I Want Candy

I was a sneaky child.

Or at least I tried to be.

I had my own ways of getting around doing things I never wanted to do.

Don't want to take a shower when the babysitter is watching you?

Turn on the shower, leave it on for an appropriate amount of time, sit in the bathroom reading your newest edition of Babysitter's Club, and then stick your head underneath the sink as you hear the babysitter coming up the stairs.

The wet hair always did the trick.

Don't want to finish running the dreaded mile run in PE?

Pretend that your total lack of ability to breathe isn't because you haven't left the couch in a few weeks, but it actually is the symptoms of an asthma attack.

That got them every time.

But my greatest feat by far didn't come from trying to get out of something

In came from trying to get in something

More specifically, trying to get into the cabinet that held all of the cookies, left over halloween candy and various sugary goodness that resided in our kitchen.

I never asked for a snack.

Then my Mom might have said no.

And I didn't want to hear that answer.

My mother always had close watch over this stash.

But I had my ways around that.

I would wait for the phone to ring.

Or for my brother to call.

And sometimes, I would even ask for her help looking for a "missing book" ( that I had stashed underneath my bed prior to said request) to keep her occupied.

Then, when her back was turned, I would make my run for it.

Down the stairs,

Into the kitchen,

Grab the chair,

Jump on top of said chair,

Open the cabinet,

Grab whatever morsel of junk food that I could get my hand on,

Stuff said morsel underneath my shirt,

Jump off the chair,

Run back up the stairs,

And into my room, door closed and locked.

But that wasn't the end of the mission.

The real question then arose- what do I do with the evidence?

What do I do with the wrapper?

I couldn't throw it away- she'd see it when she took out the trash.

I couldn't flush it down the toilet- then I'd have stopped up toilet. And that is never good.

And then an idea struck me- I could throw the trash behind my huge dresser in my room.

Then no one would ever find it.

This scheming lasted for a few good years.

And I thought I would be successful.

Until my Mom decided she wanted to redo my room.

And wanted to rearrange the furniture.

And when she moved the dresser, hundreds upon thousands of wrappers came flowing out, revealing my scheming, revealing my plans, revealing my shame.

Sometimes, I think I try to treat my relationship with God the way I treated those candy bars.

I try to hide parts of my life from Him,

Keep them to myself,

Sure, they're a part of my life.

But that doesn't mean that I need to share it with you.

I try to keep them to myself.

I try to keep them secret.

I think " If God doesn't see the evidence, it'll be OK"

I like the way my friendships are going- I don't have to offer that up.

I like the way I'm doing school- I don't have to offer that up.

If I offer up my dating life, he might tell me I'm going to be forever single.

And I'm not sure I'm ready to hear that.

And I think, if I don't pray about this part of my life,

If I don't talk about it with my small group,

Then those parts of my life will be in my control.

God doesn't need to see that evidence.

But that's not the way God wants it- He wants all of us.

Even our schemes.

Even our shame.

He wants every single part of our life in use for his service.

It tells us in Romans 6:12

"...Offer yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer every part of yourself to him as an instrument of righteousness"

We are called to offer every part of ourselves.

Not just the parts we feel like we need his help in

Not just the parts that are going wrong

Every part of our lives

No hiding

No scheming

No wet, stuck underneath the sink heads.

Every

Single

Part

Even those candy wrappers you hide underneath your dressers

Panic Attack on The Lazy River

I used to hate going to White Water.

White Water, for all of those non-southerners that might stumble across this blog, is a middle schooler's dream- or, in my case, a middle schooler's nightmare.

White Water is a water park, where you can go (usually unsupervised) full of hundreds of other unsupervised middle schoolers in bathing suits.

They had a lazy river.

And water slides.

And a wave pool.

And they had funnel cakes- which in my mind was the only plus.

White Water was a prepubiscent's heaven.

Unless you were a fat, awkward middle schooler with glasses.

Like me.

Then, all of a sudden, you're stuck at a place for hours at a time where you're forced to walk around in your bathing suit, and you can't wear your glasses, so you hide them in a planter next to your beach chair and you have to walk around blind the entire day.

Like I said, White Water was not my favorite place.

But there was one part of White Water that I hated the most.

Worse then being the only girl in a one piece.

Worse then being the only girl in a one piece  that you got in the grandma section because it had a skirt attached ( and who doesn't want to be the 13 year old wearing the grandma skirted swim suit?)

Worse then getting into a raft with another girl that you thought was your friend because you are so blind that you start to identify people by their general blurred shape and hair color.

