I miss my blog.

I miss saying funnyish things. I miss writing snarky irony, and then toning it down a bit so I won’t shock you all.

But my brain is just too tired.

I mean, it turns out starting a church can keep you pretty busy. And then I’ve been doing some freelance writing. Where people pay me dollars to write words.

So all my brain energy has been spent on plotting and scheming for the Kingdom of God and selling my artistic soul for corporate materialism.

(Kidding. I’ve actually been writing for some really cool people. And I now know things about cranes and lawyers and veterinary medicine. Things that I never knew before.)

But I think someday I’ll write just for me again. You know, when life slows down…

See you in 10 years.

Oh minivan, I beseech you. Do not drive slowly. Do not go 24 in a 35 zone.  Though you are rusty and painted an undesirable color, I’m sure you’re still able to drive at the same speed as the rest of us.

When the light is green, do not slow down at an intersection. It makes me almost hit you.

Do you creep through intersections in case another vehicle runs the red light? Because it is highly unlikely and you just make all the drivers behind you mad. Even if someone did run a red, slowing down probably won’t keep you from getting hit. You’ll just be smushed AND hated by the cars following you.

Besides, I can see by your numerous dents, that you have been hit many times before. I’m sure this is because you were enraging the drivers around you.

Slow minivan, you give all minivans a bad name. I see minivans and I think, “Don’t drive behind them. They will be slow.” What about the nice soccer mom, trying to get her kids to practice? You shame her, with your slow driving.

If I ever needed a minivan, I would not buy a minivan. Because minivans drive slow and I do not want to go slow.

I’ve got an empty ache.

It’s restless, angsty feeling that keeps nagging.

I need a new purse.

I mean, I like my current purse. I do. But things about it are starting to bother me.

It slides off my shoulder at all the wrong moments (like while I’m holding a cup of coffee). And when it does bother to say on my shoulder, it’s just deep enough that my fingers don’t quite reach the bottom. The strap has a buckle on it that keeps catching my hair and pulling it, which I think is just mean. And as much as I love how big it is, I honestly can’t ever find anything. At all.

The problem is, I don’t know what kind of purse I want. So I can’t just go buy a new one. Because purses are very particular.

It has to be big, so that I can carry my kids’ McDonalds toys and extra packs of fruit snacks. And my husband’s keys. And water bottles. And my son’s DS and a notepad for Leah to draw in. So… big.

But it can’t be as big as the current one I have.

It needs just the right size pocket on the inside, to hold my cell phone (So I don’t lose it in the bottom with the pens and receipts and candy the kids collected at the St. Patrick’s parade). And another pocket to hold my keys, or I’ll lose them too.

And it has to not look like a mom-purse. I may be 30 and a mom, but I sure don’t have to advertise it with my purse.

It must be a color that goes with EVERYTHING. Because that whole, “match your purse to your outfit” thing? That doesn’t happen for me. I’m usually flying out of the house 5 minutes after I was supposed to have the kids at school. So changing bags to coordinate with my shoes isn’t a high priority.

It’s so hard, people. So hard to solve.

Hence, I’m left here longing for something, but not knowing what that something is. And until I discover it, I’ll just go on feeling angsty and unsettled.

If you work it, there’s probably a spiritual application right there. But really, I just want a new purse.

I grew up in a very non-liturgical church culture. It was like we were so anti-tradition, that if we did something two years in a row, we got a little freaked out. Because if it wasn’t spontaneous, it wasn’t spiritual, you know?

But if that were true, we’d only read the Bible through once and then be done. So obviously, a good thing can be done more than once and still be good.

So, Lent. (If you’re all, “What is this Lent of which you speak, go read Wikipedia. They know everything.)

I think Lent could be awesome. Or it could be a waste of time. Based on your heart.

Participating in a spiritual ritual to earn God’s favor, lose some weight, fit in to the community or please your mom has about the same value as a New Years Resolution.

On the other hand, engaging in an activity that has a rich spiritual heritage and is founded in the truth of the Word can be life giving, if your heart is focused on Jesus.

