Vintage Blogs

Why yes, I am still awake. Fine, though, thanks for asking.

So I finally got around to transferring all of my old blogs from coughMySpacecough onto this one, primarily to make sure I didn't lose this.

If you are one of my five followers and they all showed up in your blog reader, I am truly sorry. Feel free to ignore them.

Learned a few things... one worth noting is that my exclamation abuse has been significantly reduced since befriending Mike Pacchione. I submit this blog as evidence. Mike, I'm almost ashamed. My regret should make you feel proud.

I'm going to bed now, kids. Feel free to read all about my former life should the mood strike you.

love.

In which she waxes all poetic about how much she loves you...

Honest, albeit morbid, truth: I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to blog about, but I feel compelled to leave some sort of written legacy just in case I wind up stranded in the middle of the Atlantic. I'm only nervous about airplanes until I'm actually on them. It's all Disneyland from boarding time on... ;)

So in two days I get my butt out of the country, out of my life... and out on an adventure that has been literally years in the making. I think I'm at the crisis stage of planning - that fuzzy space where it hasn't quite sunk in that you're actually going anywhere, and you are equal parts elated and terrified. I've spent the past 8 or 9 months of my life living every minute in preparation for this trip... every decision I've made, every struggle I've had, all of them have rotated around this now imminent core. I'm ready, but I'm a bit sad to let go of the waiting...

Oregon has been a Twilight Zone of sorts for me... a solitary bootcamp where instead of running laps I do exercises in independence. And this trip has been a part of every moment thus far. I guess I'm a bit worried that when I get back I'll have to actually start planning for the rest of my life. Whoosh. (that was time... flying... it wooshes)

Here's where I am, before leaving for Africa, before coming back undoubtedly different than I am now, before continuing to change. Here's my heart as best I can present it to you:

I am blessed. So purely, richly, and undeniably blessed to have encountered and loved truly amazing, amazing people. All of you have molded me, taught me, broken me, and inspired me... I wear your influence like merit badges, so dang proud to say that I stole your jokes, your strategies, your brilliant ideas. I am blessed to have a family that I never get tired of... parents who continue to teach and inspire me, especially when I don't expect them to, and a sister who consistently impresses me with her maturity and her grace. And I have these amazing friends, many of whom I hardly know, many others I have known for years... this insanely varied collection of oddballs who mean more to me than they'll probably ever know, largely because I'm never very good at saying it. You guys amaze me. You truly, madly, deeply do. ;)

I am stronger than I know. I've been in a bit of self-inflicted solitude this year, completing a very private pact I made with the parts of me that I didn't recognize a year ago. I have spent a year with myself, trying to be more of who I want to be and less of who I so often am, trying to avoid the things that make me selfish, or flighty, or scared. I think I've been afraid of myself for most of my life... those of you who know me best have witnessed this fear, probably as I was crying at you while trying to learn something new... so very afraid to fail.

My friend Jean, who is one of those people who takes other people and plugs them into all kinds of spaces that they didn't know they could fill, challenged me this year. Funny, she snuck it up on me in just the right way... you'd think she'd known me long enough to know you have to catch me last minute. She invited me, nonathletic me, to participate with a team in a relay race of sorts. Then she lied to me. "No big deal.." says Jean, "No one's really competitive... just a teensy weensy little race and it's tomorrow and it's free." And here's the thing: I did it. I went to a place I'd never been to be on a team with people I'd never met and paddle a canoe in a race. And I made friends, and I paddled my little heart out, and 1500 teams competed, and it was huge, and we had jerseys and a sponsor and I was pretty dang scurrd... but I did it. And I paddled the whole time without stopping, which is more than I thought I could do. And I realized something: I'm a grown up. I can handle me. I like me. And I'm not afraid. ;)

Except, of course, of letting go of Africa. Because I've been the girl who's going to Africa for a good long while now. I'd thought that preparing for the trip was the test of faith... the saving and the sacrificing... but the test is going. The test is leaping, and allowing it to end, and believing that this, like everything, is only the beginning of the wonders that God has planned for my life. The leap of faith is coming home.

God is good, all the time. I worry that I'll come across as cocky, what with liking me and all. But the thing is, everything about me that is worth anything , anything that is beautiful, or intelligent, or funny, or any of the things that I want to see in me, all of those are simple manifestations of the amazing grace that has been afforded me. My strengths were created for a purpose, and I want to be whole enough to let them work, to let God work in the fullness of his power. For what may be the first time, I want to be accountable, I want to be called out, and I want to be broken as much as it takes to refine me. I've been allowed to taste the freedom that comes from not having anything in this world that I value more than the gift of grace and the love of my God... and it manages to make me love everything more. Funny, that God dude and all his paradoxes... ok, what's the plural of paradox? Dang. I was on a role, too. Not making a point, but rolling. Stupid girl. ;)

If you read this far I owe you a cookie. If I wind up in the atlantic, know that you were appreciated. If I've hurt you, hold me accountable. If I've loved you, thank you for everything it has taught me. If you've loved me, you get two cookies. And a sympathetic face. Also a hug. Possibly dollars. Definitely my gratitude.

