Heavenly Hats

A Eulogy

2011-07-03T11:20:00.000-05:00

“You have not come to a mountain that can be touched and that is burning with fire; to darkness, gloom and storm; to a trumpet blast or to such a voice speaking words that those who heard it begged that no further word be spoken to them, because they could not bear what was commanded: “If even an animal touches the mountain, it must be stoned.” The sight was so terrifying that Moses said, “I am trembling with fear.” But you have come to Mount Zion, to the heavenly Jerusalem, the city of the living God. You have come to thousands of angels in joyful assembly, to the church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven. You have come to God, the judge of all men, to the spirits of righteous men made perfect, to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant, and to the sprinkled blood that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel.” Hebrews 12:18-25

Gran Jean used to tell me that I was her favorite granddaughter. The fact that I was her only granddaughter was always overlooked, because the only child in me believed that I would have been her favorite even if I had brothers and sisters. It’s so difficult for me to stand up here and tell you about my roommate and dear friend, my confidant, my sweet and feisty, favorite Gran Jean. Not because I don’t want to share, but because I struggle to find the perfect words to describe this amazing force in my life.

What do I tell you about? Where do I begin? With the bus trip we took together my senior year of high school? With the Monday nights of watching The Bachelor and eating popcorn for dinner? With the family reunions at Fall Creek Falls and the subsequent fights with the reception desk when they didn’t put us on the first floor? It’s hard to sum up a life that is filled with such joy and passion in a mere page written by a grieving granddaughter. And my grief is strong. Because I loved her dearly. We all did.

In times like these, we search for the best way to remember: old stories, inside jokes, pictures, music, food. And we continue to mourn…we mourn for a sister who can no longer call us, a mother who can no longer hug us, an aunt who can no longer laugh with us, and a grandmother who can no longer live with us. Praise God that our mourning is a short mourning. Praise God that He has the final say in this story. Yes, it’s true that Gran Jean has left this earth. But I don’t worry about that. Because I see Gran Jean everywhere. And I guess that’s the goodness of a Father who, even through death, can bring beauty from pain. A King who takes time to bring us the comfort of her peace in the smallest of ways. In my Mom’s smile. In a cup of coffee. In a butterfly or these gorgeous flowers. And as her spirit resides in heaven, her memory stays with us here. When we see a show at the Grand Ole’ Opry or work a particularly difficult crossword. When we order porkchops with a side of okra and white beans, or watch shows like Brothers and Sisters or Keeping Up Appearances. These little moments, these things that seemed so insignificant and habitual, have, in these short days, become invaluable to my memory. The overripe bananas that had to be black before eaten. The newspaper that had to be read from cover to cover. The Red Xterra that made her feel like she was sitting on top of the world. These are the things that I will tell my children. These are the memories that I will cherish.

This is not a story about a woman who lived and died, rather, it’s a story about a woman who lived, lived awesomely, and now lives forever with our Savior. And what a story that is to tell! We have not come to a forbidden mountain of gloom, but to Mount Zion, to a joyful assembly—to Jesus. In typical Gran Jean fashion, she has taken the bus trip of a lifetime. So, Lord, haste the day when our faith shall be sight. And, Gran Jean, save me a seat next to you at that banquet table.

Faithful Love, Pt. 3

2011-06-19T23:19:00.001-05:00

A few months ago, I finished reading a book called, Searching for God Knows What. In it, Donald Miller explores the mystery of faith and some of his reasons for believing in God's goodness. It struck me as a modern day Mere Christianity, and really helped put some things in perspective.

It's funny how God's timing is always impeccable. This coming from a girl whose timing is always ten minutes late and usually a day or so off, but I really find it to be awesome (in the biblical sense of the word, not the overused, colloquial use of it) that God waits to introduce things at the exact time we need them. Case in point: this book.

Innocuously sitting under a pile of junk, this book had been in my possession for about six months. My mom had picked it up and brought it home, and there it sat, next to all the other lonely pieces of literature gracing my bookcase. (Owning a Charles Dickens novel is the same as reading one, right? Right?) But after I had listened to Dr. Cox's wonderful podcast, I started looking for Max Lucado's In the Grip of Grace. (A book that, if you have not read, you need to turn off your computer, head down to your local bookstore, and buy it right now. Then you need to read it. And call me and we can discuss. I'm smitten with Lucado's gift for writing. He knows his way around language the way I know my way around a McDonald's. And that's saying something.)

However, I couldn't find my copy. But I did find Searching for God Knows What. So, I started to read. And through Don's words about relationship and community and love, I began to hear God's words about relationship and community and love. And I started to hear His Spirit remind me of His constant presence. Even through the brokenness. Even through the unanswered questions. Reminding me that my faith journey is not supposed to be about a checklist, or a multiple-choice test, in which I need to find all the right answers, but about Him and how I can fall deeper into His arms.

“Perhaps the reason Scripture includes so much poetry in and outside the narrative, so many parables and stories, so many visions and emotional letters, is because it is attempting to describe a relational break man tragically experienced with God and a disturbed relational history man has had since then and, furthermore, a relational dynamic man must embrace in order to have relational intimacy with God once again, thus healing himself of all the crap he gets into while looking for a relationship that makes him feel whole. Maybe the gospel of Jesus, in other words, is all about our relationship with Jesus rather than about ideas. And perhaps our lists and formulas and bullet points are nice in the sense that they help us memorize different truths, but harmful in the sense that they blind us to the necessary relationship that must begin between ourselves and God for us to become His followers. And worse, perhaps our formulas and bullet points and steps steal the sincerity with which we might engage God.” (Miller, p. 152).

So, as I read, I kept getting this sense that my relationship with Him could be way more intimate. That my relationship with Him could be way more sincere. It could rival my deep friendships and my love for my family. It could be something that withstands the waves of doubt. It could be a wellspring of strength and courage.

What I've come to realize is that all I need to do is show up. God takes care of the rest. He's providing the strength daily. He's working on the courage. He's deepening my relationships with others, He's calming my doubts through His Word, and He's providing comfort to my soul.

When I started this short blog series, I wanted something to commemorate Easter and His glorious resurrection. Something, in my own words, that would remind me, years to come, that my Father, the King of Kings, the Alpha, the Jehovah God, cares about me so much that He conquered death just to have me, little ol' me, with Him forever. I never knew how much that would mean to me at this moment.

God's timing is impeccable. Gran Jean is in ICU, as complications from a massive stroke give the doctors little hope in her recovery. We are weary and our tears are bitter. Yet we do not hope in man. Nor in the world and all of its powers, but instead, we hope in the Living God. We hope in the Resurrection and in Heaven and in God's unrelenting love. We hope in His Power and His comfort and His promises to redeem us. Because, in the end, it is God who will win. And as someone who always needs to know what the future holds, I can tell you, that's the most comforting thing in the world.

"Amen. Come Lord Jesus." Revelation 22:20

Faithful Love, Pt. 2

2011-04-23T12:34:00.000-05:00

I like checklists. Never could there be a truer statement made about my preferences (unless, of course, you threw the name "Tom Hanks" in there somewhere: "I like checklists of Tom Hanks' movies I haven't seen yet" or "I like checklists of places Tom Hanks is going be in the next week so I can stalk him in a very normal, very endearing manner"). See, with a list, you know what to expect. You know what you need to do. It's a tangible, visual tool that let you know whether or not you've been productive for the day. Checklists are judgmental in that way, and, in that way, I can really relate to them.

I grew up in the Church of Christ. I don't know if my love of checklists came from this formative experience, or if it was already ingrained within me, and the CoC just knew how to exasperate it. And exasperate it did. Relying heavily on its Catholic roots (though they'd be loathe to admit it), the Church of Christ lives for its checklists. Checklist Christianity is a comforting thing. What do I need to do to be saved? Believe, confess, be baptized--check. What do I need to do to be a good Christian? Go to church, be nice, read the Bible, pray--check. But, this checklist system of belief has a major flaw. It lacks substance. It lacks meaning. And when doubt comes into play, it just doesn't hold up.

I was thinking about this a couple days after I went to that prayer service. My soul was hurting, and I didn't know how to help it. I kept coming back to this one question: If God is so good, why has He waited so long to return? And the question underlying that one, the question that I just could not voice: Has God forgotten us?

A checklist could not help me with this. Previously, I had lived my entire spiritual life with the confidence and bravado of a five year-old who is certain she can fly. This one experience, however, shook that faith and cape right off me.

I didn't understand why I felt so lost. I had grown up with a strong foundation. My parents were (and still are) the most encouraging and precious examples of faithfulness. Yet, I felt unsettled. God was still with me, but He seemed far away. And I was struggling. I knew He existed, I could feel it like an anchor to my soul, holding me down in the midst of a hurricane. But the winds of anger and frustration were building up as I grappled with the "why?".

Then a couple things happened.

I was driving to work one day when I decided to listen to a podcast by Monte Cox. There wasn't a real reason I put it on, other than my 45 minute commute and I was tired of listening to Cee-Lo for the fiftieth time. Dr. Cox is one of those people that when you meet him, you know you've met one of God's favorites. I was blessed to have him as a professor a few times at Harding, and can say, without a doubt, that he is filled with the Holy Spirit's wisdom and love. It practically oozes out of him.

The sermon series was talking about modernism and post-modernism. And while it was a lot more intelligent than the Justin Timberlake lyrics I normally listen to, it's underlying point was prolific, God-breathed, and most needed. Christianity, he said, is not about rules and regulations. It's not about the checklists we confine it to, but the relationship we build. It's personal. It's relational.

This was no big news to me. Of course, relationships have always been important to me. But, thinking about it, my relationship with God had never before looked like my relationship with my friends. It wasn't this deep connection where I would spend hours upon hours talking to Him, spilling my guts over milkshakes and Funyuns. It was more formal than that. More stilted. And I started to realize that maybe I felt far away from God because I was. Because I was keeping him there, on paper, on my list, to be checked off every Sunday morning.

I thought about this more and more as I began to rework our relationship. I felt like I was relearning how to walk. My new prayers sounded very timid---was God alright with me talking to Him if I was doubting Him? But I knew I had to keep talking. So I did.

It was amazing to hear what He said back...

"Shout for joy, you heavens; rejoice, you earth; burst into song, you mountains! For the Lord comforts his people and will have compassion on his afflicted ones. But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.” Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me." Isaiah 49:13-16

Faithful Love, Pt. 1

2011-04-18T23:01:00.003-05:00

I learned a couple things about myself last week:

When doped up on Extra-Strength Tylenol and chocolate no-bake cookies, I find "The Waltons" to be a very esoteric experience, one in which John-Boy's literary aspirations speak personally to my soul. And my heart. Oh, John-Boy, darn you and your smoldering eyes.
When doped up on Extra-Strength Tylenol and peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, I start to use words like "esoteric" and "aspirations" in order to feel smart and collegiate. That's right, yo. Two years out and my college degree is still paying for itself. (Between my large vocabulary and adeptness at "Angry Birds", I'm a regular intellectual. Look ma, I'm writing words!)

So, apparently it takes some flu-like symptoms to rouse me from my blogging slumber. I've been thinking a lot, actually, about what I wanted to write for my next post. Then I forwent the thinking to watch the first two seasons of How I Met Your Mother. It's amazing how long it takes Bob Saget to tell a story.

For those of you that don't know, either because I didn't tell you or because you stopped listening to me about a year ago after that unfortunate incident when all I talked about was running (trust me, no one is more disgusted than I am), I got a new job! I thank God everyday for His providence, and He reminds me everyday of His love. I tell people all the time that nothing seems a better fit for me than where I'm at now. I don't know much about quilting (domesticity and I are nothing, if not frenemies), but I do know that He is ever patching my story together with the fabric of faithfulness, answered prayers, and deep-spirited friendships.

I know this like I know the sky is blue and Tom Hanks is the best actor in the world. I know this like I know frozen yogurt is best when tart and sunny days are best spent outside, on a blanket, with eyes closed. Yet, even though I know deep inside my soul that God is faithful and He is Love, there is part of me that wants to debate it. And it's this part that I have spent the past year struggling with.

I have never been good at quantifying my faith. This could be the reason I am so attracted to the social sciences. I don't get along well with numbers. Or statistics. And I've found, that when I need to explain something, I will find the wordiest, most-roundabout-way possible to do so. (I like to hear myself talk. In the past, I'd say it was an only child thing, but now I'm just leaning towards a Hardy thing. We're German. It's in our blood. Heard of Goethe, anyone? Anyone?)

So when someone asks me why I'm a Christian or what is it about life that makes me think there's a God, I start to ramble. And ramble. And it's 50 minutes in that I realize, I'm not saying anything meaningful--I'm just tossing around words like "sanctified" and "blessed" and "Spirit-led." Words that I have grown up hearing and learning, but words that I've inherited and thrown in the back of a metaphorical closet, instead of hanging up and wearing everyday. If they're not used, they're wasted. And this year, I've spent a lot of time wasting words.

