.....I want this dress!

I am fine with the price although I do not need the veil. I do not have all the money but was interested in possibly making payments. I will do whatever it takes to get this dress.....this will make my wedding dream come true.

I look forward to your response,

Jessica"

(tear) I replied to her email and told her of course we'd make it work and the sweetheart called me back in about three minutes... she'd been waiting at the computer because she wanted it so badly. She's coming tomorrow to try it on and (I'm quite sure) take it home. I'm trying to talk myself out of just giving it to her for Christmas. :)

I am just so floored by things like that. It isn't so much the miracle of the two of us finding each other, or the emotion that surrounds wedding gowns, or the joy of being able to solve someone's problem... it's the details, the tiny, intricate patterns that had to be crafted in order for it all to line up. I could have sold that dress in San Jose anytime, before it was practically discontinued... but I hauled it all the way here before I was ready to let go, so some girl I've never met in Eugene who has looked for it for almost as long as I've had it could find me on Craigslist and be able to afford her dream dress. Do you get it? What are the odds of that? It's a white and red dress, for crying out loud!

It's such a small series of tiny happenings, but those patterns are everything to me. It's the genesis of beauty out of pain... the end becoming the beginning. It's a story that might not mean anything to anyone else, but is such an affirmation in my mind. Who am I that I've been given such extraordinary grace, to have been offered joy where I had been clinging to regret and shame.

It's just that I've been stuck on this one silly choice for so long - to sell or not to sell - and I chose and was so rewarded. I don't really know how to explain how grateful I am...

It just... hope. It's so crazy beautiful, and always so much more than I could imagine or deserve. No matter how stubbornly I forget it, He reminds me that I'm forgiven again and again, often through many of you, sometimes through strangers and even through silly old dresses.

yeah. God is good all the time. ;)

"ehhh.." or "what i really thought of the Rent movie"

I'm having a hard time with this one. I'm not exactly disappointed... it was absolutely as good as I thought it would be. At the same time, it could have been better.

If I were Chris Colombus, I would have spent a hell of a lot more time in the teeny tiny relationship building scenes and less time in the plot progressing musical production numbers. I would have honored Jonathan Larson's extraordinary gift for subtlety instead of trying so darn hard to make the movie easier to follow (e.g. the constant use of the word AIDS - how many times can we replace a moderately genius phrasing like "this body provides a comfortable home for the acquired immune deficiency syndrome" or "close on Roger his girlfriend April left a note" etc. with an obvious and borderline cheesy "I have AIDS" declaration? I would have started the movie with Mark's documentary, I would have spent much more time in Mark's documentary vision, which is raw and beautiful and accurate to the mood of the play, dang it, and I would have saved the "Seasons of Love" number for the end of the movie when we had established some sort of emotional connection to the characters instead of putting it in the beginning to confuse the heck out of anyone who hadn't seen the play. I would have seriously considered not replacing filler songs with dialogue that makes the transition into singing seem abrupt and unnecessary. I would have remembered that the friendship between Roger and Mark is the driving force behind the plot, and that the audience needs to be grounded in that force so as not to feel like their heads are going to exploded as they try to understand everything else that's going on. I would have, I dunno, I would have done a lot of things differently. Of course, if I were Chris Colombus, I'd also have a much nicer car and more of a right to be such an obnoxious know it all.

That said, I thought it was pretty good. Tango was awesome, Santa Fe was super fun, and I dug the funeral scene... but I dunno. I am, sadly, a bit "ehhh..." about the whole thing.

Go see it and argue with me already.

On productivity, and being tragically un-cool...

So, many things were accomplished today:

Sold a bunch of old clothes to the Buffalo Exchange, which brought fear into my heart. It's an interesting sensation, having the Urban Outfitteresque trendster buyer girls rifle through things you have chosen, things you have paid for, things you have worn of your own free will, and tell you what they're worth - if they deem them worth anything at all. In the end, they took about 1/3 of what I offered, to the tune of $25 (35% of what they'll charge) - significantly more than I would have gotten at a garage sale, anyhow. At least a third of me is cool enough for hipster resale ;).

Found one of the greatest yarn stores I've ever been in. Happy face. Broke face.