What concerns me about Lent (or a 21 day fast or whatever tradition), is when we do it because we think the act itself somehow fixes us. Like it will keep us on God’s good side or whatever. That’s wrong and messed up.

It would be like if my husband and I celebrated Valentines Day to stay married. Imagine if we said, “Yeah, things have been rough lately. We haven’t actually talked in weeks and we’d rather watch TV than kiss. But when Valentines roles around, that will patch everything up.” Anyone would tell us that was crazy and we needed help.

For a marriage, Valentines can be a great reminder of our love. The holiday can give us an extra excuse to stop and enjoy each other. It can even help our hearts re-focus on our relationship. But it can’t create something that’s not there.

In the same way, liturgy can re-center our hearts on Jesus and remind us of His goodness. When it’s a tradition that comes around at the same time each year, we can look forward to a time set aside for the Lord. It’s even beneficial to engage in a spiritual discipline with other believers and grow our sense of community with the family of faith.

But if your heart isn’t focused on Jesus? Eh. You might as well just go eat that chocolate.

Leah was cleaning off the coffee table for me and discovered a copy of Terry Virgo’s No Well-Worn Paths, with his picture on the cover.

She exclaimed, “Ah! I love this guy! Is he real?”

“Yes, that’s Terry Virgo,” I explained.

“I knew it! That’s why I love him,” she replied with great satisfaction.

(I’m pretty sure that, besides hearing Chris and I mention the name, she has no idea who Terry Virgo even is.)

There was a long pause. Then Leah blurted out, “Did he die?”

I assured her that he was alive and well.

She breathed a sigh of relief, “Good! I hope he never dies. If he dies, I’ll cry. For real.”

I guess Terry Virgo has a REALLY likable face.

My friend came out of my bathroom one day and announced, “You have a skinny mirror.”

I was confused. Because it’s actually a really wide mirror. So she had to explain, “It makes you LOOK skinny.” And my friend seemed to think this was a good thing.

But it had me worried. Because I’d been looking in that mirror for a year and a half and feeling pretty good about myself.

I mean, yeah, some of my jeans were getting kind of tight. But I looked OK. So you can see how deceptive a skinny mirror is.

I decided to ignore my mirror and listen to my jeans. And then I pulled out a crazy thing called a scale. Boy, that guy doesn’t mince words.

My scale has me convinced to count my calories and my carbs and how much candy I eat. There is actually a piece and a half of cheesecake in my fridge. It’s been there ALL DAY and I haven’t eaten it. So I think things are going pretty well.

I just hope my scale starts saying nicer things to me, or I’m going back to my skinny mirror.

Once a week, I volunteer in my son’s 2nd grade class at school. Most of the time, the kids just read with me. However, once in a while they end up sharing their own stories.

Last week, one of the little girls told me she recently heard jingle bells. So she looked out of her mailbox slot and saw Santa and his reindeer flying. “Maybe,” she said, “he was practicing.”

But he did drop off some packages at her house on his practice run, and they are still there.

She explained that sometimes Santa lies a little bit and writes, “From Mom and Dad” on gifts, because he doesn’t want kids to think the packages are from him. But they really are.

I have never, ever heard this theory before and find it very intriguing. It’s not parents who try to convince their children to believe in Santa. Rather, it is Santa who wants children to believe in their parents. Interesting.

This smart little girl also firmly believes in the tooth fairy and has a plan to save up 3 teeth to trick the fairy out of $3 all at once.

(If you’re curious about why my kids think about Santa, read The Truth About Santa and Spider Man)

Last Sunday, Chris preached at a friend’s church about the God Who Came Near.

I feel like He came near to me today. In the line at the post office, while I was reading Twitter.

I mean, it wasn’t an earth-shattering moment. I didn’t fall on the floor, speaking in tongues. (Thank goodness. That would have been awkward.) It wasn’t even a specific tweet that caught my eye.

But somehow, as I read my twitter stream, I felt the Lord come near and grow my heart for Him. He stretched my understanding of His nature. By His grace, He allowed me to gain a deeper wonder for aspects of His character that my humanity isn’t inclined to “like.”