I had a crisis of faith a few months ago. I went to a prayer service for the people of Haiti. It was one of those events that is supposed to make you feel uplifted and encouraged: people all over the world are gathering to pray for the healing of this nation. However, I did not leave uplifted and encouraged. Instead, I left with my faith hanging dangerously from a steep precipice, the only thing keeping it from falling my fear of losing 24 years of dedicated belief.

See, I've always believed in God. But reconciling His nature with the pain in this world has always been a challenge for me. One I've cautiously avoided, like peas and recent Nicolas Cage movies. So I'd turn off CNN and hum "Kumbaya" while the rest of the world dealt with...well...life. But I couldn't hum a song during the Haiti prayer service, and I couldn't avoid hearing the awful statistics and seeing the tragic pictures. The more I saw, the more depressed I became.

Why them? Why not me? Why then? Why? Why?

These questions kept replaying in my head, over and over again. As a veteran Christian, the pat answers just didn't come for me that night. As someone who's grown up always believing in the Lord, I found myself becoming angry with Him. For the first time in my life, I was at a place I never thought I would go. I was mad at God.

It wasn't a disbelief. It was scarier than that. It was a distrust. I could not come to the conclusion that God did not exist. (I had seen too much and experienced too much to the contrary.) But, I kept coming back to the "why?" If God's good, why does He let these things happen? If He's promised us a second coming, why hasn't it happened yet? If He's all about salvation, why do people who have never heard of Him have to die?

I struggled to answer these questions, but kept coming up empty. I felt like my faith walk had become a faith crawl, and I wasn't sure what to do about it.

Thankfully, God's legs were a lot stronger than mine.

This week, the week before Easter, our Jewish brothers and sisters are celebrating Passover. A time commemorating God's awesome power in the face of certain death. A time celebrating God's salvation.

This week, the week before Easter, I want to explore my own faith story, and share with you a time when God's awesome power was made known in my life. When He reminded me of His salvation.

I'll be updating throughout the week. Please feel free to share your story with me (and the two others reading), as we prepare for the Joy that is Christ's resurrection.

T.Hanks for the Memories

2011-02-19T14:33:00.000-06:00

Two reasons why it is probably for the best that I'll never meet Tom Hanks:

And, honestly, Troy probably handled that better than I ever would.

I'm Thrill...er....To Be Back

2011-02-01T21:45:00.000-06:00

Let it always be said that I stick to my guns. That is before I take said guns, disable them, and throw them in the recycling bin near my war protest signs. But, first, let it be said that I stick to my guns.

I have made many empty promises on this blog. I do not shy away from this, but fully embrace it like a warm hug from a slightly unstable homeless man giving out free hugs. And while I'll admit that many vows have been broken, many half marathons have not been run, and many blog posts have not been written, I, for the most part, have been pretty reliable. At least, I have been if you are a McDonald's chicken nugget relying on me to dip you in some mighty good sauce combination.

The point is, if I make a promise on this blog, I will, eventually, acknowledge the promise, ignore it, and then get around to fulfilling it. Or not. It really kind of depends on the weather. And what's on TV that night.

Last year (I always love the beginning of the new year, because I can sound all old and mature by saying stuff like "I haven't eaten a Krispy Kreme donut since last year" and "The last time I watched Millionaire Matchmaker on my DVR until 3 'o clock in the morning was last year."), I provided the people of this blog with a choice. A choice to choose whatever pre-chosen topic you wanted me to feature in a post. You, in your infinite wisdom, tipped the scales to favor our favorite singer/dancer/artist/one-gloved eccentric (and no, it wasn't Lady Gaga).

No one has impacted popular culture quite like Michael Jackson. And I thank him for that. Because, honestly, where would we be without Michael Jackson: The Experience on Wii. I don't even want to know. And his bone-chilling performance as Agent M in Men In Black II? Pure art.

I think he did some other cool stuff too.

That being said, it strikes me as a little conceited that he called himself the King of Pop. I mean, really? Hey, buddy, you really think you're the royal music leader of people like Weird Al and Justin Beiber? Get a grip!

While tons of controversy swirled around Michael through life and death, you can't deny that the dude had style. (Well, you could deny it, but it would be like denying Dairy Queen's chocolate dipped cones and their restorative powers.) And in his own sweet way, Michael Jackson wanted nothing more than world peace. And to be a fictional J.M. Barrie character. But mostly, world peace.

I think we can learn a lot from Michael Jackson's attempt at uniting the world. Because, darn it, I want to to live in a place where Dan Akroyd and Kenny Rogers can rub elbows with Bruce Springsteen and Ray Charles without fear of getting beat up. I want to make a brighter day and keep on giving, if not only to see Lord of the Rings fans and Harry Potter fans come to an agreeable truce.

The point is, people, that you can make a difference in your world no matter who or what you are. Just take a look at MJ...

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AIN'T Part Seven: Bacon, Eggs and True Grits

2010-12-28T17:42:00.002-06:00

It would be remiss of me not to wish my readers a robust "Happy Christmas" and "Mele Kalikimaka," even if it is, in typical Hardy fashion, a few days late.

But don't blame me. I wanted to write on my blog, really. Alas, the powers that be determined that my holiday was better spent at the movies. And McDonalds. Deck the halls with trans-isomer fatty acids.

We Hardys know how to have a good time. I think when Great Great Great Great Grandmother Hardy sailed to Oklahoma on the Santa Maria, with a German flag in one hand and a light beer in the other (Ye Ole' Weight Watchers unite!), all her Native American chief-friends said that she was the life of the party. "Those Hardys can party," they said. Who knew that historical Indian leaders could be so poetic? (Other than my not-so-dearly departed relative, General Custer, and he didn't really seem to care all that much in the end. The jerk.)

Christmas Eve found this clan doing what we do best: sitting in chairs, eating something covered in salt and oil, and watching other people exercise. This year's official Christmas movie was none other than a feel-good, bloody flick called "True Grit." I won't bore you with details (when do I ever bore you with details?), but I will let you in on a little secret: It's gritty. Truly. This movie (which, coincidentally, has eye candy in the form of Matt Damon and Josh Brolin. Sigh.) has inspired me to adopt my "inner Mattie" and become a force not to be reckoned with.

Too bad I saw this after quitting Borders.

However, my "inner Mattie" will not be silenced just because she does not have a mind-numbing retail job to rail against. There are plenty of injustices for me to practice my "Kaitlin doesn't take no smack" persona on. For instance, I went to Rosepepper Cantina last night, and asked for a side of shredded cheese. Said side of cut-up dairy product appeared on my table in a cup that looked like it was the drinking mug of an anorexic mouse. This miniscule cup, so tiny that my fingers got confused about what they were supposed to pick up, appeared on my bill in a very large way. Like, $1.50, large. "Inner Mattie" was not happy. However, she was busy seeking vengeance for her father’s death with a one-eyed Jeff Bridges and couldn’t stand to be bothered at the moment, so I left Rosepepper, dignity intact, giving them a very stern look as I walked out the door.

Let this serve as a warning, however, to anyone who dares cross me. “Inner Mattie” is lurking underneath the surface, and if I can coax her out, there will be heckydarn to pay! That is, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my sleep, my meals, or my Facebook stalking. I have a life, you know.

After True Grit, a quick meal at McDonald’s (and you thought I was joking), and a trip to Opryland Hotel, my parents and Gran Jean succumbed to my ever persuasive pleas to go to Midnight Mass. (“Ever Persuasive” is a phrase that here means “an only child whining until she gets her way.”) If you have never been to a Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, you are missing out. Go next year. Seriously. Put it on your calendar. Don’t make the angels cry.

Since food is vital in the lifespan of a Hardy, I have to mention our Christmas brunch at Monell's. Hopefully this will be a tradition for years to come. Not only because it means that my Mom and I will never have to cook, but also because it provides the perfect opportunity for us to share our cleverness with all the other families fortunate to sit at our table. This year's family hailed from Canada. The poor souls had never been to Monell's, had never experienced family-style dining, and had most definitely never met a Hardy. My dad and I made sure to remedy that. Personally, I think we were charming and witty, and when the family ran away from our table screaming, it was with mirth and merriment. Pass the maple syrup, eh?

All in all, this Christmas proved to be one that was filled with blessing, joy, and Frankincense. Lots of Frankincense. Oh, those pesky, sweet-smelling Catholics.

I don't know Jack...son.

2010-12-18T02:05:00.000-06:00

I may be a liberal socialist hippie with a power complex, but this Christmas, I've decided to run my blog as a representative democracy. Nice of me, I know.

As the dictator of this little bit of cyberspace, I make all the decisions about what I write and when I write it. This is a time-consuming process, usually fraught with heartburn and many sleepless nights (although, that could also be the Taco Bell cheese dip). However, as I am in a generous mood, I realize that my three readers may want a say in this process. And who am I to deny my three readers?

Just like every effective and powerful government, I am giving you the choice of what I write. Just like every effective and powerful government, I am limiting that choice to four choices of my choosing. Ain't independence fun?!

So, kids, if you want to spread some holiday cheer and exercise your right to vote, please participate in the poll to the right hand side of the post. You'll feel like you've contributed, and I'll feel like I've been benevolent.

Now please excuse Her Highness, Kaitlin, Grand Supreme Ruler of All Things Kinda Blog-Worthy, as I go eat some cheese dip.

AIN'T Part Six: Retelling Retail

2010-12-13T01:51:00.003-06:00

Attention friends, family, and that one person from Russia that keeps coming to my blog: The gag order has been removed.

Alright, I know you probably didn't even realize there was a gag order. "Kaitlin," you say to me exasperatedly, "When in your life have you ever been silent? We can't get you to shut-up!" But my parents' comments aside, you may have noticed that this blog has been unusually quiet. I mean, for someone who was regularly posting every three and a half months, things have really seemed to slack off. I've practically been beating away all the emails begging for my return to the blog-o-sphere. (Let's just say that you don't want to make Tom Hanks angry.)

However, I am now contractually free. My three month internment at a certain bookstore is finally finished, and as I look forward to the prospects this new year will bring (a different post, entirely), I am feeling somewhat nostalgic. Or, as nostalgic as one can be for a part-time retail job that just finished two days, five hours, and seven minutes ago.

Since they made me sign a piece of paper saying I wouldn't blog about them while gainfully employed, I have, instead, been keeping a detailed log of my daily experiences there. But as I am trying for a show in discipline (my stomach is still hurting from one too many slices of pepperoni and pineapple pizza), I've decided to ration my stories. This will also help me find material to use on this site later, lest my dear friend, Katie Yinger, spontaneously combusts at the prospect of my posting YouTube videos of cute hamsters, rather than the usual rambling diatribes. (And, to answer that unspoken question, I don't know why she likes my rambling diatribes. I've considered she's a little addled in the head, if you know what I mean, but don't tell her I said that. I mean, who doesn't like cute hamsters?)

Anyway, to kick this party off on the right foot, I've decided to share with you one of my more memorable times at Borders.

In prose.

Yes, you can tell Frost to "back off" because K-Hard is in the hizzle! (But, seriously, if you see him, please let him know that the whole "less traveled by" thing was cute, but I think Usher said it a lot more eloquently in "Confessions Part II.")

Without further ado:

There once was a girl, named Kaitlin Ann Hardy,
who worked at a bookstore; her life was a party.
Her work was rewarding:
"Would you like a card, sir?"
And when people said "no,"
She'd only try harder.

She enjoyed all of the people,
every last one.
The big ones, the small ones,
the fathers and sons.
People with red hair, blue hair, and green.
People with children, elders, and teens.

She loved all of them much,
until one Fall day.
When she met a man,
her mind he did sway.

His six foot tall stature seemed quite overbearing,
he walked up to Kaitlin, and started a'swearing.
"Young Miss," he declared,
"I'm bothered and peeved,
I shopped here all day, now listen to me!
My car, it was parked, lovely and new.
So what did your crappy security do?
They threatened to tow, and not only that!
They slapped on a sticker, pressing it flat."

"I'm sorry, sir," said our fair young hero,
"You seem quite upset, your patience at zero."
His face got so red,
He seemed really put out.
But the next thing he said, left her with no doubt.

"I am a veteran, you don't want me pissed.
I'm armed and I'm angry, you get the gist.
And while I'm not planning anything now,
if you keep this up, this is my vow:
Someone will come, mark these my words,
and shoot out your windows, your books, and your herds.
A fire they'll set" he said, with a glare,
"And hopefully, friend, you won't find yourself there."

Kaitlin was stunned as the man walked away,
She hemmed and she hawed for something to say.
Unfortunately, the words did not come.
After 23 years, she was finally struck dumb.

So let this be a lesson to all of you readers,
tell you moms, tell your dads, tell your bipartisan leaders.
of all of the people you plan to piss off,
if it is a veteran, he'll do much more than scoff.

the. end.