We went to the Saturday Market, a regular occurrence here in Eugene. If you haven't figured it out, Eugene is kind of a hub for all things crafty - there is some sort of street fair or art show or whatnot almost daily. This one was a huge indy art maze adventure into the center of the peace-love commune subculture... the kind of place that makes you feel like even if you swear to never, ever shop at the Gap again, you'll never be quite cool enough to hang out with the in-crowd. This sort of place appeals to the quiet little rebel in me - the one who wants to dye her hair funny colors and pierce her face and make found-object art for a living. But, tragically and chronically un-cool, I don't have the guts or the devil-may-care attitude that are required for that sort of lifestyle. So I'm content to wander through the homemade candles and clothing, breathing other people's incense and revelling in the life I might have had.

If only I'd managed to buy better clothes.

C'est la vie. :)

having a song stuck in your head actually means you're smart

I'm being stalked by a song.

Is this the sort of thing that happens to other people, or is it just me? I'm being haunted, followed, sought out by this song... which I haven't heard in years, mind, and all of a sudden BAM! It's playing in Target, on my friend's car stereos, in the grocery store, on the television, on the radio... even my iTunes is obsessed with it and insists on including it in every random play list. Not that I mind. I like the song.

But when you're "signs and wonders" me, and you don't necessarily believe in coincidence, and the song in question holds some emotional significance in your past, a song-stalking episode can make you crazy. "What does it mean," you wonder, "is someone trying to tell me something?" WHY SONG, WHY? See? Crazy.

Good news is, at least I have a job :)

eulogy.

My grandfather held us on his lap and taught us to drive before our feet could reach the pedals. He taught me to speak by carrying me around the house for hours, pointing at objects, repeating their sounds. He taught me to stop and look before I was old enough to pay attention. His office always smelled like rubber bands.

Most of you never met my Grandpa Peters, or if you did, it was after his mind had already begun to fold in on itself, camouflaging so much of what I loved in him. He was the smartest man I've ever met -- a teacher, by profession and by nature. I've felt compelled in the past few days to try and explain him, to write it down and make sure someone is reading... he always wanted me to write everything down. I'm trying to listen.

He would insist that my white shoes were purple with so much conviction my small self actually believed I knew something he didn't. He'd sit on the floor and let us knock him over again and again and again... we were exhausting, I'm sure. We'd pull his hair, tickle him, untie his shoe laces... he'd try to explain static electricity.

My grandfather loved to walk. I had the privilege of walking with him, often, and these journeys are the substance of my earliest and most vivid memories. He was a storyteller... he spoke to animals, conjured fairies, chatted with gangsters, and understood the whys of everything I questioned. He would explain life and God to me with relentless patience. He loved exceptionally well, and he loved this world without exception.

At night, his hands were possessed by the spirits of two friendly, tickling creatures... they would creep- boompee doompee doompadee doompdee -down the hall, across the floor, and up over the edge of my bed to tuck squealing, protesting me in. I must have been at least 7 or 8 when I realized that Nipper and Napper were not independent personalities, but simply another incarnation of his extraordinary imagination.

I've had many conversations in my life about belief - the pros and cons and power of the simple act of believing in something. Often, I've heard people say that when they discovered the things they believed in childhood weren't necessarily true - the existence of Santa, Cinderella, etc. - they felt disheartened, disillusioned, betrayed. I don't share this experience. For me, that same discovery was simple, undeniable proof of how truly and abundantly I was loved. Entire kingdoms were imagined in my honor, and for my betterment- that I might know what it felt like to grow up in a world that radiated magic.

My grandfather passed away last week. He was not well here, nor very happy... there are a thousand reasons to be glad for him... he's whole again, somewhere, with the God he loved so much.

I am selfishly devastated, because I wanted to keep him.

The last time I sat and talked with my Grandpa, he told me about his uncle the trapeze artist, his dinner with Roy Disney, his first serious girlfriend. He wanted to know what I was planning to do with myself: was I planning to teach? Any new boys? He asked me what it would be like when I was sitting with my grandchild the way we were sitting then and I gave him some silly answer about space stations and holograms. The simple truth is, I'll be telling her, or him, about Sammy the Squirrel and Freddy the Fox, who live in the trees at West Valley College, or explaining the stock market, or Nipping and Napping her till she laughs herself to sleep, or helping her see the fairies in the bushes on the walks we take.