This was so much worse.

The  Cliffhanger.

A high rise free fall slide that sends you rushing nine stories down, into a dark,shallow watery grave.

Or at least that's how I saw it.

All of my friends would race up the stairs, practically pushing each other over to allow themselves to be thrown down this very large, very scary slide and I would stand at the bottom, urging my legs to move.

Trying to convince myself that it wasn't scary.

Trying to convince myself that it wasn't that high.

Trying to convince myself that it was safe.

But still, I remained, frozen at the bottom.

Sometimes, I think our life looks like that to us.

Especially when you're in your mid-twenties.

Everything looks big.

Everything looks scary.

Everything looks like more then we can handle.

Nothing seems safe.

And all of these changes come rushing towards us, sending us to a very dark and scary place- the unknown.

Sometimes, all I can look at is how big and scary the future seems.

And when my legs are frozen, and I can't seem to move, I have to remind myself that even though the future is big and scary, my God is that much bigger.

In the book of Job, we get the amazing opportunity to hear God tell us just how big He really is, and we begin to realize just how small we, and in turn, our problems, really are.

This whole chapter is amazing, so I'm going to just have to pick out a few of my favorite verses- but please, if you have a chance, go back and read Job 38.

Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
    Tell me, if you understand.
 Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!
    Who stretched a measuring line across it?                                                         On what were its footings set,

    or who laid its cornerstone

Who shut up the sea behind doors

    when it burst forth from the womb when I made the clouds its garment
    and wrapped it in thick darkness,
 when I fixed limits for it
    and set its doors and bars in place,
 when I said, ‘This far you may come and no farther;
    here is where your proud waves halt’?

 Have you ever given orders to the morning,
    or shown the dawn its place

Can you bind the chains^[b] of the Pleiades?
    Can you loosen Orion’s belt?
Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons   

 or lead out the Bear^[d] with its cubs? 

Do you know the laws of the heavens?

If I serve a God that is so big that he measured the Earth and set it's foundations,

If I serve a God that is so big that he can shut up the oceans behind doors,

If I serve a God that can loosen Orion's belt in the sky,

then how can I be scared about finding a job?

Or finding a husband?

Or moving to a different state?

How big is my God?

And how small am I?

And if He can arrange the constellations, then surely my life isn't nearly as difficult to set up.

Miracle In Gatlinburg Tennessee

There were few things I was sure of as a ten year old.

1. Zebra cakes were God's gift to the world.

2. My brothers were always wrong. And in turn, I was always right.

And the thing I knew, down to the very pit of my soul-

3. Santa Claus was real. And he could, if you were good enough, bring any present to your house, no matter how difficult it was to make.

Limited Too sparkly pink phone?

Done. The elves could do that with their eyes closed.

A desk that had little mailbox compartments that I could sit at and pretend I was a real grown up writer?

Not a problem. That was child's play.

All of these gifts could get down my chimney, and Santa Claus would still have enough time to enjoy some sugar cookies and milk, and Rudolph could turn off his nose for a few minutes and gnaw on a carrot.

I believed.

My faith was great.

I even got in a fist fight in fifth grade with a boy who sat next to me in class because he tried to convince me that I didn't hear reindeer hooves on my roof.

You better believe I did.

And sure, I know now that 10 years old was still a little old to believe in Santa Claus.

But how could you not, when all the evidence made it so clear that he existed?

One year, right before Christmas, my family and I went to Gatlinburg Tennessee ( home of Dolly Parton y'all) and in true Johnson family style, could not leave this tourist paradise without partaking in the local craft fair.

Now as an adult, I don't believe in love at first sight, but I think that day, in the Gatlinburg conference center, I got as close as I'll ever come.

As soon as I laid eyes on this doll, I knew she had to be mine.

She had chunky cheeks ( just like me!)

She had brown eyes (just like me!)

She had dimples ( just like me!)

She had angel wings...well, close enough.

She was perfect in every way. But there was only one problem.

Christmas was 3 days away.

And I had already sent my list into Santa.

And my parents would not buy the doll.

I was distraught.

I cried.

I pouted.

I ate my feelings in Little Debbies.

But as I wiped the crumbs of the Zebra Cake off my tear streaked cheeks, I came to a sudden realization.

Santa can do anything.

Even get the elves to make a doll that I just fell in love with only 72 hours before Christmas.

He sees me when I'm sleeping.

He knows when I'm awake.

So he must also have his eyes on local craft fairs too.