See, it isn't great that I now have all this free-time? The literary world will be forever indebted.

Roll Away Your Stone

2010-12-12T12:55:00.000-06:00

"It was sin that made death so frightening and law-code guilt that gave sin its leverage, its destructive power. But now in a single victorious stroke of Life, all three—sin, guilt, death—are gone, the gift of our Master, Jesus Christ. Thank God! " 1 Corinthians 15:56-57

In the Jewish tradition of Shiva, when a family is mourning the loss of a loved one, they sit at home for seven days. During this time, visitors bring food, providing an important physical and relational presence. Conversation, however, is practically non-existent. These seven days, for the most part, are spent in silence.

Words are sticky. It seems, as God laid out the guidelines for navigating grief, that He understood this fact. Even in His own experience, when faced with Lazarus' death, Jesus said little. Instead, he knelt down next to Mary, and wept. His tears did not seem to be trickles of polite droplets, but instead hot, angry streams of compassion and frustration. The comfort he could have provided with words, was much better demonstrated (and, most likely, better felt) through His presence alone. His actions. His silent commiseration. And even with his full knowledge that, in five minutes, Lazarus would be hugging his sisters, Jesus did not immediately say this. Instead, the Holy One cried on the ground.

I think there's something innate in our humanity that has us desperately wanting to remove others' pain. We want to use words. Words that will just make everything better. That will just make it all go away. Words like, "It was God's timing," "He had a plan," "It will be OK." Things that, in the moment, do more harm than good. However, it is hard, as a human being, to stay silent. At least, it is for this human being. I tend to over-use words. I ramble. And in times like these, when silence is more comforting than verbosity, I struggle. Because I want to fix things with my words. I want to offer comfort.

I forget that I'm not the One who does that.

I'm prefacing this post, because I want it to be known that no matter what I say, no matter how many paragraphs this takes, I will never be able to express myself as eloquently as that simple act of Christ in front of Lazarus' grave. Death is a complicated thing. One that God approached with a very hands-on, love-infused, way. One that I handle clumsily. But as my family lives far away, and I have no arms to offer or tears to share, I am only left with my words.

I will try to use them wisely.

This weekend, my family is mourning the loss of a bright and shining star. My Uncle Ken's unwavering faith, fierce love, and cheerful spirit grace heaven tonight. Our loss, however, is bitter. As a husband, dad, grandfather, uncle, brother, he touched many lives. He built relationships. Relationships that, in their own right, are special and sacred. Relationships that will have to be put on hold until that joyful day when we're reunited.

Thank God, He has the final say in this story.

Because my Uncle Ken, the man whose smile was infectious, whose life was radiant, whose purpose was clear, was not defeated by illness.

He was redeemed.

God has rolled away his stone.

A single, victorious stroke of Life: this is what God has offered us in His infinite wisdom and unyielding grace.The beauty of God's grace, the beauty of believing in a Savior, is that in times like these, mourning is turned to dancing. The beauty of death is hope. Uncle Ken believed this with all of his heart. I know, that as he is cutting a rug with the angels in heaven, he is also waiting anxiously to show us what we're missing. And when Christ comes back to call us home, he'll be there too, smiling knowingly, as a man who has been bought with the blood of the Lamb.

In the meantime, we weep. We weep for our loss. We weep for his pain before his final breath. We weep for the ugliness of death, the memories of a full life, of 82 years of service, and the family that's left behind. But we don't weep alone. He's not called the Great Comforter for nothing.

As my family "sits Shiva" in California, I am reminded of His words in 2 Corinthians:

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ." 2 Corinthians 2:3-5

May His comfort be thick in the lives of my loved ones.

L'Chaim

2010-11-15T02:29:00.001-06:00

I was chased by a bunny rabbit once.

I’m not proud about that fact, but there you go. Actually, it kind of feels good to get it off my chest. To be fair, though, the way I remember that fateful day, and the way my family remembers that fateful day, differs ever so slightly. "Ever so slightly" is a phrase which here means "they are completely wrong about everything related to rabbits and myself."

Because this is my blog, and you are my blog people (or, "peeps" for all you street folks out there) (or, "plebeians" for all you Roman middle-class citizens out there), I will shoot straight with you. Right here, right now, I vow to tell the whole story. No editorializing (never on this blog) and no exaggerating (not my style). Here, at Heavenly Hats, I like to stick to the facts. Because, hey, I don't run a social networking site. I don't want you plebs lingering here like this is some sort of virtual, Church of Christ friendly bar, with your non-alcoholic chocolate martinis and candy cigarettes, just shooting the breeze and flirting. (Or, I guess if it's CoC friendly, it would be shooting the breeze and not flirting. But that's a different post altogether.) I don't get paid to provide entertainment; I'm a "news-only and only news" kind of author. You know, completely unbiased and totally not at all trying to sway you with my rhetoric. Kind of like Sean Hannity and Glenn Beck.

But back to the bunnies.

I was living in southern Illinois at the time, a carefree second grader with a propensity for dancing to Tom Chapin's Preacher Herman and constantly putting my Glo-Worm, Glowie, and Cabbage Patch Kid, Carlie, in time-out for fighting. (Hey, only-children have very good imaginations.) I went to play outside with my friend (real, not imaginary). We were playing this awful game where you run and then the other person runs, and then you run some more (I think it's called "tag"), when we decided to go to the back yard. Looking back on it, I see my mistake was in the “more running” suggestion. Why, oh, why couldn’t I just have been a sedentary eight year-old?

We got to the backyard and stopped in our tracks. Staring at us was the largest dog ever known to man (to this day, I still swear it was Cujo's older and slobbier cousin, Fujo).We just stood there, frozen. Frozen like little second-grade riblets. Like the riblets my dad tears into on Rib Day at Famous Dave’s. I could see it in his eyes: It was Rib Day for Fujo.When he started bounding towards us, however, the adrenaline kicked in. He was barking, we were barking louder, and by the time our screams had reached Chicago, we were in the front yard, panting and crying.

My lovely, supportive parents, however, did not scoop me up and comfort me. Instead, they doubled over in laughter. And not polite, knock-knock joke laughter. It was full-on, "Ellen DeGeneres is having a dinner with Demitri Martin while Will Ferrell is imitating George Bush at Jim Gaffigan's wedding" laughter. It was "our daughter is a moron" laughter; laughter, that unfortunately, I would hear many times again, once even on my 12th birthday (who else here knew that you don't pronounce "lbs" like "lubs"?).

I could not believe they were laughing at my impending doom. I turned to show them the hungry monster about to eat me and say "I told you so," and maybe, if I had time before becoming dinner, stick my tongue out at them, but when I looked, Fujo was gone. It was like he disappeared into thin air. And in his place? A wild bunny rabbit. Brown, small, with a fuzzy white tail. Hopping away from the backyard like her life depended on it. Almost like she was being chased. By a rib-craving canine.

At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

My parents love to tell people the rabbit story. Of course, their version omits the dog, and paints a picture of an eight year-old Kaitlin running from the backyard, terrified, as a bunny chases her to her parents' protective arms.

(I'm glad you and I actually know the truth.)

Life can be kind of unpredictable. I know, I know, wise words from Sensei Kaitlin, but even after being chased by a tiny, fluffy mammal, it still took me about 16 years to learn. My new favorite band, Mumford & Sons, has a song called "The Cave," which has really resonated with me lately. There is one particular line (amidst several) that perfectly captures the place I've been for the last few weeks:

The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind

As the singer continues, he talks about finding his purpose. In indicating God's hand in his plan, he goes on to say that he will "live [his] life as it is meant to be."

I realize that I've still been running away from rabbits. My fears. My faults. My insecurities, prejudices, pimples, and off-key singing. All these are things that I see as large, ferocious dogs, when, in reality, they are small--so small--compared to my Maker. And, sometimes, it's hard for me to remember this and live my life "as it is meant to be."

As a child of God.

As a servant.

As a joy-giver.

As a grace-getter.

As a peacemaker.

As a friend.

As a sister.

As a new creation.

Free.

I'm working on it. In the meantime, if you hear me barking, don't be alarmed....

What's the plan, Stan?

2010-09-28T02:49:00.000-05:00

I'm a planner. This is common knowledge among my family and friends, right there between my love for melted cheese and a good JK Rowling plot. Of course, while Taco Bell queso and Sirius Black seem to meet my most every need in life, it is "the plan" that really gets me up in the morning. Like a well-placed daisy in the hands of Tom Hanks, "the plan" can be the perfect start to the day. The ying to my yang. The flip to my flop. The Chuck E. to my Cheese. You get the idea.

(I fully recognize that I'm using a lot of cheese references in this post. If you are a lactose intolerant reader, I do apologize, but would just like to remind you that I have never once made the claim to be a vegan writer. In fact, most of my writing contains trans-fats and high fructose corn syrup, and even visiting this site just once a day could contribute to a substantial weight gain. It also contributes to my continuing procrastination from less important things such as balancing my checkbook, making my bed, and sleep.)

I love planning. Ever since I was little, I was making plans. Five year plans, ten year plans, plans for my future, plans for my future's future. In my world of moves every couple of years, planning seemed to keep me sane. If I could plan for something to happen, I could respond appropriately. Of course, I'm not saying all my plans were attainable, but at the age of 5, I didn't care whether or not it was probable to marry Grover and live on Sesame Street. The point was: I had a plan.

Planning has always given me a sense of peace. If you know me well, you know that I am not what one would define as spontaneous. Adaptable, yes. Adventurous, kind of. Flexible, certainly. But, spontaneity is rarely welcomed. Spontaneity and I are, as the youth put it, "frenemies." You're talking to the girl who, when confronted with curly fries for the first time, threw a temper tantrum the size of Angelina Jolie's lips because they weren't "real" french fries. The girl who refused to get into the car until her parents told her everywhere they were going and everything they were doing for that day. The girl who had to know the ending of every movie (happy or sad?) before she watched it. The girl who loves a good syllabus, faints at the sight of Franklin Covey products, and writes down her goals for the year every January. And, if you dare call me nerdy, I will hit you upside the head with my pocket protector....

I am known to swing the other way, however. When a plan goes awry, I seem to lose my footing. The previously known planner becomes an all-out procrastinator. My calender acts as a pillow and my goals make for really good paper planes. And the girl who likes direction? She becomes lost in a sea of "what ifs?" and "how comes?"

I've been thinking these past few weeks about my future. Actually, I've been doing this since I was three. My future has seen a lot of possibilities, too. A mermaid, a Native American, an actress, a child advocacy lawyer, a social worker. Many roads leading to many futures. Overwhelming and exhausting, especially when things don't go the way I planned. (Darn that whole breathing underwater obstacle; I would have looked good in fins.) As I sit here, in bed, looking at the 40+ job applications I've already submitted, I worry. I worry about my future, my plans, my life, my choices, my ability to get up in the morning since it's already 2'oclock, and my stomach (because, for some reason, I'm craving a Mr. Blonde shake from Midnight Oil). And my worry snowball becomes an avalanche. I worry about my future spouse, my future children, my future grandchildren, my future country, and my future world.

So, I start planning. Then, I start freaking out because, honestly, I don't know the plan. I start freaking out because, as much as I try to plan for the future, there will always be the unknown. The spontaneous player. The depressed job market. The failed interview. The unforeseen opportunity. The random offer. Which means my life, as much as I try to force it, will never read like the back of a DVD cover, but, instead, like a colorful tapestry of unknown, yet vibrant, threads. A tapestry telling the story of a girl who lives because of grace, not works. Who practices love, not fear. Who embraces confidence, not insecurity. Who understands that the final plan, the one that really matters, is up to Him, and He's already got me covered:

This is what the LORD says: "When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the LORD, "and will bring you back from captivity. I will gather you from all the nations and places where I have banished you," declares the LORD, "and will bring you back to the place from which I carried you into exile." Jeremiah 29:10-14

And, really, could there be a better future than that?

Of Beasts and Bards

2010-09-23T23:14:00.000-05:00

Forward: The following literate, humorous, smart, and very touching blog post was penned by a good friend and amazing author. Due to contractual obligations, I accept all consequences for posting this on my blog (unless said-consequences lead to a proposal of marital and monetary proportions, in which case, I am to give Mr. Tebow her phone number). Also, let it be known that I, Kaitlin Ann Hardy, have proof-read this post and give it my FULL stamp of approval. I, Kaitlin Ann Hardy, am the very definition of a "reasonable person," that is, if you would define a "reasonable person" being someone who emails Tom Hanks every day while sitting in bed, eating Krispy Kreme donuts and listening to Nellie McKay. Which I do.

That being said, this post is unusually intelligent and classy for the likes of this blog. You must understand that I surround myself with people who are smarter than me in the event that I can't read the restraining order from Tom Hanks and Company.

Words is hard.

