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.