And when I woke up on Christmas morning, and found that perfect doll all wrapped under the Christmas tree, I was sure of something else.

If anyone ever tried to tell me there wasn't a Santa Claus ever again, I would give him a bloody lip, and then show him this doll.

Because that doll was proof.

Sometimes, I think our relationship with God is like that.

We see situations that are completely impossible, but somehow we still manage to hold on to faith that God can give us our greatest desires.

Take Abraham for example.

He was over 100 years old.

So was his wife Sarah.

Her womb was barren.

They had no children.

But when God promised him that he was going to be the "father of many nations" he still had faith, even though, looking at the situation, it seemed highly unlikely.

And although Abraham and Sarah had probably had a ton of problems getting pregnant before, and all of his friends were probably already great great great grandfathers at this point, he held firm to his belief.

¹⁹ Without weakening in his faith, he faced the fact that his body was as good as dead—since he was about a hundred years old—and that Sarah’s womb was also dead.²⁰ Yet he did not waver through unbelief regarding the promise of God, but was strengthened in his faith and gave glory to God,²¹ being fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised. (Romans 4:19-21)

Even in the most unlikely of situations, Abraham held firm in his faith, and because of that faith, was given what God promised him.

But it didn't come right away.

He had to wait a little bit.

But this time of waiting was used for something more important.

This time of waiting was used to grow his faith.

This heartbreak and shame was used to grow his faith.

How often do we lose faith because something isn't going the way we want it?

Because we're not happy in our job?

Or because that perfect man is taking too long to come along?

How often do we allow our faith to waver, even though we know God has the best laid plans in store for us.

How much better would our walks be, if instead of looking at these trials as something to grit our teeth and bear through, we looked at it as a chance to allow our faith to grow?

A chance to let God truly do amazing work that only He could do?

How much stronger would our faith be if instead of complaining, we held firm to the promises given to us by a God that is incapable of breaking promises?

How much stronger would our faith be if we knew that if we are patient enough, we will get through that trial, not only with what has been promised to us, but a faith that much stronger because of it

Sometimes, you don't get that perfect doll wrapped under the Christmas tree right away.

But the promises of the Almighty God are completely worth the wait.

Call Me Maybe?

I've gone through a lot of career aspirations in my life.

For a while, I wanted to be Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen. But then I found out that me talking to myself was not quite as interesting as two spunky blonde twins. Moved on.

During the era of the Dream Team in the 1996 Atlanta Olympics I wanted to be a professional gymnast. Then, I was only able to master the log roll, and discovered that fried chicken is not on the daily diet of a gold medal winner. Moved on.

I went through an entrepreneurial phase and opened a neighbor lemonade stand. I somehow managed to forgot we only had 6 neighbors. I also managed to forget to put the sugar in the lemonade. Moved on.

I attempted to be the next JK Rowling and write the next American Novel. Turns out that you don't get much social interaction with anyone but characters you have created- and what was on Maury that day was much more interesting. Moved on.

I tried to convince my dad to let me be the receptionist in his office and answer all of the phones. Those pesky child labor laws got in the way. Moved on.

I thought the Broadway stage was my calling. Turns out overweight, clumsy girls with no dance ability is not at the top of the "to cast" list. Moved on.

I even tried my hand at being a vagabond, packing up my bags and living off of the land, just me and the open road. I made it as far as my garage and when I finished the bag of microwave popcorn I brought along, I made the short trip back to civilization. Moved on.

I have never really known what I wanted to do.

I've never really known what I'm supposed to do.

I've never really been called to do anything in particular.

And I do believe, with all of my being, that some people are called to a certain mission field. And some people are uniquely created for that job that only they alone can do.

But what happens for the rest of us? The ones that are still staring at our phone, waiting for that call from the Big Man Upstairs, explaining exactly what we're supposed to do with our lives.

As I'm nearing the end of my graduate school program, I've been thinking a lot about my job opportunities.

And I've been stressing about my job opportunities.

And I've been worrying that somehow I missed that day in Sunday School a long time ago, describing how we are interpret our calling from the Lord.

Why haven't I been called for anything?

Does God not have a cool enough plan for me? Is that why I lack a deep passion, a burning desire, for one particular mission field?

To be honest, I was starting to feel like that girl, sitting alone on homecoming night because no one bothered to ask her to the dance.

And then, tonight, I decided to go off course in my devotional calendar and read Romans 1.

And the Lord spoke directly to my heart.