Finally, my guest blogger, who is one of the sweetest and most humble people I know, does not easily accept accolades (even well-disguised ones), so please leave her many in the comments section because then she can't wave them off in her typically nonchalant and embarrassed fashion. (Insert Kaitlin's evil laugh here...)

Without further ado, I am pleased to introduce Heavenly Hats' first guest blogger: Miss Katie Yinger (AKA Ying-Factor) (Cue applause...)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Let me not the marriage of true minds admit impediment.

Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no! It is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken.

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.”

I have to hand it to Shakespeare. Despite the fact that this same poem was quoted by Marianne’s beloved Willoughby, who turned out to be a total player in Sense and Sensibility, and despite the fact that Shakespeare could quite possibly have written this for a man, this poem somehow managed to remain comfortably entrenched amongst my Top Ten favorite works of all time, ranking within striking distance of Pride and Prejudice and To Kill a Mockingbird and just slightly above Pink, Pink Go to the Sink.

I can hardly think of barks without getting all dreamy-eyed and picturing a white picket fence surrounding five or six miniature Katies happily playing with me and some combination of Mr. Darcy (less the sideburns), Edward Cullen (less the paleness and fangs), and whoever played Spartacus in that old movie (less the weird chin).

Unless I’m thinking of tree barks. Then I just think about those leaf notebooks we had to make in fourth grade and the bird that pooped on my head while I was collecting said leaves at Vanderbilt. But I digress.

This poem, when it talks about love’s “not being time’s fool” and “altering not with his brief hours and weeks” but “bearing it out e’en to the edge of doom” seems to be about life after the happily-ever-after. Shakespeare ends the poem with a couplet, which I will define for all my poetically illiterate (aka, non-flaky) readers as “a two-line rhyming thingy at the end of a poem.”

“If this be false and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.”

And Shakespeare definitely writ. This ability to turn daily tasks and phrases into seventeenth-century innuendos, as well as possessing a gift for plot invention that most modern-day soap opera writers would use a “happy dagger” on themselves to get, certainly earns Shakespeare a place of honor among the greatest bards of all time. Macbeth kills his dad and marries his mom while witches prick their thumbs and cackle in perfect poetry around their cauldrons. Honestly, who else can come up with stuff that good? Shakespeare meant business when he penned this poem. He was talented, and he was a man, so by the transitive theory of mathematics, we can deduce that he was at least moderately arrogant. (He would never have staked his innuendos and his Days-of-Our-Lives-esque plot structure on a few lines about barks and sickles if he didn’t really believe them...)

So this poem is basically about what happens after the “rosy lips and cheeks” start sagging under the weight of “Time’s bending sickle.” In short, it’s a poem about real life. Real romance. It’s not some story about Cinderella or Belle where the major characters catch love like a disease and end up married to a total stranger.

I watched Beauty and the Beast last night. Belle was my favorite Disney princess growing up. We were “kindred spirits," so to speak. She had brown hair. She liked to read. She wore a yellow dress. And she was generally acknowledged to be weird. All I needed was to find me a beast who looked decent in a blue suit and owned a castle of talking furniture and household items, and I would have had it made. But when I watched it the other night, I realized something:

Belle was an absolute moron.

Really, Belle? He warded a few wolves off you after he exploded at you in rage. He eventually made an effort to eat with a spoon. And, he released you in the end, even though the enchanted flower was about to die and force him to remain a monster forever. You’re right, Belle; he’s a winner. Definitely better than all those other guys who wouldn’t have thrown you in prison to begin with. (Although if it were me, I’d go hunt down that sorceress and demand that she give Mr. Beast better hair and eyebrows in his human form.) At any rate, the movie ends with Belle and Beast dancing together, while the recently-humanized servants joyfully look on. I presume they all lived "happily ever after."

Or take Cinderella. In the animated version, the prince utters no more than ten words throughout the entire movie. Then, they’re kissing in his garden, and she has to leave suddenly. Apparently, their hours-long conversation together doesn't seem to acquaint Mr. Charming with the answers to those difficult and probing questions of “What is your last name?” and “Where do you live?” But not to worry. The slipper eventually fits, and they, too, live "happily ever after."

What of this “happily ever after," though? Most romances promise that if you meet that one beast or really good kisser who also just happens to be a prince, then the rest of your life is blue skies and Sonic strawberry slushes. But the truth of the matter is that I haven’t met a single talking beast yet. Not one. And I’m 23 (which is less than a decade removed from a single woman’s “over-the-hill,” panic age). My age equates roughly to the mid-forties for a married person. In short, I’ve been around a while. I know stuff. So you can trust me. There is, at best, a minuscule supply of talking beasts in the world, and if you do happen to find one, I’d be quite shocked if he could manage to pull off wearing a blue suit.

Sometimes, I think we settle for attempting to mirror our lives off of fairy-tales. We start believing that a pretty girl and a mute prince (that only met five hours ago) have a real shot at eternal, matrimonial bliss. It’s almost an afterthought: they get married, and oh, yeah, um, what then? Well, er, they, um, they…well, the rest of their life together is great. Perfect. In fact, it’s so good that I’ll just let you make up whatever it is that you think the perfect "rest-of-their-lives" would look like. Yeah, that’s it. They are really happy, in whatever really happy way you imagine them to be. They live "happily ever after."

Now, don’t get me wrong. I still absolutely love fairy-tales. For fictional reading and movie-watching, fairy-tales are about as perfect as you can get. But the sad thing is, that in real life, the fairy-tales have it backwards. It’s the stuff that happens after the happily-ever-after ending that is the stuff worth telling. The story hasn’t really even begun until after "the after.

It’s that old man I saw, still wearing his wedding band, pushing around his invalid wife at a wedding last night.

It’s the old man my friend knew who would sit for hours on end at his wife’s nursing home, every day, just brushing her hair.

It’s that single mother, watching proudly as her son, whom she has loved and supported throughout his entire life, graduates from a drug detox program, knowing that he’s the one out of two hundred who lived through it.

It’s the stuff that’s been tried again and again and remained true after the “happily-ever-after” that’s the most beautiful. And it’s also genuine. It’s attainable. We see examples of it every day. Why settle for a fairy-tale when the attainable reality is so much stronger and more beautiful? Shakespeare had it right. Love is an ever-fixed mark that is never shaken.

It is eternal. It is powerful. It is beautiful.

And it is real.

AIN'T Part Five: Putting the Cool Back in "Un-Cool"

2010-09-01T23:03:00.001-05:00

I think it is very important to be honest on a blog. In fact, blogger rule #987 is, "Tell the truth." Not to be confused with blogger rule #789 which is "Never get involved in a land war in Asia." At least, I think that's a blogger rule...

Honesty is the best policy, I always say. Yep. That's what I always say. Really, I do. Ask any of my friends. When Tom Hanks and I hang out, I always tell him, "Tom," (That's what I call him.) "Honesty is the best policy." Tom usually agrees and then we go have coffee at Cafe Coco and chat about my marriage to his son, the movie deal he's going to offer me, and what kind of toothpaste we use. (Hey, he’s a down-to-earth guy.)

As you can see, honesty is a big deal to me. And, in the realm of confession and wrong-doing, it really is the best policy just to rip that band-aid off, and whistle Dixie. Or not whistle Dixie.

Whatever.

What I have to say to you, my loyal readers (not to be confused with my royal readers), is going to be very difficult for me. But, because I’m an honest person, I'm just going to come right out and say it. There's no shame here, I always say. Seriously. Just last week, I was telling my good friend, Lindsay Lohan, that here, at Heavenly Hats, there is no shame. Then visiting hours were over before I could give her the shiv I had cleverly hid inside her birthday cake.

Yes, it probably would be easier for me to breeze over this little story. Then, we could continue our blogging relationship as if nothing ever happened: you, taking pictures of the elephant in the room, and me, wondering how he got there and Febreze-ing like crazy, because, hey, elephants really stink. Then, two years from now, after about four more blog posts, I could tell you the cooler, edited version of what happened, and we'd laugh, cry, and have a few root beers to celebrate my cleverness.

Oh, to be clever.

Unfortunately, as I am still unemployed, my days are wide open. Having just finished thinking about cleaning my room, pretending to balance my checkbook, organizing Gran Jean's eye-drops, and eating every Sour Cream and Onion Pringle crumb on the couch while watching Gene Simmons Family Jewels, I have nothing left to do except blog. And idle blogging can only mean one thing: pure, uncensored Kaitlin.

Lucky you.

If you’ve been keeping up at all with this blog, you know that I made a couple of promises that, frankly, I never planned to keep. But, like a good online friend, I strung all of you along, merrily skipping about my forest of lies and deception. Now, however, I feel compelled to tell you the truth. My stomach is really turning from this. Or it could be the chocolate iced crème-filled donut I just ate.

Friends. Family. Stalkers. I am here to tell you that the person you thought I was, I, in fact, am not.

I, Kaitlin Ann Hardy, am not, nor have I ever been, a runner.

Shocker, I know.

I wanted to share with all of you my victorious crossing of the finish line at the Country Music ½ Marathon. I really did. In fact, up until the night before the race, I was practicing my victorious wave for the cameras. It looked pretty good, actually. My shoes were perfectly coifed, my hair meticulously tied, and my stomach expectedly woozy. Or something like that.

I took the advised 24 days off of running to rest my precious feet. (Funny how the words “days” and “hours” look oddly similar at 2 o’clock in the morning, after two Diet Cherry Cokes and white cheddar rice cakes…) I was pumped, I was ready, I was scared out of my mind. But as the clock ticked forward, the circumstances became hairier.

All signs pointed to me not running the race. And as much as I wanted to run (i.e. shelled out precious money for the darn thing), I could not ignore the signs. You could say they opened up my eyes:

5 Signs that Kaitlin Should Not Run The Country Music Half-Marathon

1. The clouds were crying for me. Truly. Actually, so hard that “the powers that be” were predicting severe thunderstorms the morning of the race. And everyone knows that I melt when I come in contact with water.

2. I’m not a huge country music fan. Of course, I appreciate a good Reba-rendition of “Fancy” every now and then, but I’ll know if a race is for me if it is named “The Sufjan Folds Mraz Half-Marathon.”

3. I was watching a great episode of “Say Yes to the Dress” and did not want to go to bed before seeing if the girl from New Jersey would say “yes” to that beautiful, little $20,000 number.

4. My partner in crime, my friend, my accomplice, who, for confidentiality reasons cannot be named, but whose name rhymes with Mashly, was in the throes of a terrible flu-like virus (that we later found out was the beginnings of Mono). Lucky dog.

5. I didn’t want to and you couldn’t make me.

The signs spoke and I listened. I also realized that I would have to get up at 4 o’clock in the morning on race day. Since that was six hours earlier than my usual wake-up time, I knew it would be out of the question.

Since April, I’ve forsaken running altogether. It’s nothing personal, but running and I just weren’t made for each other. You could say that running and I agreed to see other people. Or, really, running is seeing other people and I’m watching Leonardo DiCaprio make genius films about psych hospitals and dreaming. (I really got the better end of the deal, there…)

Sometimes I wonder if I will return to the track. Will I, Kaitlin, ever see my name among the ranks of Jesse Owens and Jeff Galloway?

Not a chance in heckydarn.

I think I’m going to go eat a Pringle now…

If the church were a restaurant...

2010-08-05T23:59:00.001-05:00

Hi, welcome to Burger World!

I’m so glad you joined us this morning. It's open seating today, but please make sure you don’t sit in any of our valued customers’ booths. We have some available in the back. They’re close to our emergency exit and trash cans, but don’t worry---you’ll be out of here in an hour.

We are the friendliest joint in town, and I really hope you come back next week. Please don’t expect us to serve you right away, though; we are experiencing our normal surge of patrons and can’t possibly be expected to meet your every need.

If you direct your attention to the menu, you can see that we serve a diverse selection of food. Not only do we offer burgers, but, if you are feeling particularly adventurous, we allow you to put cheese on it. However, if you choose a cheeseburger, I must request that you keep it to yourself. Some of our guests are lactose-intolerant, and waving your cheese around is just plain rude. Some might even call it self-serving. Remember, Burger World is about the burger, not you.

Before we bring out your burger, I’d like to make you aware of a few of our rules:

1. Dress Code: Out of respect to the burger, most customers will come to our establishment looking clean, presentable, and business-like. While we do accept walk-ins, we reserve the right to stare at your disrespectful shorts, t-shirts, and overall unkempt-ness. Our rule is simple: Poor dress, poor burger quality. Good dress, good burger quality.

2. Code of Conduct: While we appreciate your enthusiasm for the burger, we must ask that you keep it down. You may smile while eating the burger, but, please, don’t make a habit of it. Whatever you do, do not make eye-contact with other patrons eating the burger. Burger consumption is a singular experience, and should not be shared with the table next to you.

3. We encourage families to eat their burgers together. If you do not have a family, please find one. We cannot be expected to waste our tables for four on those without families. This is why Burger World provides a room created especially for singles. We call it: The Waiting Room. Many of our single customers have met each other in The Waiting Room, and have graduated together to the main dining facility. Good luck!