*yippee ki-aye-yay*

I guess mostly about nothing...

So last night I went to Leah's, and it was fun, and I was reminded yet again how much I love the people I've met here... it's such a gift to make new friends, and to be so surrounded by thoughful, brilliant, interesting people...

What you don't know is that I read your blogs, all of you.. new friends, old ones... sometimes you're cute, and you all get very introspective all at once... everyone bares their soul a little, and I dig it. The internet is a funny place to feel safe being vulnerable, but whadayaknow?

So sometimes you inspire me. And then I get all introspective. So tonight, after reading about 10 blogs on similar subjects, I'm taking inventory.

I've been: hopeful, silly, selfish, naive, careless, broken, someones fool, someones user, the smart girl, the dumb blonde, annoying, inspiring (annoyed, inspired)... faithless and faithful, old and new, lost and found... lonely and smothered, informed and clueless, open and shut off... hurt and hurtful. I've been on all ends of heartbreak... I've been a real jerk, and a real doll. I may not have accomplished everything I've wanted to, and I certainly haven't always acted gracefully... but I think, at this hour of my life, I can say I've been there. A time or two.

I am: (in summary) ready. newly, strangely, humbly... ready.

bring it on.

In which Karyn gets a bit preachy, but in her usual Pollyanna little way...

What I love about God is His awesome power, love, grace, mercy, etc. What I LIKE about the Dude is His unabashed willingness to bonk me over the head every once in awhile.

I'm having a serious "Our God is an Awesome God" week. And it's Easter, which is appropriate. So here, draw your own conclusions:

I'm going to Africa this summer, as you may have noticed me shouting from the rooftops. I'm beyond excited, but being the control freak that I sometimes am, I am also a little stressed. Because for the first time in my life, I'm basically relying on God to provide the funding for something that I seriously can't afford on my own. I'm having to ask for money, which takes a bite out of my well-guarded pride, and trust that because I know this trip is in line with God's will for me at this time in my life, He will provide. Sounds simple. Maybe for you. I, little me, I struggle here.

I like having money. I like spending it. I like stuff! I have been a serious stuff connoisseur for the larger part of my life. Stuff has been my friend and my companion and my entertainment... I generally dig it. This trip has caused me to adopt a wiggle-room free budget... basically, everything I make goes to gas, bills, and Africa. I'm saving tip money to get a haircut. So no stuff. In fact, I've had to sell a lot of my stuff just to break even. It's odd, and annoying, and stressful, and... intoxicating.

Because God is good. All the time. And when I let go of something, He hits me back with a blessing in some unexpected form. I have half the stuff I once had, but I have acres of forest to explore and a thousand fun things to do for free! I have a job that doesn't require me to be trendy, or cute even, so I don't feel compelled to buy new clothes. And I have the satisfaction of knowing that I'm actually making sacrifices (gasp!) for the purpose of achieving something good. Something good for other people, not just for myself. I'm learning to value money more than I ever have, and track it, and take care of it, and I find that my priorities are changing a little more every day.

And the response is what does me in. I mentioned God bashing me over the head, and though I did actually get bashed in the head by a tree branch about an hour ago, I don't mean literally. What I love about our God is that He is personal... He knows me, and He reaches out to me in ways that are so personally meaningful. If you know me, you know I love thoughtful gifts... unexpected, little personalized things that cost little or nothing but clue you in to the fact that someone was really listening to you, really paying attention. Here's what God does:

I had no room in my budget this month, what with taxes and deposits and yuck. I also had to get an immunization for the trip. The shot cost $32. I didn't have $32. At this point, I can get seriously stressed out about $32. So I'm worrying, and wondering, and praying, and hoping... and I find a bag of pocket change from California. And I'm counting it thinking "How funny would it be if I had $32... no way would I have $32... seriously, this can't be $32..." It wasn't. It was $32.10. (Sure, you there reading, this could be one of a thousand coincidences. It's a choose your own adventure story, this life, so I'll call it a miracle if I want to :) )

My pastor keeps saying "God wants to bless you." This is profound for me, because I struggle there... I tend to feel like God should want to punish, not bless me. I'm harder on myself than you know, and it has been a necessary reminder for me: "God wants to bless you." God wants to bless me.

The following day I received an email from an old friend letting me know that she and her husband had made an unfathomably generous donation toward my trip... and to let them know if I had any trouble raising more funds... they want to make sure I get there no matter what.

God wants to bless me.

Last Friday I went to dinner with a bunch of people from work to say goodbye to a few friends who were moving on. I sat at a table with two beautiful people I had never met, Peter and Emmorie, who are originally from South Africa. Also at the table were my friend Shauna and her husband Chris, and my friend and coworker Jean. We sat there for hours by the fire talking about life, about Africa, and ultimately about God and how our generation wants and needs to change "religion", to bring it back to what it once was and what it should be. Eventually, I told them my story, my colossal mistake, my big fat fall from grace... and Peter looks me in the eyes and says to me "You know what I want to say to you, Karyn? God wants to bless you." My random work party turned into a night where some new friends sat around a table and loved me, ministered to me. It was pretty darn great.