It states very clearly in the very first verse that Paul was called to be a servant, called to be an apostle, called to be set apart.

Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God

And honestly, as I was reading this chapter, the first thing that popped into my head was

"Great, another person with another calling".

But this attitude would only be around until verse 6  when I read-

And you also are among those Gentiles who are called to belong to Jesus

 Christ.To all in Rome who are loved by God and called to be his holy people:

Grace and peace to you from God our Father and from the Lord Jesus Christ.

I. am. called.

I have been called.

I was called the moment that I accepted Jesus Christ into my heart when I was 8 years old, sitting underneath a table at Vacation Bible School.

I am called to belong to Jesus.

I am called to be part of His holy people.

And I may one day figure out my calling in the career field.

I may figure out what I finally want to be.

I may be called to another country.

Or,I may never have that sort of calling.

But if you are a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ, you were already called.

You were already claimed.

And it doesn't matter if you are a CEO of a national organization or the janitor of the local McDonalds.

That calling doesn't go away.

And I for one, find great hope in that.

Secrets Secrets Are No Fun

I've never been very good at keeping my own secrets.

My friends secrets?  I can take with me to the grave.

Surprises? My lips are sealed tight.

But when it comes to intimate details about my own life, I tend to blab to anyone that will listen.

It all started off when I was in second grade, and I was banned by my mother from going to the guidance counselor's office because I'd made too many visits during allotted class time. She had puppets, and she let me talk as much as I wanted.

I was always the first to confess who I had a crush on at middle school sleepovers, usually after the sugar high wore off . We would be crowding around the desktop in the house, waiting for the internet to dial up so we could IM with the "cutest boy in school" and I would just, spill my guts.

I was that girl that filled out the surveys on myspace, and wrote "deep, soul searching" blog posts that usually revolved around relationships that I hadn't experienced quite yet. (For purposes of being transparent, here's is the link to my myspace that I embarrassingly found).

If you ask, I'm usually willing to share. No part of my life is extremely off limits. I'm willing to talk about my small successes, big defeats, and embarrassing moments with anyone willing to listen.

But somehow, in my prayer life, and in my relationship with God, I am extremely picky in the things that I pray about.

Relationships? Check.

Career choices? Check.

Major heartbreaks? Check.

Deepest desires of my heart? Check.

Small, everyday things that I would get advice about from every stranger I passed on the street?...Not so much.

God desires us to talk to Him about the big things. He wants to know the deepest desires of our hearts, help us make tough decisions, and lead us to a path that is ultimately pleasing to Him.

But he also wants us to talk to him about the little things too.

The girl that annoyed you in class today.

The fact that you feel fat and not so pretty sometimes.

Or to overanalyze the text message that came from the cute guy down the hall.

All the kind of things that you would want to tell your best friend, or your sister, or your Dad.

Your Abba.

Your Heavenly Father.

God desires that kind of relationship with us. A relationship that consists of coming to Him with the good,

the bad,

the petty,

the funny,

the embarrassing,

and everything in between.

And as I read this prayer from David tonight, I was ever grateful that I had a God that even cares enough that he would want me to pour my heart out to him, no matter the situation.

Trust in him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to him,for God is our refuge.

Fried Chicken, 3 Meals A Day

There's no way around it.

I can't sugar coat it.

No matter how many pictures I try to hide, the truth is still the same.

I was fat when I was a child.

And rather overweight when I was a teen.

And there were times that I would sit in my room and cry and yell and scream because the newest jeans at Limited Too didn't fit me.

Or when I couldn't find soffe shorts in my size to middle school gym class. ( Y'all remember how cool those were right?)

And trying to find a prom dress turned into a very loud, very overdramatic fight that ended with me crying in the dressing room while my mother stood outside the door.

And I wanted to be skinny.

I would dream of being skinny.

I would try to bargain with God to make me skinny.

Sometimes, I would stay up and pray that if God just magically melted all of my excess pounds away, I would go and be a missionary in Africa.

If God would make me look like the girls in the magazines, I would never yell at my brothers again.

If God, If God, If God would just.

And I would pray these prayers, and wish these wishes, and then get up in the morning and eat a fried chicken biscuit for breakfast.

And fried chicken tenders for lunch.

And fried buffalo chicken tenders for dinner, just for variety's purpose.

I wanted all of the results, but was willing to put in none of the effort. It wasn't my job- it was God's.

And now, as I have begun to study Luke, and looked at the relationships Jesus had with the ones He healed, I see now my take on God's work was completely wrong.