4. We meticulously follow the USDA’s guide on the cooking of our meat, but just to be extra sure that the burger is cooked properly and honorably, we’ve added a few extra rules:

a. While cooking the burger, we practice silence. No one is allowed to comment on the cooking of the burger, just in case someone accidentally contaminates the burger with their spit.

b. If an employee drops the burger on the floor, we don’t allow that employee in the kitchen anymore. He is allowed to take out the trash, but can never talk about burgers in public again. (This would just besmirch the good name of Burger World.)

4. We are the only establishment that follows the USDA’s guide word-for-word. If you have previously attended a Burger Universe or Burger Country, Burger World asks that you admit your wrongdoing and vow to only eat burgers from Burger World in the future. Our motto is: If it’s not from Burger World, it’s not a burger. (We would like to take this opportunity to say that a lot of impostor Burger Worlds are popping up. These “modern” restaurants say that they are “customer-oriented” and “relevant,” but all this really means is “scandalous” and “dishonest”. While you may be attracted to their fancy computerized menus, instrumental Muzak players, and extended store hours, don’t be fooled by their blatant disregard for the USDA’s clear-cut instructions.)

Thank you for understanding the need to enforce these rules. Without them, our customers at Burger World would look exactly like the customers at Veggie Planet. In a world of vegetarians, we meat-eaters must stick together. That being said, we follow very strict guidelines if a vegetarian ever walks into our store. After relegating the heathen to the patio, it is our policy that any vegetarian wishing to taste a burger must be put through rigorous testing, ending in a ketchup dunking, before he or she can sit inside. Our burger may be life-changing and powerful, but it must be handled with care and exclusivity. Narrow is the path to Burger World, and we’d like to keep it that way.

By now, I’m sure you’re more than thrilled to be joining us. If I were you, I’d be thrilled too. Please remember that shoes must be worn at all times in Burger World. The burger is, of course, free, but only to patrons of Burger World. Burger World does not come to you; you come to Burger World. Since panhandling on Burger World property is expressly forbidden, we discourage you from taking leftovers out of the restaurant. This helps keep away the riff-raff. People must work hard for their burgers; we don’t just give them away willy-nilly.

We practice non-discrimination. We are an equal opportunity employer, with current openings for upstanding, middle-class, fashionable, non-minority types. Our image is very important to us. If we don’t look good, no one will believe our burgers taste good.

I hope you join us again*. Please take a complimentary copy of the USDA’s Handbook with you as you leave. If you study it closely, you will come to the conclusion that Burger World is the only place to get a real hamburger. However, if you don’t come to that conclusion, you are obviously a vegetarian at heart, and deserve to live a sad and bland life. Remember, our doors are always open (Between 8am-12pm and 6-7pm on Sundays and 7-8pm on Wednesdays).

*Please park in assigned spot or car will be towed at owner’s expense.

Off We Go...and other adventures.

2010-07-01T18:09:00.005-05:00

If you haven't heard from me in a while, it is because we have been partying in the extremely tropical location of Edwards AFB, i.e. the "hot as heckydarn" Mojave desert. The festivities are surrounding my ever-impressive, Colonel of a father, who, after 25 years, decided it was time to change career fields and retire from the Air Force (who, unlike me, after 23 years, decided it was time to change tastes, and retire from Happy Meals. To Big Kid Meals. Oh, McDonalds, how often you meet my needs!) Yesterday was the ceremonial closing of a chapter, and as the tears flowed (I'm a sensitive soul, ok?), so did the memories.

There's a lot I could say about the retirement, about my dad, and about the many feelings related to the end of something I've known my whole life (and something he's known most of his adult life).

But, we have tacos to eat tonight.

So while I'm reveling in the wonderful food that comes with the word "vacation", I'm leaving you folks with the slide-show I made for him:

Off We Go from Kaitlin Hardy on Vimeo.

*WARNING* This is a 20 minute-long indulgence that is one of those things that only parents and grandparents enjoy. I will not be offended if you skip ahead to watch yourself. If, perchance, you did not participate in making this video, then you may skip ahead to YouTube, where you are encouraged to watch Rhett & Link in any of their videos, but mainly, my current favorite. Thank you for your cooperation. *WARNING*

Gonna Paint A Sign

2010-06-17T23:46:00.009-05:00

I have posted a new poll just in time for Father's Day. Approach at your own risk.

I might update my blog soon.

I might not.

But, honestly, isn't it the utter unpredictability of my posting schedule that keeps you coming back for more? Isn't that what makes this blog insanely attractive and popular? Isn't that the reason I have thousands upon thousands of movie offers to turn my stories of flatulence into blockbuster hits? That's what I thought.

Well, this clip is in honor of my padre, la papa, my father, my daddio, my dad, my hero and my favorite Monopoly nemesis:

Happy [early] Father's Day, Dad! Your card is in the mail...along with your Jet Ski, Olivia Newton John's new album, and my acceptance letter to law school. Knock yourself out.

One more for the road:

AIN'T Part Four: Downpour On My Soul

2010-05-13T12:04:00.006-05:00

"Flood waters can't drown love, torrents of rain can't put it out." Song of Songs 8:7

When I was in the second grade, my family moved from Illinois to California. We decided to make the journey in our car, mostly because we wanted to visit friends along the way, but partly because my parents had heard about a string of commercial moving van mishaps. To avoid losing our things in a Godfather-esque "Leave the gun, take the cannolis" moving theft-ring, we rented a U-Haul and packed it with our most important documents and valuable items, including our pictures, birth certificates, home videos, and handmade quilts.

As we drove across the country, I remember passing most of the time reading the Baby-Sitters Club series ("Claudia Kishi, Middle School Dropout") and eating Bugles (one-by-one, off my fingers, the only true way to eat a Bugle). When I wasn't eating, reading, or talking, I spent the other two seconds in the car looking out the window, checking to make sure the U-Haul was still attached to our Town & Country. U-ie (my nickname for it) was carrying my brand-new, pink, streamer'd bike, and nothing, NOTHING, was going to get in my way of riding that thing once we made it to Sacramento. I was going to be a vision in pigtails and Barbie sneakers, riding up and down my street, waving at the poor eight-year old boys who didn't have a chance with me. (Can we say, "story of my life"?)

We were a day away from crossing into California when we stopped at a Holiday Inn Motel 8 Express Hilton in Tucson, Arizona. I was tuckered out from all the eating and reading, so I went to sleep right away. (Can we say, "story of my life"?) The next morning, my dad went down to put the luggage in the car while my mom washed my hair.

It's funny how certain moments can be recollected in explicit detail, no matter how much time has passed. Like, when I watched my first Tom Hanks movie ("That Thing You Do!", 1997) or that time I got food poisoning (Captain D's, 2008) or when I stood up on a surfboard (Oahu, 1999) or my first kiss (Laurie's little brother, 1993). Or, the time when our U-Haul and van were stolen, completely wiped out, and left on the side of the road (Tucson, AZ, 1995). I still remember my mom's face when my dad told her the van was gone. I also remember crying (only the way a dramatic second grade girl can) when I realized my bike, my beautiful, boy-magnet of a bike, was gone forever. And I remember the feeling I got a few years later when I realized what it really meant to have all your baby pictures, family records, home videos, and great-grandmother's handmade quilts burning somewhere in the middle of the desert.

It's a helpless feeling. It's a frustrating and nagging feeling. It is something that, thankfully, we did not have to relive again.

My neighbors, however, did. And on a much larger scale.

I'm sure you know by now that Nashville (and several other parts of Tennessee and Kentucky) had a flood. Of epic and, dare I say without sounding facetious, biblical proportions. In fact, they are calling it a 100-year flood. And I'm sure you know by now that our state has suffered many losses. I'm sure you've read the blogs and you've seen the pictures. And I'm sure you'll buy the merchandise and watch the concerts.

While I'm sure of all this, I want to ask you a favor. A small one, but since you are a small readership, I figure it's ok. I need you to bear with me for a few paragraphs while I solicit some support. While I wrangle up some "volunteer" spirit. (Not to be confused with "Volunteer" spirit which implies my support of certain football team that I can't standGODORES!)

Nashville is slowly rebuilding. In just a week, several, if not most of the damaged houses in Nashville have been gutted out, cleaned, and made ready for FEMA thanks to the help of thousands of volunteers. Hands On Nashville reports over 44,700 hours of donated volunteer hours to the flood relief and that their economic impact of volunteering estimates to be $932,203. And that's not including all the other independent volunteers and groups, including churches, organizations, and businesses.

The rallying cry that swept our city-"We Are Nashville!"-seems to have taken life in the hearts, spirits, and hammers of each and every resident. It is amazing that from Brentwood to East Nashville, the thought is the same: "We will prevail." Because we will prevail. Because, honestly, that's how unity works.

And it sucks that unity has to come from tragedy. And it's not fair that our city grows stronger by being weakened, and that our selflessness is bolstered through loss, and that our generosity is created from destruction, and that our love is shown through despair.

The quote, above, "Flood waters can't drown love, torrents of rain can't put it out", from Song of Songs, speaks truer than anything in the countless stories of flood victims and volunteers and those who have lost loved ones and those still searching for loved ones.

We are Nashville.

We love.

We prevail.

So, remember that favor I asked for a couple paragraphs above?

Remember us?

Remember Nashville?

Our healing will take time. That's the worst thing to say to someone grieving, I know, but it's the nasty truth of the matter. It takes time. And while I know that after a while people will move on (as much as they can) and that people will rebuild (albeit a forever new and altered life), it doesn't lessen the sting or the pain.

Remember us.

Remember us through your prayers. Remember us through your giving. Remember us by donating to Red Cross or The Community Foundation of Middle Tennessee. Remember us when you eat lunch or drink water or wash your car. Remember us when you look at your photo albums or sit in your living room. Remember us when you go to a bar or movie theater or a concert. Remember us when you hug your family members or you wave to your neighbors.

Don't forget about us. We are Nashville, but we are also part of this nation. We are also part of this world. Don't forget about us, because we are your brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, cousins, neighbors, and friends.

Remember us.

My Greatest Gran Jean

2010-03-01T23:31:00.028-06:00

I don't really have time tonight to write on my blog. I'm working on a paper, tweeting Tom Hanks, twiddling my fingers, brushing out the rat-nests in my hair, pretending to work on a paper, and browsing my iTunes list. And even though it is the eve of my only Gran Jean's birthday, I just don't have the time to tell you all about her.

I mean it. It's not harsh, just realistic. It's just not doable. Stop pestering me.

C'mon, really. If I had the time, I'd probably tell you some sweet story about her and me, like that one time she took me on a bus trip through South Dakota. It was her graduation gift to me during my senior year. We sat together on the tour bus and made fun of all the older men who were trying to flirt with us by telling us outdated "Knock-Knock" jokes. Later that night we shared a blackberry cobbler at Cracker Barrel, because, hey, we were rebels and refused to go to bed by our 9 o'clock curfew. The next day we were chased by prairie dogs, our camera batteries died, and we almost missed the bus trying the get the coolest picture of Mt. Rushmore. At the end of that trip, we were relegated to the bumpy back seat, which was just fine with us because I needed to teach her how to text.

But I don't have time for that story.

Really, I'm getting up earlybeforeeleven in the morning and just I can't spend all night long on this post. I'm sorry that I won't get the chance to tell you about how Gran Jean went on a cruise with us and wanted her picture taken with the Cowboy Poet she had seen earlier that night. How she had spent the whole after-dinner-show thinking through her move. Should she introduce herself as Gran Jean, or Jean, Just Jean? How, then, she downed two virgin pina coladas (or was that me?) before she worked up her courage to say something. And, when she finally had him charmed? How she made a beeline for the 5 cent slots, because it's vacation, baby!

But I can't tell you about that because I need to go to bed and dream about Tom Hanks and fences for Jesus and dancing smoothies. (Quit judging me! Like your dreams are any cooler?) Unfortunately, that means I won't have a chance to talk about that one time when Gran Jean let me drive her car, because, in the words of the author of this blog (I'm not naming any names), "You'll be tired, and I'll be able to make sure we get home safely." Too bad you won't have a chance to hear about that.

Unfortunately for you, you will miss out on the opportunity to learn all about Gran Jean.

For instance, you'll never know that she can not go a morning without a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal with a banana. If you try to make her, you will experience some sort of modern Mr. Hyde transformation and have no clue what just hit you. Step back, yo.

There are other things, too, that you just won't ever get a chance to find out about. It's the time constraint, you see. It's bringing me down.