There are so many paradoxes in that experience. I wasn’t doing anything “Christian-y.” I was using social media, which isn’t considered spiritual. I was mailing a Christmas package, which could be viewed as commercialism. And Jesus met me.

And that’s so spiritual. Because Jesus wants to encounter our hearts in the mundane. He isn’t afraid of social media or the commercialization of Christmas. He’s so much bigger than that.

I kind of feel like we shouldn’t fight and kick and rail against “non-spiritual” aspects of life. Rather, embrace them as opportunities to meet with Jesus. You never know where He might show up. Maybe at the post office.

I’m not panicky, you know? I don’t worry about little stuff.

So when I call 911, I mean it. (Actually, I’ve never called before today. So.)

I was folding laundry and watching a movie and smelling smoke. And I just thought, “Gr. My neighbors are smoking something weird.”

But when I walked into my living room and could actually SEE smoke, I kind of realized that even they couldn’t smoke that much.

So I went downstairs to the foyer/laundry room that is on my neighbors’ level of the house. And the foyer was filled with smoke. This is where I panicked.

Did I call 911? No. I called my husband. Obviously.

And he told me to call 911.

The emergency lady was very nice and calm. She asked my address and my phone number and my name. And told me to get out of the house. OK, that part? Not so calm.

So here is the dilemma we all theorize about: “If your house were on fire, what would you grab?” I don’t have to guess. I know.

1.) Both laptops
2.) The iPad
3.) My purse
4.) The external hard drive (full of family pictures)
5.) Mee-Mee and the ‘Lankies (my kids’ lovies)

Oh. And the dog. I grabbed the dog.

I put my basket full of the important things in life (except the dog) in the back of the Jeep. That way if the “fire” turned out to be something silly, I wouldn’t be embarrassed by having my treasured possessions unnecessarily clutched to my chest.

And then I knocked on my downstairs neighbors’ door. Just to see if maybe they WERE smoking something. No answer. Which kind of freaked me out with visions of them dying from smoke inhalation in there.

The fire department arrived about this time. Two big fire trucks, complete with sirens. And there were firemen crawling all over the place. Firemen in my laundry room. Firemen in my house. Firemen in my neighbors’ house (they didn’t answer the door to me, but they sure did for the fireman!). Firemen in the crawl space under the house.

And do you know what the firemen determined? The washing machine’s motor burnt out.

They said, “Whoever was doing laundry in here, I think it’s done.” Yes. I had the fire department out to tell me that my laundry was finished.

But they were super nice. They didn’t think I was an idiot. The guys that had arrived first told another fireman that the room had been filled with smoke when they came (meaning I wasn’t crazy). And they assured me that it was better safe than sorry. And that it could have caught the laundry on fire and then moved on to the wall (again, I wasn’t crazy).

They did, however, laugh at me for taking a picture of them. But hey. You don’t have the fire department out every day.

Do you ever buy crazy clothes? Obviously crazy is different for everyone, but I think we have all purchased something that stretched us in the fashion area. Whether that item ever gets worn or not says a lot about our character. (I have no idea what it says, but I’m sure it’s significant.)

So I had a thrift store find that was hanging in my closet for awhile. I loved it. But that blouse was not boring. I couldn’t wear it and expect to blend into the crowd. And sometimes, I like to not stand out like a sore thumb.

But we had a pretty fall day, which was just what the shirt needed for an outing. I put it on and it really was great. And it really was not subtle. I was a little hesitant.

When I brought the kids home from school, Leah took one look at my blouse and exclaimed, “Mommy! Your shirt is beautiful!

And somehow, I found that comforting. It’s not that Leah has great fashion sense, because she is convinced that sparkly red shoes match everything. And that a flowered skirt should definitely be paired with a top striped in purple poodles.

But you know, sometimes you just need an encouraging word. You need someone to take your side, even when you’re a bit crazy. You need a friend who tells you, “go for it!”

And my Leah is great at that. She never hesitates to encourage. I can learn a lot from that girl.