⁴⁰ Now when Jesus returned, a crowd welcomed him, for they were all expecting him. ⁴¹ Then a man named Jairus, a synagogue leader, came and fell at Jesus’ feet, pleading with him to come to his house ⁴² because his only daughter, a girl of about twelve, was dying.

As Jesus was on his way, the crowds almost crushed him. ⁴³ And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years,^[c] but no one could heal her. ⁴⁴ She came up behind him and touched the edge of his cloak, and immediately her bleeding stopped.

⁴⁵ “Who touched me?” Jesus asked.

When they all denied it, Peter said, “Master, the people are crowding and pressing against you.”

⁴⁶ But Jesus said, “Someone touched me; I know that power has gone out from me.”

⁴⁷ Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. ⁴⁸ Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”

Read that last verse again, in case you missed it.

⁴⁸ Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”

Jesus didn't say "I healed you".

Jesus didn't say "Your heavenly father has healed you".

Jesus said "Your faith has healed you".

Sure, Jesus did the work. And in the end, yes, Jesus was the one that healed the woman.

But it was her great faith that caused her to reach out.

Sometimes, I think we expect God to work amazing miracles in our lives. We have hope, we have an idealistic sense of purpose, but we never take those thoughts and put them into action.

We never rely on our faith.

What amazing works could God have already done in our lives if we didn't constantly wait on the Lord to act, but through a faith in the Heavenly Father, acted on his commands, not matter what the outcome?

What if we always had faith to simply reach out, and grab what has been right in front of us? The love of an amazing, miracle producing Messiah that gives us the free will to reach out.

A God that allows us to use our faith to reach out, and discover those miracles he has in store for our life.

Not So Easy Bake

It all started with the easy bake oven.

It seemed so simple.

You changed the light bulb.

Opened the packet.

Put in some water.

And voila.

You had a cake.

Or something that resembled a cake.

And after I received my first easy bake oven, I was inspired.

I wanted to bake.

I wanted to bake cookies and brownies and muffins and anything that the Pillsbury dough boy would approve of.

And I wanted to do it in a real oven.

But I knew, as any 9 year old knows, if you want to bake something on your own- you have to wait until your mother has gone to her PTA meeting.

Because a kitchen covered in dirty pots and pans is just the kind of surprise she wants.

And one night, my wish finally came true.

With a grab of they keys and a shut of they door, the kitchen was mine. My grandmother was watching Dr Quinn medicine woman, and I was free to make my creation.

So I opened the joy of cooking and decided upon the recipe of the night- a classic. The two layer chocolate cake.

Eggs. Check.

Sugar. Check.

Vanilla. Check

Butter. Check.

Flour. No check.

We were out of flour.

But like any good chef in the making would do, I improvised.

It smelt fine.

It looked fine- at first.

But as my nose was pressed to the oven window, I began to notice my cake looked a little different.

My double layer chocolate cake was about 1/2 inch tall- and that was both layers.

And no matter how much chocolate icing I spread on the pancake thin cake could not hide the obvious.

Corn mill cannot replace flour.

Flour is a crucial ingredient to cake.

I thought that my cake was not going to reflect everything I put into my pan. I had done most everything right. I had followed almost all the steps to making a perfect cake.

It worked with the easy bake oven. But somehow, this was different.

When you looked at my cake, you could tell I had done something wrong.

When you tasted my cake, you could tell I had done something wrong.

The same is true of our lives, according to Jesus. Our lives tell of what we consider crucial and necessary ingredients. Our lives, and our actions, reflect our hearts.

^{43 “No good tree bears bad fruit, nor does a bad tree bear good fruit. 44 Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers.} A good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and an evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For the mouth speaks what the heart is full of."

We say that our lives have been changed by Jesus- but does our actions reflect that when we're upset?

Or we didn't get that job?

Or that person cut us off in traffic?

We say we love others as He first loved us- but are we willing to love the homeless person on the street?

Or the classmate that says hateful things to us?

Or the co-worker that seems to annoy us a little more then we like to admit?

Do our words and actions truly reflect one another?

Or do we think by adding just most of the key ingredients, the end result will come out the same?

Because, in the end, our cake won't rise. It'll be salty and crumbly and thin, and won't resemble a cake at all.

And by looking at it, people will be able to tell what kind of baker we are.

And when looking at our lives, others will be able to tell what kind of person we are.

And people will be able to tell if who we say we are, and what we do match up.

And no amount of chocolate frosting will be able to cover that up.