20 things you'll never know about Gran Jean:

20. She doesn't like water.
19. She hates vampires. They make her cold.
18. She has a crush on Craig Ferguson.
17. She has practically read a whole library's worth of books.
16. She's a Civil War nut. She's also likes nuts and cheese.
15. She doesn't like Twinkies, but LOVES Zingers.
14. She's been on a cruise with Little Jimmy Dickens.
13. She misses Opryland.
12. She loves old country music. Taylor Swift is a pop singer, and the Dixie Chicks might as well be a menu item at KFC.
11. She makes a mean pork-chop.
10. She will not, under any circumstance, miss a Fall Creek Falls family reunion. Unless there's a cruise involved. Then she might be swayed.
9. She knows the difference between swear words and "dirty" words. I think she learned this from her daily crossword.
8. She would "never in a million years attempt that silly marathon thing."
7. She has an eclectic movie taste ranging from "Gone With the Wind" to "Silence of the Lambs."
6. She once saw Elvis in concert.
5. She's lived in her house for over 45 years.
4. She can't understand the hype over the Grammy's when the Grand Ole' Opry plays every weekend.
3. She will drive twenty miles out of her way if it takes her down Gallatin Road.
2. She has a portrait by hers truly hanging on her fridge, entitled "Gran Jeanore the Country Donkey". It's her head on Eeyore's body. She thinks its a work of art.
1. She doesn't mess around with the Pancake Pantry.

Too bad you won't know any of this. I really do wish I had the time to talk about her. I'd tell you all sorts of things. I'd let you know how amazing she is, how kind, and sweet, and beautiful. I'd talk about her strength and compassion and great sense of humor. I'd marvel with you over her "hip-ness" and regale you with stories about her character and dignity. Then, maybe over some scones or virtual coffee, I'd tell you that she has been one of the biggest influences in my life. My Greatest Gran Jean. And if I had the time, I would probably even wish her a Happy Birthday.

Anyway, maybe next year.

Hanging Hanks'?

2010-02-25T21:41:00.006-06:00

So, I left this poll up for awhile, but realized I never provided y'all with the results. So without further adieu, because I know you've been waiting, like, forever for this, here's what you crazy kids decided:

Who will Kaitlin Marry? Tom Hanks	3 (23%)
Colin Hanks	3 (23%)
A Boy who knows Tom Hanks	5 (38%)
Random Nashville Street Performer	0 (0%)
Kaitlin will be single for the rest of her life	1 (7%)
Me	1 (7%)

Votes so far: 13

I'm on to you who said I would be single for the rest of my life. Although, in my mind, you meant to click the choice below it, and your hand accidentally slipped. This is because you were, at the same time, drafting me a love letter with a million dollar check in it. When you realized, however, that you picked the "single" option, you were so embarrassed that you just could not come back to this website and proclaim your love to me in the comments.

It's OK, Mr. Hanks. I forgive you.

And you, the one who picked, "Me".

My number's on Facebook. You know what to do.

And they'll know we are Christians by our....?

2010-02-16T14:15:00.012-06:00

When I was in the fifth grade I had a very awkward and disheartening experience at church. Fifth grade overall was just a very awkward and disheartening experience, actually, but I remember this one in particular. A popular visiting preacher had come to our large, southern Church of Christ to preach on things like marriage, divorce, and relationships. Before the service, he was teaching a senior high class in the auditorium. My fifth grade teacher decided she'd take our fourth and fifth grade classes downstairs so she could listen preacher-man teach twice (apparently, this guy was a big deal....or our teacher didn't really have anything prepared for Sunday school.)

I'm going to take a break here for a moment and remind you that I was in 5th grade. Not only did I experience awkward things; I was the definition of awkward. I danced in front of department store mirrors and pretended that I was going to be in movies with Kirk Cameron. The closest thing to a romantic relationship at that point in my life was my obsession with Leonardo DiCaprio on Growing Pains. I just think these are important things to point out before moving on.

Noted?

Let's continue.

We walked into the auditorium and sat on the pew in front of the visiting orator. My fifth grade teacher could hardly contain herself...she was really excited to see this guy. (Now that I think about it, it could have been a crush situation. I mean, for the longest time I had a crush on Rubel Shelly every time I'd visit my Gran Jean's church. I'd listen to him read the dictionary. Or Leviticus. That's how much I liked him.) I was in 5th grade, though, and relationships were the last thing on my mind. And as this preacher dude began to talk more and more in depth about relationships and appropriate teenage relationships, especially when it came to intimacy, it became too embarrassing for my little 5th grade ears to be a part of. My brain was yelling at me, "Don't listen, Kaitlin. He's talking about stuff you don't want to hear. Red alert, red alert! Cheeks, stay with us. Don't you turn pink. Don't you dare. Oh no, we lost the cheeks!" My brain can be kind of a nuisance.

I did what every good, newly baptized Christian girl would do upon realizing that she was hearing something inappropriate---I opened up my Bible and started reading the first page I laid eyes on. I focused on Proverbs the whole time, desperately hoping for that first bell to ring.

"Please God, let class be over soon."

It was working. I was tuning everything out. I couldn't even hear him speaking anymore.

"Ahem."

That's weird, I didn't remember a clearing throat passage in Proverbs.

"Ahemmmmm."

I looked up and realized that Mr. Preacher Man was looking right at me.

"Excuse me, young lady, but you NEED to be paying attention to me. I have some very important things to be saying right now, and it is very RUDE to be ignoring me. Shut your Bible right now and look me in the eyes."

Seriously?

The bell rang, and I ran out. Crying.

I'm sure famous preacher dude didn't think anything more about his interaction with a little 10 year-old girl. But this 23 year-old girl can still remember that feeling of judgment and embarrassment.

I am so appalled by the words and actions of some believers. I have found myself cringing at the behavior of my fellow brothers and sisters lately. And I just don't understand. This is not even a "call to arms" post, as much as a heartfelt question:

Why?

Why so much hypocrisy? Why so much condemnation? When did we forget that we, too, are sinners? When did we forget that we don't deserve so much as a nod from God, let alone the promise of forever? And when did we decide we were going to be sheriff, judge, and jury of our fellow human beings?

To mankind:

I don't care if you claim to believe in God, Muhammad, Buddha, the sun, the Son, or nothing, you have NO right to dehumanize, slander, or ridicule another human being.

And to my tribe, my fellow believers of a God who said "Love one another; love your enemies, LOVE LOVE LOVE":

Shame on you. Shame on you who have sat at your tables full of food and discussed the homeless as if they were animals. Shame on you who have said that addicts and minorities are deserving of their suffering, and really, aren't worth your time, your country's time, or your "hard-earned" money's time. Shame on you who have taken someone's political beliefs and condemned them to hell for them. Shame on you who have said things that Jesus would be ashamed of.

Shame on me, and the rest of us, for not saying anything.

My good friend, Allison, works at The Next Door. This halfway house builds relationships with women who have used drugs, having been deceived into addiction and unhealthy lifestyles. After these women leave jail, they live at The Next Door, where counselors, therapists, and social workers help them in recovery and sober living. Learning new skill sets and tools for positive living, these women attempt to make a better life for themselves and their families. It really is a great program.

The Next Door is expanding to Knoxville, a community that unfortunately does not have many programs like this. After reading the comments under the Knoxville news story covering The Next Door, however, its not surprising. Today, the staff at TND in Nashville received a call from an irate Knox-villain who did not want "those people" living next to him. This call went on for 30 minutes, words being said that I rather not repeat.

But its not just at The Next Door.

I've been following the plight of 3 American hikers imprisoned in Iran for accidentally walking past the border. These Americans were in the Middle East teaching and working to better the world. Yet, the blogs and comments on the news stories are abuzz with statements like, "Let those lefty liberals who want world peace rot in prison. Someone should have taught them geography." That's one of the nicer ones.

If there is one thing I detest, it is the lack of empathy. But unfortunately, it keeps rearing its ugly head everywhere I seem to turn, even as I turn to my brothers and sisters.

Who are we to say who deserves what? We, who deserve to be spit out and devoured by Satan? We, who have done nothing but be inadequate recipients of a grace so great it is unexplainable?

Allison and I work with a lot of clients who have been beaten down, stepped on, and beaten down again. And they are the most humble, most dignified, most persevering people I have ever met. I hear, sometimes, that our taxes "should not be paying to take care of the poor, the homeless, the illegal immigrants, the minorities, the orphans, the "down-and-out", the mentally ill, and the addicts. It's the churches that should be doing that."

Amen. And when they start to, we can be out of job.

Happily.

Stop doing wrong, learn to do right!
Seek justice, encourage the oppressed.
Defend the cause of the fatherless, plead the case of the widow.
"Come now, let us reason together," says the Lord.

Isaiah 1:17-18

My Valentine's Day Resolutions, or She's Always a Woman

2010-02-13T20:58:00.011-06:00

Do you remember the Billy Joel song, "The Longest Time"? I was in the 9th grade when my mom introduced me to his album, "The Stranger" (She was illustrating a point to me using the lyrics from "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant". My poor teachers at Word of Life Christian Academy couldn't understand why my mother was in their parking lot, singing "A bottle of reddddd, a bottle of whittteee" at the top of her lungs. The next day, they gave me sympathetic nods usually reserved for the other kids with the alcoholic parents. Little did they know that my mom really just liked singing songs about wine.)

I feel like its been "The Longest Time" since I've been on this blog. Sure, some could accuse me of ducking out of it to avoid any awkward questions about my 1/2 marathon training. And some could say I've been too busy picking lint out of my belly button and watching the second season of Flight of the Conchords to care about my faithful flock of readers. And some could claim that I've embraced a new level of laziness that has extended to not even being able to plow my crops on Farmville because it takes too much clicking.

But it doesn't matter what my parents are saying about me. I like to keep you guessing. I like to be spontaneous. I'm a maverick. Besides, Mom and Dad, when there's one finger pointing, there are three pointing back at you. I think we're all waiting with bated breath for the Christmas letter that's, like, two years late.

I know I missed celebrating New Year's on this blog, so I decided instead to make a Valentine's Day Resolution post. I have a couple more videos to put up and yes, yes, yes to all you annoying in shape people waiting with baited breath, I am still "training". At this juncture, I will just be glad to finish without passing out.

2010 ~~New Year's~~ Valentine's Resolutions

(1) I resolve to Tweet @tomhanks everyday for the rest of this year on Twitter. This is not because I am obsessively in love with him and would just totally fall out if he (or one of his cronies) tweeted me back. This is a social networking experiment. Total and completely pure curiosity. [Follow my scholarly journey at twitter.com/tufftaffy]

(2) I resolve to reserve the right to complain judiciously about my agreeing to do this 1/2 marathon on April 24th. I reserve this right because I have progressed to running a mile straight without walking, and that, therefore, makes me legit, and legit people are allowed to complain. I'm sure Rocky complained when he had to run up those stairs. Plus, it just sunk in that I have to be able to do 12 more of those.

(3) I resolve to provide some form of entertainment on this blog at least once a week. Who needs homework? You Tube surfing is SO much more fun.

(4) I resolve to feel flattered, not creeped out, at the fact that my male patients at the psychiatric hospital want to marry me and enjoy looking into my eyes. This is a positive thing. And it reminds me that, hey, I have options.

(5) I resolve to finish what I start because no one likes a

They Want You to Take the Rolls

2009-12-21T23:57:00.009-06:00

I grew up on television. Well...not literally. I mean, I didn't grow up, like, actually on the television. My parents didn't put me on top of the TV and bring me all my food and homework, while I sat there like some silver 25th anniversary clock. (Although I do remember going through a phase during a car trip in which I shouted out the time every hour on the hour, until my dad turned around and yelled, "Who do you think you are? Big Ben?", and then I'd laugh because my name wasn't Ben and Dad always looked really funny with that large, throbbing vein popping out of his head. Oh, the memories.)

Anyone who was raised in the nineties, however, was raised on really good television. Nickelodeon was in its heyday. Disney's original movies were actually original. Saturday morning shows were entertaining. TGIF was unmissable. Sitcoms were clever. Cartoons were for kids. It was just a really good decade for TV.

That being said, there was this one show in the nineties that really changed my life (in a way that only a teen drama can for a hormonal preteen girl). It had all the class, drama, intellect, meaningful humor, and rugged beauty of a moping vampire teen in love with a moping human teen without any of the corny and none (or not as much) of the ridiculous. Every Friday night, I'd curl up on the couch and wait for its gripping theme song. After the credits rolled, I'd grab a box of tissues and grapple with those difficult questions it posed: What was I doing wandering down this road called life? Did I have friends that would always stand by me?

Man, it all seemed to come down to one truth:

It's when this boy meets world.

Intense.

Feeny. Fe-hee-hee-heny. FEENY.

I wanted to marry Eric Matthews. Or Mr. Plays with Squirrels. Both personalities suited me

Did you ever wonder why, as the show progressed, Topanga got cooler and Eric got weirder?