Or, most likely, I'll be telling her about her great-grandfather: how he held me on his lap and taught me to drive before my feet could reach the pedals, taught me to speak by carrying me around the house for hours, pointing at objects, repeating the sounds.

I'll tell her how very much I loved him, and how very wonderfully I was loved.

Cinderella came to my house!

Let's talk about how I get TTTTTTTTHHHHHHHIIIIIIIISSSSSSSS excited about trick-or-treaters... it's a little ridiculous. Tonight, Katelyn and I were sitting around the Los Gatos house (yes, I'm here, but only until tomorrow morning... long sad story) moaning and groaning because no one was knocking on our door. So we developed a strategy: we turned on all the lights, we put out some not-so-subtle signs that say "WE HAVE CANDY!!!!"... I put on a costume, and we tried to think lots of kid friendly, welcoming, happy-happy thoughts. Nothin'. Then we thought maybe all the "WE HAVE CANDY!!!!!" signs made us look a little too eager, like we were no longer the happy-cool-kid-friendly house, but the a-little-TOO-kid-friendly house, if you know what I'm saying. We were sad. We lamented: "Why don't the children love us?" " We are nice people" "Alas, Alack" etc.

Then......... !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So we've had like, five thousand trick-or-treaters in a row now. And every single Disney princess. And we try not to scare them with our relentless and somewhat suspicious enthusiasm. And I pretty much love Halloween for this reason: your neighbors come to your door... you smile and exchange good wishes and get to talk to their kids without seeming like a weirdo. And it's just nice. Well, that and costumes. Those are nice too.

Hey artist... you got a dollar?

There is an unusually high concentration of hitchhikers in this city, and they are ALL good looking, clean cut young men. There are 4,129 people who live in my town. Burrito Boy makes what is possibly the second best burrito of all time, for cheapo (it's almost Ricardos. Almost.) We drove to the coast yesterday, which takes about an hour, and it's breathtaking from the start of the drive all the way to the cliffs and the sea. The ocean smells like home :). Saturday we found the "World's Largest Indoor Garage Sale," which made me almost as giddy as iced venti nonfat white mocha. Spoils: One broken but beautiful watch ($2), one silly little vase ($2), and one perfect Louis the whatever chair for me to take apart and put back together ($40... that's cheap, really it is). Left behind: perfect beautiful vintage coat ($15)... too short sleeves. Dang arms. There are WAY more stars than I remember there ever being, anywhere. There are WAY more bugs than there should ever be, anywhere. A suicidal bird flew into our window and I collected it and felt like I've officially transitioned into the attitude of this place. Our neighbors have horses they never ride, and I'm welcome to ride them, but there are three and they are a herd so I need friends. We are invited to a Halloween Party in a barn :). We went to the most amazing church on Sunday and they did my two favorite songs in a row (God is good all the time). www.ecf.org.

So, speaking of artists (yes, we were, check the title)... I'm going to have a house of my own soon, and I know I've already expressed to a few of you my desire to fill it with artwork by people I know and love... I'm so blessed to know so many talented people, and I think it'd be fabulous to have a gallery of a house, a piece of each of you up here with me. I'm not picky, sketch me something on a napkin or go crazy, send me wacky photos or poetry or whatever...I'll even frame a letter... I promise to send you back a dang good Christmas present. Really. Something really good :)

Accountability, party of none.

K so I admit it... I am a total Myspace spy. I spy on my friends and my not so friends, my old acquaintences, and if I'm bored enough, their old acquaintences. Now that there's a virtual epidemic of Myspace activity trackers and other buzzkilling spyware, I have probably been on many of your "profile viewer" lists. Yes. I confess. I spy on you, too.

It was on a particularly uneventful spy on friends of friends of friends kind of day that I came across the following profile headline: "Don't judge Christianity by the lives of Christians." Huh. Don't judge Christianity by the lives of Christians. Try as I may, I cannot get that phrase to stop bouncing around in the bottom of my brain... don't judge Christianity by the lives of Christians...