And for Easter I got shoes. Fabulous, frivolous shoes that I had decided not to buy to stay on budget. That is one smart little bunny.

Here's the thing kids. I've been a Christian my entire life, and I'm only beginning to get it. But here's what I know: God wants to bless me. And if God can desire in His heart of hearts to bless willful, prideful, defiant, and forgiven little me... He wants to bless you. That's what I want to shout from my soapbox: God wants to bless you. I hope you know. I hope He will.

love.

Just a blog. An "about life" sort of blog.

I keep thinking to myself that the time has come to write a new blog, and then I keep coming up with other things to do. Like knit socks. Then I start to wonder how it is that my perspective has become so wacky that I actually think knitting socks is more fun then blog writing. The more I wonder, the more I begin to worry about the obsessive home-ec turn my life seems to be taking. Then I start to feel compelled to take some serious anti-Martha Stewart action. Which brings us to this paragraph, the intro to my shiny new and most certainly fabulous blog.

I miss most of you (some of you are here). I love it here... I love the crazy weather and the copious amount of trees. I'm so in love with the pace of this town, and the people I've spent time with. It's a strange feeling, though, the pervasive newness of everything... new friends, new city, new restaurants, new life. And though it's certainly never boring, it's also exhausting. I feel like I'm constantly spewing myself all over the place... trying to explain myself to people, paint myself on the walls, make myself known. I have to hold my mouth shut to keep random facts about my life from leaking out - I don't want to be the girl who never shuts up. But I can't stop feeling like I want to kidnap each of the people I work with, or play with, one at a time and force them into deep all night conversations until they know all my secrets and I know all of theirs. Just so someone will be able to look at me and know what I'm thinking, where I've been, what I am. Just so I can say "Oh him? Her? Yeah, I know him. Her. We tight, yo." So I miss you who know me. I wish you were here to tell me what a big silly dork I am (cause I am a big silly dork. And you know it. Ain't life grand!) and sing along with the radio or run around in the middle of the night causing mayhem.

Everything is good, though, and lovely. Sunny even, often, lately. I'm learning Swahili, because my whole life seems to be focused on preparing for Africa this summer. It's been fun, starting to learn, primarily because it's reminded me that I'm a smart girl and I shouldn't just hover around all the time. I found a great program, and I'm picking it up quickly... it's so much more intuitive for me than Spanish ever was. So make me speak it to you, already.

And I'm knitting. Cause it's artistic, dang it. I'll subject you to pictures later.

So come visit me soon. Sorry for writing you bloggings with nothing very profound to say... just Hi. I'm here. I love you and I hope you're well :)

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.

Nothing better than a rant about ranting...

(Disclaimer: Yes, I'm aware that this is a big complaint about complaining. Deal with it.)

I, being of sound mind and body, do hereby and henceforth declare an igloo of sanctity around the tail end of December.

Seriously, people, it's Christmas (hanukwanzayada insert holiday of choice). And in place of the usual yuletide glee and apple cider smell that I still naively associate with this time of year, I seem to be witness to more "eff you universe" moments and just plain rudeness than, well, ever. Which is lame. Stop it.

To the lady who flipped me off for driving 65 miles an hour in the slow lane with a 6 ft pine tree on the roof of my brand new car, Merry Christmas to you too. To all you jerks who feel the need to whine at innocent employees after waiting in the twelve hours of line that are the real hallmark of the season, get over yourselves. The whole "exclusive title to misery" bit went out with Alanis Morrisette, and you aren't helping things move any faster for those of us stuck in queue behind you wishing we had the guts to tell you off using big words you probably wouldn't understand. To all of you who think it's cool to pick on people who are dressed as elves or Santa for the purpose of bring joy to little children, go home and sit on an ornament. Shame on you for not having anything better to do. To those of you, like me, who have been grumpy and short with your friends and family and blamed it repeatedly on the stress of the season, I'll quit it if you will. Enough is enough.

Let's all be nice to each other for a little while, shall we? Let's hold our complaints and our rants until the New Year, and take a few weeks to sip some eggnog and think, yeah, life can suck and the world is in turmoil, but gosh golly gee, I'm blessed and I'm grateful. Let's all get off of our whiny tushes in pursuit of a unified, sparkly, Family Channel worthy Christmas. We're all privileged, here, kids. Let's act like we appreciate it for once.

I'm asking you to hold me accountable. If I'm being a grinchy little brat, call me out and beat me with boughs of holly. But if you're pissed off, put upon, unfairly burdened, annoyed, or just plain grouchy, save it. We'll chat in January. Happy New Year.

I love you all dearly, and I hope your Christmases (hanukwanzayada insert holiday of choice) are a thousand times more fabulous than you hoped they would be. Let me know what I can do to help you get there :)

to all a good night ;)

Just so you know.

Vanilla soy milk is not even anywhere nearly close to the goodness that is chocolate soy milk. Having just bought a gallon of the stuff in an effort to try new things, I am annoyed. Variety sucks... anyone wanna buy a gallon of vanilla soy milk?