I wanted to be on screen so badly when I was younger. I dreamt about the day when I would be discovered on St. Elizabeth's Catholic School's stage performing "Part of Your World" from the Little Mermaid. Discovered by a wayfaring stranger who, in disguise, was a vacationing Tom Hanks looking for the next Meg Ryan to star opposite of him in his upcoming, new film, "That Thing You Do, Too!" Then I would be whisked away to Los Angeles, and the cast of Boy Meets World would seek me out to become a recurring supporting cast member. Someone cooler than Angela, but quirky-cute like Minkus. Afterwards, I'd record a Susan Boyle-esque album about my dreams coming true and it would win a Grammy. Presented to me by Justin Timberlake. Who I'd then marry. And we'd have fourteen kids, live in a mansion, make $10 million dollars an hour, own a pet aardvark, and work as dairy farmers in Holland.

My dreams were very detailed. And oddly resembled MASH games.

I have been on TV twice since I was born. Once in 3rd grade, when I sang "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas" on Sacramento's public access channel and once, last week, when I appeared for a half-second in the audience of the Bonnie Hunt Show. Both defining moments in my life. Although, for those watching "A 1996 Sacramento Christmas Special", perhaps not as much defining, as deafening. Yet, still no Hanks, Timberlake, or brood of children. (Maybe that last isn't such a disappointment...especially after experiencing Disneyland yesterday from a wiser, taller perspective.)

Of course, as I've gotten older (ugh...much older. ancient. old as the crypt keeper. old like Harrison Ford. old like...shudder...an adult.), my aspirations have changed quite a bit. And while Tom Hanks still remains the man of my dreams (who, unfortunately, has only stayed in my dreams), being on TV has become less important to me than who is watching TV with me. And even though Gran Jean falls asleep during Glee, my parents fight over whether Jim Parsons or Johnny Galecki make a better nerd, and no one can get me to stop imitating Gilly from SNL, I wouldn't trade it for all the dairy farms in the world.

But if Will Friedle is reading this, I'm up for a remake. What about Girl Meets World?

Bring us some figgy pudding!

2009-12-13T02:12:00.005-06:00

They say it's your birthday.

2009-12-05T02:39:00.005-06:00

To those that doubt my uploading abilities, never fear, I'll be back in a few days*. I'm chillin' here in the beautiful Mojave desert, with my awesome family, laughing with Craig Ferguson, meeting Bonnie Hunt, and eating my fill of In N' Out cheeseburgers and french fries. I know you're jealous, but try to tame that green eyed monster within you and sit back and enjoy.

This clip goes out to my beautifully and wondrously made mom, who is celebrating her 25th birthday today. I love you, Mom!

May all your dreams come true.

*Meaning, whenever I get up out of bed, stop playing with the new Wii, and actually log on to the internet for reasons other than playing Farmville.

Cool Runnings: A Veteran's Day Eve Miracle

2009-11-10T18:43:00.003-06:00

Happy (almost) Veteran's Day, everyone! Please remember all those who have served and are currently serving. Also, keep those affected by the Fort Hood tragedy in your thoughts and prayers

After about three weeks of being out of commission (shin splints, runner's knee, and a lot of moolah spent on new shoes and orthotics), I'm back! And I'm loud and proud about it.

(Kaitlin really needs to work on her inside voice.)

(Kaitlin discusses herself in the third person when she's lecturing herself.)

(It's an only child thing.)

Special Guest appearance in this one! Enjoy:

(Not So) Cool Runnings: A Break from Regular Programming

2009-11-04T21:59:00.005-06:00

We took a break from training due to my pretty nasty shin splints. But never fear, we'll be back in a couple of weeks.

If, however, you are waiting with bated breath for our next video, this will hopefully tide you over:

Cool Runnings: First Week....that's all?

2009-10-31T15:37:00.002-05:00

Last week, we completed our first week of "training."

Thanks to Ashley and Katie who stuck through my bad attitude, injury, and incessant whining.

Can we sign Charlie up in my place?

Cool Runnings: The Beginning

2009-10-29T13:51:00.005-05:00

Enjoy the journey:

I'm uploading a couple more this week. Thanks for encouraging us.

(Is is April, yet?)

((Notice the shoes. They'll come into play in a few more segments. Just, take note.))

(((I have no idea what I'm doing.)))

Running from the Bulls...and other mistakes I've made.

2009-10-27T23:28:00.002-05:00

When I attended HUE (Harding University in England), my original plans were to see the world, meet Prince William, become the Queen of Europe, and, eventually, rule the universe.

What transpired was something more like: see the world, meet Kenneth Branagh, become lost in Europe, and, eventually, experience jet lag like I had traveled through the universe.

So, all in all, pretty close.

I'm going to jump straight to the point on this post. Yep, that's right. You won't get any long-winded stories from me this time. No departure from the plot. No rambling aberration from my narrative.

I've found that when I have an embarrassing story to tell, I just need to come right out and say it. It's cathartic. Catharsis is very therapeutic, by the way. We're learning that in Evidence Based Interpersonal Practice with Adult Individuals. (See, Mom and Dad, I am going to class!)

The point is this post won't be like my others. I'm not going to take ten paragraphs to tell you something I could have told you in two. Not this time. I have things to do. I'm a very busy graduate student. I have to get my Halloween costume ready, cut my fingernails, take out the trash, read Harry Potter for the 30th time, stare off into space, daydream, watch Glee, and, in the midst of all that, I have homework to do, people! Really. I can't just spend my time on here all day writing posts for you. I can't waste my precious minutes thinking about how I'm going to entertain you with graceful stories of my childhood. I can't dawdle and tell you little inane facts about my life. This isn't going to be one of those posts.

On that note, speaking of "facts about my life", I learned something new about myself today. My supervisor told me I was externally motivated. After looking up the words "externally" and "motivated", I realized he meant that I am motivated by things externally. Like deadlines. I thought, "What does he know about me? He doesn't even read this blog." And then I hyperventilated because I realized that I needed to get 12 quizzes done, 4 discussion boards, and 2 final projects before the deadline in November.

As I sat grappling with this concept of me being "externally motivated", I tried to think about times in my life in which this were the case.

Several.

But for some reason, England popped into my head. It does that every once in awhile. I'll be sitting at McDonald's, trying to eat my grilled chicken snack wrap, minding my own business, and then England pops into my head. It's like its mocking me with its fish-and-chips cuisine, weird looking flag, right-side road driving, artsy-fartsy theartery districts, and awkward sounding names for things, dancing around in my head so that when I look down, I realize that my french fries have been soaked with the tears falling from my face, falling for London, for the mouse-infested flat I lived in, and the crowded Tottenham Court road Tube stop.

It can really be quite a nuisance.

And as I was thinking and pondering and tearing up in the middle of a crowded fast-food restaurant, this one instance kept replaying in my mind.

We were making our way to London on our huge yellow and red striped Westbus. Tony, our fearless driver, and Dr. Tullos, our fearless leader, had planned a stop at the famed Hadrian's Wall.

Poor Hadrian. All he has left to his name now is some old, crumbling wall at the England/Scotland border.

We were excited for the pointedly significant history lesson, but more excited to stretch our legs and get some "pretty" pictures. (We were, after all, a fairly girl-dominated group.)

What is particularly neat about Hadrian's Wall is that it is smack dab in the middle of the countryside. Farmland stretches as far as the eye can see. Sheep and cattle are free to roam to and fro, from one crumbly side to the other slightly less crumbly side of the old wall.

Our group decided to go exploring. We were reminded that the wall, though unprotected, had been around for about 1900 years, and that England wouldn't be so thrilled if a wall that had survived famine, war, and flood was knocked down by some picture-taking, obnoxious tourists.

Especially American tourists.

I trudged along the hilly, muddy countryside with my camera and friends. Ian (Dr. Tullos' 10 year-old son) and Chanel (who, at the time, was the ripe age of 21) were enjoying the finer points of nature, a phrase which here means, they were searching for cow pies to throw at one another, sheep to scare, and bulls to hassle.

Before I go on, just a quick note about nature and mine's relationship: it's rocky. We seem to have a lot of conflict, and I am not too keen on entering couple's therapy about it. Let's just say that nature has been sleeping on the couch for quite a long time. Moving on.

So, there I was, in the greenest, muddiest, nature-iest place I had ever seen, peacefully getting my picture taken by Megan. The picture (above) actually turned out pretty well considering what happened right as Megan snapped it.

I heard a loud "Mooooooo" behind me. Ian had been yelling at the cows, trying to get them to "yell" back. This particular "Moo", however, did not come from the mouth of a playful 10 year-old, but instead from the large, gray, angry bull behind me. At least, I think he was a bull. He could have been a cow or a cebu or a heifer, but at that point, what I called him didn't really seem to matter as much as the life that was quickly flashing before my eyes.

I remember turning to Megan in slow-motion, with wide-eyes, thinking, "I haven't met Tom Hanks, yet! I can't die." Megan was already heading to the wall. I heard the "Moo" again, this time accompanied by an angry snort, so I decided to get moving. I began running as fast as my new New Balances could take me (I hadn't actually anticipated using them for anything except walking to a mall, musical, or dinner), past Megan, up to the top of the 1900 year-old wall, huffing and puffing and praying that if the cow ate me, he would eat me fast and in one bite. That seemed like the best way go.

I turned to get help from my friends. It was either that, or I was going to say "good-bye" one last time. I just wanted them to know how much I cared for them. How much I was going to miss them. How much I cherished their friendship.

They were all on the ground cracking up. Laughing their heads off while the cow-bull sauntered off, stopping only to eat a stray dandelion.

Needless to say, Megan and I didn't talk to them for the rest of the day.

I learned a lot about myself on that trip. Am I someone who is externally motivated? By deadlines, maybe. By people's expectations of me, probably. By flesh-eating bulls, definitely.

I started thinking about this a couple of weeks ago, when I went out to dinner with my friends, Ashley and Kara. Kara was on her way to Michigan to run a half-marathon. She was, like most athletic, cute, thin, beautiful people, annoyingly pesky, and kept bringing up the Country Music Half-Marathon that would be taking place next April. Just like every time someone mentions exercise in a conversation, I wasn't listening, and I continued to eat my cheesy, meaty pizza. Ashley said something to Kara. Kara said something to Ashley. Then it was silent. When I looked up from my greasy heaven, I realized that they were waiting for me to answer.

"What? Oh. Yeah. Sure."

I went back to my meal.

"Oh, Kaitlin, I'm so excited you agreed. I can't wait to see you in April. This is going to be so much fun."

I gave Kara a confused look.

"The Country Music Half-Marathon? You said you'd do it with us. This is going to be so great!"

I sputtered cheese everywhere.

"Wha...? I didn't....I mean...I... Do you know how long a Half-Marathon is, Kara?"

13 miles. 13 long, ridiculous, disgusting miles. Running. I tried to back out of it.

"Guys, c'mon, you knoooow me. The last time I ran was from that bull in England. That was seriously 2 years ago. That's the most I've run in my life. I can't walk for a minute without getting out of breath. And I'm ok with that. I've excepted my fate. I'll die young and unexercised, but happy. Don't you want me to be happy?"

No. They didn't. They wanted me to be miserable.

I don't know what I was on, what I was drinking, or what I agreed to, but a couple days later, Ashley and I printed off a training schedule for a 10k.

I still can't believe it.

So here's what I'm asking. We've already determined that I am "externally motivated". And this training nonsense really isn't going to last if I have to depend on myself to provide the motivation. You're going to have to help me out. Ashley and I are chronicling our journey through video and blog posts, which I will be putting up here on Heavenly Hats. It's a new series that I wanted to call "Running on Empty" or "I'm not Running Anymore" or "Run, Fatboy, Run", but Ashley is determinedly positive, so we compromised. We're calling it "Cool Runnings" and will be posting our progress throughout these next four months. I have a feeling that in a couple of months, you won't have to worry at all about motivating me through this training, cause I won't be training, but Ashley says that's impossible and is determined to succeed. I have such annoying friends.

However, if my motivation became meeting this fine fellow at the finish line, I just might re-think my position (this clip is PG-13):

AIN'T Part Three: We're not groupies, we're Band-Aids.

2009-10-24T12:23:00.014-05:00

In 9th grade, my very good friend from church, Valerie, and I were utterly, frighteningly, and totally obsessed with The Newsboys. We were absolutely high school about it, too. You know what I mean:

We had the posters.

We had the stickers.

We had the air guitars and air drums.

In fact, whenever we sat down to breakfast, we'd sing out "Sweet and Low" and with spoons held high we'd bid our brother...(and if you can't complete this line then I disown you. Forever. Truly. Turn off your computer, sit on your bed, and think about what you've done. You disgust me.)*

The point is, we were kinda, a little bit, a whole lot in love with the Christian pop rock band from Australia (And, no, that is not a punchline.)

One night, my parents bought Valerie and I tickets to see the Newsboys in concert. We were psyched. We put on our ripped jeans (at the ankles, my jeans were always too long for me) and our Newsboys "Cpn' Crunch" shirt and our hair in super-cute pigtails (Oh, the boys would swoon when they saw us), and we piled into my Mom's mini-van positive that, in two hours, Peter Furler and Phil Joel would be proposing from the stage.