Seriously? I mean, really? Is it only me that has a hard time with this sentiment? I could understand "Don't judge God" or "Don't judge all Christianity by the lives of some Christians", but "Don't judge Christianity by the lives of Christians" sounds to me like a big, fat, nasty, cop out.

My buddy Webster is going to help me out here:

Christianity: 1. the Christian religion 2. Christian beliefs or practices; Christian quality or character 3. the state of being a Christian

Huh. So Christianity, in summary, is the religion AND practices of those who define themselves as Christians. Seems to me if you can't judge Christianity by the lives of Christians, you can't judge it at all. Because without being exemplified, practiced, followed, or lived out by Christians, Christianity isn't. It becomes extinct. It ceases to exist. It's a lot of good ideas in a book. Can you define a religion without the practices of the religious to base your definition on? And if the definition of Christianity exists only on paper and as an ideal, what value does it have? What's the point?

God is not religion. Religion is of man and by man, and flawed and fearful and all of the imperfect things that we are as a result. But we have to own it. How the world judges Christianity is absolutely our responsibility, because the lives of Christians, the unit of us, the whole, ARE the working, visable definition of Christianity. God is, but He isn't a religion. Christ is, but He isn't a religion either. The religion of Chrisitanity isn't only what Jesus intended it to be, it's also what we act it out to be. If the majority of us who call ourselves Christians are close minded, judgemental, hypocritical, and all the other things we often are, then Christianity, as it can be identified and defined in this world, becomes so as well. Is this the way it should be? No. Should we call it Christianity. No! Is it what Christ intended... I don't think so.

The face of God is perfect and whole despite any of our failures or shortcomings. But we are the faces of religion, and if we can't live it, then our religion isn't what we claim it to be, and the world SHOULD judge us, and harshly, for that. How many times in my life have I used "Don't judge Christianity by the lives of Christians... by the life of me" as an excuse to be less than I should be? How many more times will I fall into the same trap? Religion will never be perfect just as we will never be perfect, but it should be humble and it should be honest and it should be accountable. And if the world's judgement of Christianity is not what we want it to be, we should change it. We should change us.

Christian: 1. of, pertaining to, or derived from Jesus Christ or his teachings 2. of, pertaining to, or adhereing to the religion based on the teachings of Jesus Christ. 4. exhibiting a spirit proper to a follower of Jesus Christ, as in having a loving regard for other persons. 5. a person who believes in Jesus Christ; an adherant of Christianity 6. a person who exemplifies in his life the teachings of Christ

( I apologize to the " Don't Judge Christianity..." profile guy. I totally get your intention, pal. Sorry for the rant... I'm annoying.)

I admit there are a bunch of theological holes you could punch in my argument. Bring it. But, my underlying point and the heart of my post is as follows: no more whiney, put upon, irresponsible, "why doesn't the world get it and love us" Christianity. Let's be the change, people. Let's prove'em wrong.

I am shocked and appalled.

SHOCKED APPALLED and HORRIFIED



That I have to put my own stamp on my required jury duty response form envelope.

I mean, really. Insult to injury, people, insult to injury.

;)

What happened to Karyn today?

Ya wanna know? I'll tell ya.

This weird guy with a turban came into my work, handed me a card that said "Lucky" on it, and said the following:

"This is what I know about you from looking at you. You have a very romantic face. There are two men who are thinking of you, but you think too much. Don't. This year will be a lucky year for you, unlike two years ago."

Then he left. No kidding. I promise. Actually happened.

weird.

Anyone else want to spontaneously predict my future? Bring it.



peace. out.

A Million Little Pieces

K so...

I find the whole scandal with James Frey and his book fascinating. Those of you who know me know how much I love this book, and I continue to love it to this very second, officially 4 minutes after I finished watching Oprah and a bunch of journalists talk about how embarrassed and annoyed they are about it. For those of you who don't know, Frey is accused of, and has admitted to, embellishing (fabricating, lying) parts of the book, which was published as a non-fiction memoir. For example, instead of spending 3 years in jail, he was only there for a couple of hours. Which is a pretty decent exaggeration, I suppose.

My thoughts? Whoopee. And frankly, why do we care so much? Yes, I believe the truth is valuable, but perhaps only to a point. Should he have promoted the book as fact? No. Should he have issued some sort of a disclaimer in the beginning? Sure. But this is a book that has been an essential motivating factor in the recovery of literally thousands of addicts nation wide. Is James Frey a recovering addict? Yes. Were the facts about his addiction accurately represented in the novel? Apparently. Are the essential truths of the novel in tact? Yes. Do I think it matters if he wanted to stroke his own ego a little and exaggerate things? Not really. Probably not the best idea, especially in such a public forum, but I am yet to meet a human who doesn't embellish his or her own life story, at least the details, a bit here and there. Especially not artists, for crying out loud. We're all a bunch of sensationalists.

I'm reminded of Dumbo, the flying elephant, who didn't believe he could fly. His mouse friend (whose name I never remember) told Dumbo that a magic feather would give him the ability to fly if he (coincidentally if you've read A Million Little Pieces) held on. So Dumbo holds on, and eventually discovers he can fly without the feather, and so on. Technically, the mouse lied to Dumbo, but that lie allowed him to accomplish something he would never have attempted otherwise. Now, granted, Frey's motives are a bit more self serving (although I bet that mouse got a kick out of being best friends with the star of the circus). However, doesn't his book accomplish the same sort of thing? His story provided inspiration for a whole bunch of people who may have otherwise remained un-inspired. I'd venture to say it saved some lives.

So which is better? A truth that allows people to remain hopeless and/or apathetic, or a lie that inspires them to greatness? I'm not sure I'm wise enough to say, but I will say this: Damn good book, James Frey. And I don't care if you lied or told the truth or what. Thanks for the good read.

And good luck with the media firestorm. Hold on.

Pollyanna strikes again...

It occurred to me today, as I was closing out my stuff at work, how little credit I give to mini-miracles.

Those of you who are amused by my craziness will not be too surprised when I say that I believe there is a little bit of magic involved in choosing a wedding dress. I know, I know, but let's think about it... there are 2000 dresses in our store alone, and thousands upon thousands in the city, and millions in the country, etc. etc. Yet somehow, 9 times out of 10, the right dress gets matched up to the right bride somewhere in the first 3 dresses she tries on. Many times, it's the very first dress. Now, yes, it could be that the brides are just so excited to try something on that they fall in love with the first one they try, or that countless hours (and dollars) spent in magazines have helped them narrow their selection. It could be that I'm just that darn good at my job. It could be that ALL bridal consultants are just brilliant. It could be luck. I don't think so. It happens too often to be luck and involves too little intellect to be skill. I think it's magic.

Today I spent 45 minutes with a bride who had fallen in love with a dress at our store. A different consultant had misplaced her file, and we had no record of the dress she loved. She tried to describe it to me, and we looked everywhere we could, but to no avail. The dress simply wasn't anywhere. I could tell she was on the verge of tears and went through my usual slapstick routine... humor, flattery, cookies, you name it... then suddenly, as she was standing there in a dress that looked nothing like the one she loved, I knew. And I walked right to a rack we had already checked twice, and I reached in, and I found it. You should have seen the look on her face when she recognized it. And we cried. And she bought it. And she raved about me to my boss. Happy ending.

Here's the thing: I'm not that good. And I've never, ever been very lucky. I didn't have anything to do with it. I had no reason to think of that dress, I didn't really know why I went for it, but I knew it was the right one. Huh.

It may seem silly to suggest that God, in all of His cosmic power and responsibility, might have anything to do with something as trivial as a wedding dress. I choose to imagine that a God who is so often turned to for help and guidance in the worst times of our lives might like to dabble in the fun stuff. I'll bet He gets an almighty kick out of making His little girls feel beautiful. It might be just a small miracle, but isn't a God who revels in tiny miracles all the more beautiful than one who simply can't be bothered? If God is really in the details, and speaks to us in whispers, who am I to say that any small wonder is insignificant? How lucky I am to be a part of little bits of magic. How silly I am to ignore them so much of the time.

I'm feeling blessed today to be witness to countless mini-miracles, and I'm going to try to pay more attention. Maybe it's good old God magic, or maybe I'm just a nut... I'm not entirely sure it makes a difference. I'd like to think life is bettered just by believing in the first place. ;)

love.