After the concert, Valerie and I ran out to the car, bright-eyed, ears popping, and pigtails askew. We had a blast. My dad, the rebel he pretends he is, asked why we weren't in there talking to them. We laughed hysterically.

"Da-ad. You can't just talk to them. They're FAMOUS. It's not like you can go backstage and say, 'Hey, I want to meet the Newsboys.' And they say, 'Ok. Come on back.' They aren't like those bands you used to listen to on those big black car wheels. These are the NEWSBOYS. Sheesh."

My dad gave me the look. I knew that look. It was the look he always gave me when he was about to do something really crazy.

The same look he gave that one time when I had been given a pink scooter for Christmas, and I told him he couldn't ride it because he was too big. He snatched the scooter away from me and rode it all the way down our steep driveway, down to the curb, hair blowing in the wind, with a crazed smile on his face...until said face made contact with the pavement and his triumphant look was colored by the gushing blood.

The same look he gave when, in Hawaii, we were snorkeling at Hanauma Bay and I told him that I didn't think we could swim any further and he said, "Sure we can." And we got swept out past the rocks, past the signs that said "Strong Current. Do not swim past this sign", and into the crashing waves that caused us to spend about twenty minutes swimming against the current to get back to the beach before I had an asthma attack.

That look.

Dad spun the car around and drove past the exiting fans, past the parking lot, whipping around to the back of the auditorium, past the security guard (who was bending down to grab a slice of pizza) and parked next to the tour bus. The Newsboys tour bus.

"Dad. Um, Dad? I don't think we're allowed to be here."

"Live a little, Kaitlin. Sheesh."

He then turned around and headed straight to the back of the stage. Valerie and I reluctantly followed and thoughts of my father ending up in some sort of Christian music jail flitted through my mind. Could he go to hell for sneaking backstage? I wasn't so sure.

He walked up to the security guard and started talking to him for a while. In the meantime, he kept pointing behind his back to have us walk past him. We did.

One of the executives from the local Christian radio station came out to us. We knew he was an executive because he said, "Hi. I'm an executive for your local Christian radio station. Do you guys want to meet the Newboys?"

Uh. Duh.

"Yes sir."

He told us to wait there, told the security guard that we were "with him", and went inside. He came out with two other ladies who gave us their...BACKSTAGE MEET AND GREET PASSES.

I wish I could remember in better detail what happened next. Valerie and I walked up to the room that said "VIP entrance" and knocked. All we saw was a mess of beautiful, blond dreadlocks shaking in our direction, asking us to enter. And enter we did. After we screamed. We were welcomed into the inner sanctum of a small press room filled with Newsboys. Phil Joel. Peter Furler. Duncan Phillips. Jody Davis. Jeff Frankenstein. I'm sorry to say that we screamed again.

After getting autographs, fawning in a way only 14 year-olds can, and actually hugging Phil Joel and Peter Furler, we went back to the car.

"Dad, your my hero."

I guess you're wondering what this has to do with AIN'T. Come on, Kaitlin, get to the point. This has nothing to do with Nashville and how wonderful it is. Au contraire, my inpatient blog readers. (Besides, you know you're skimming this anyway. You probably didn't even read what I wrote above. So chillax.)

Last Sunday, after church, a group of us decided to go grab something to eat before heading over to the Frist to see the free Georgia O'Keeffe exhibit. We were over at Green Hills so people had the option of going to a couple different amazing places (Pei Wei, 5 guys, Zoe's...all reasons why Nashville rocks). A few of us went to Zoe's. After I paid and got my limeade, I sat down at the booth a few people were saving. We were all talking until someone said, "Isn't that the guy from The Newsboys?"

My heart stopped. I slowly, and very sneakily, peeked. I let out a squeal after I saw a mess of beautiful, blond dreadlocks. (Old habits die hard.) Fortunately, Phil Joel didn't hear me and kept on eating his grilled chicken pita. But my face was burning. I kept trying to sneak peeks at him during the meal. He got up to get a refill. He took his son to the bathroom. He was normal. He was eating in the same place I was.

Of course, being the mature 22-almost 23-year-old that I am, I refrained from accosting him with a scream, hug, and a pen. I am above such nonsense (and Ashley was holding me back).

But this is the city I live in. A city where a Newsboy eats at a public, fresh Mediterranean kitchen. A city where, when walking to Books-A-Million, you can find the Kings of Leon practicing "Use Somebody" outside the cafe before the big concert that night. (I didn't realize it was actually them until I went home and saw their picture in the paper. Thank goodness I didn't say what I was thinking: "You sound just like the Kings of Leon. Keep it up. You could be famous.")

I love this city.

*You don't disgust me. I got a little carried away. Please forgive me. But, really, come on. It's "Cheerio". Get it? "Cheerio"? Cause it's the Breakfast Song and they are saying "Cheerio" like the cereal, but in context it means "good-bye" in British Speak. Oh, Newsboys, you slay me.

Tongue Twister

2009-10-22T01:19:00.008-05:00

I have soapboxes.

My soapboxes are very soapy. In fact, my soapboxes are so soapy that if you were to get within a ten mile radius of said boxes you would be clean for a year. Yeah. That soapy.

Did you know that the term soapbox came from London, when in Speaker's Corner at Hyde Park, people would literally stand on literal soapboxes to yell their thoughts about politics, aliens, and literature to random passersby?

At least, that's where I think the term came from. What do I look like? Google? Look it up.

Soapbox #265: People who look up what I tell them to look up. It takes the fun out of thinking I know everything.

Anyway, my point is, I have opinions. And like any 20-something smart-mouth know-it-all, I think my opinions are right. That's a 20-something thing.

Or maybe just a girl thing.

I can usually rein in my opinions. If I'm in dissenting company, I try to be calm, collected, and *coughmaturecough*. We'll talk about it, we'll disagree, and then we'll eat. Because sharing a good meal (or milkshake, or McDonald's french fries, or PeiWei's edamame) can really bring harmony, unity, and peace to a relationship. I don't know why we just didn't send Iraq some edamame.

Soapbox #367: People who won't eat edamame because of Men's Health. (You know who you are.)

Seriously, edamame is durn good. Durn is a word I learned here in Nashville. I use it when I want to feel native.

So, you see, I have this soapbox thing. And it can get me into trouble sometimes. Like at McDonald's, yesterday, when I asked for two sweet-and-sour dipping sauces, and one hot mustard dipping sauce, and the person behind the clown counter told me I'd have to pay for that extra sauce even though I had payed an exorbitant amount for the Monopoly Scam Combo of Chicken Nuggets (Soapbox #23). I wasn't very happy.

Of course, I was in a bad mood already from the very nice, but extremely unhelpful government-run office dealing an application I had submitted three months ago. I had heard zilch from said office and when I asked when I could expect payment, the operator said, "Um, well, I don't really know. Maybe check back in week or two?" (Soapbox #51).

And all these soapboxes begin to pile up and make for a really crummy day. And it begins to take all my strength not to embrace the snark building up within me, and stand up on my soapbox and shout to the world the "right" way to act. And then I have to hold my tongue, because something as simple as a slow car in the turn lane or a Mariah Carey song on the radio really sets me off.

Ever have days like these?

I wonder why Jesus never preached from his soapbox.

Think about it.

He preached from a wooden boat. He preached from a man's dirty and smelly foot. He preached from a leper colony and a little boy's lunch. He preached from a donkey.

He preached from the cross.

But not once, ever, did Jesus preach from his soapbox.

I, who am so quick to argue, and debate, and complain, claim to follow the One who had every right to all of these, but, instead, spoke with words of truth, love, compassion, and conviction.

I am humbled by James who seems to focus a lot on the tongue and its connection to holiness.

"Every one should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry, for man's anger does not bring about the righteous life that God desires. Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you." James 1:19-21

"If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless." James 1:26

"Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom." James 2:12

"When we put bits into the mouths of horses to make them obey us, we can turn the whole animal. Or take ships as an example. Although they are so large and are driven by strong winds, they are steered by a very small rudder wherever the pilot wants to go. Likewise the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person, sets the whole course of his life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell. All kinds of animals, birds, reptiles and creatures of the sea are being tamed and have been tamed by man, but no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God's likeness. Out of the same mouth come praise and cursing. My brothers, this should not be. Can both fresh water and salt water flow from the same spring? My brothers, can a fig tree bear olives, or a grapevine bear figs? Neither can a salt spring produce fresh water." James 3:3-12

This is certainly eye-opening...and mouth-closing.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I can, and often do, soapbox with the best of them. I can tell you a million reasons why I support this politician over this one, or why I think that Tom Hanks is a better actor than any actor ever, or why, even, I go to this church over this other one.

But I know me too. And I know that this tongue of mine has landed me into some...predicaments.

Like when I wrote a critical letter to Aramark calling them "penny pinching thieves of students' hard-earned money." Or when I wrote another letter to a certain leader of a certain Spring Break campaign that I regretted the moment I pressed "send."

It seems like I have to be constantly reminded of Jesus' example. A Jesus who did not take a soapbox and stand in the middle of the Temple, but a Jesus who threw the soapboxes (and tables) out of the Temple in order to make way for the true meaning of worship.

May I learn how to turn my soapboxes into boats, donkeys, and crosses.

If I became a shepherd would I have to do my homework?

2009-10-20T01:20:00.003-05:00

I have a couple of posts making their way to this blog slowly but maybe not as slow as I was last Saturday when I ran *coughwalkedcough* 2 miles.

Anyway, in the meantime, lest you believed I forgot about you, oh invisible readers to my wonderfully insightful and meaningful blog, watch this:

Tomato, To-mahto, Potato Chips and Dip

2009-09-17T01:10:00.003-05:00

People often come up to me throughout the day and hound me with questions about my life. Random people. People I don't even know. Seriously. I'm not making this up. Don't even think about checking it either. If I don't know them, then you certainly don't.

Anyway.

They ask questions:

"Kaitlin, where did you get your beautiful hair?"

"Kaitlin, where did your hip-ness come from?"

"Kaitlin, how come you are so witty?"

"Kaitlin, will you marry me?"

And whilst I have not the time (or room) on this blog to answer those questions in depth, I can sum up in a few words:

My Aunt Lori.

(I guess that wouldn't really work for the last question, would it? Oh well. If you want that answer, Tom Hanks, just give me a call on the cell. I'll get back with you shortly.)

At the risk of sounding sentimental, weepy, and a lot like a girl (or a Jonas Brother), I can not begin to express how much my aunt means to me.

*we interrupt this sentimental post for a breaking blog announcement*

10 Things You Did Not Know About My Aunt Lori
(But Will Know After Reading This List)

10) Aunt Lori collects cats. Not like the crazy cat lady kind of cat collector. Seriously. She's like the cool, antique, hip waving cat and kitty cat teapot collector. With a few coconut monkeys thrown in.

9) She makes a mean onion chip dip. At all the parties, everyone is begging her for her dip. I think her neighbor, George Bush, came to her house one time and said, "Lori, if you do not make me some dip right now, so help me, I will sell America back to England." You have my aunt to thank for your freedom.

8) She would rather live in California than Texas. And that's one of the many reasons I love her so much.

7) She has a biting sense of humor. Very witty, very funny, very Jim Gaffigan-esque. She can make the most complex to the simplest of creatures laugh. Isn't that right, Dad?

6) She would kill for Mexican food. Seriously.

5) She went on a first date with a now very famous preacher. He took her shoe shopping. For his own shoes. It was their last date.

4) She loves tomatoes. It's true. She would forgo a cruise to Australia if it interfered with California tomato picking season. (Could be true...I've never offered her a trip to Australia. Will have to test it out. Any one want to send me two cruise tickets to Sydney?)

3) She would be Mormon if she could marry both Donny Osmond and Robert Redford.

2) She has a Masters and supervises a large staff, but still thinks Facebook is complicated.

1) She loves massages more than anything in this world, but hates it when people touch her pillow.

*end of announcement*

Aunt Lori and I go way back. Like, almost 23 years. And the relationship we've forged has been one based on mutual respect, mutual understanding, and a mutual desire to give my dad a really hard time.

My parents told me that when I was a baby, every time my aunt would walk into a room, my face would light up and I'd burst into fits of laughter. Not baby giggles, but full on, weird, freaky, adult-ish guffaws. She knew how to cheer me up even at 6 months.

As I grew, she became a constant part of my life. Every vacation, I'd see her. And she was a great babysitter too. We'd watch All That and laugh at Kenan acting like a Frenchman in the bathtub. We'd read books together and she'd play me music. Good music, that she had found and I would hear on the radio close to a month later.

We were (and still most definitely are) wonderful friends. At Christmas, I'd get the coolest presents from her (and still most definitely do). She's the one to thank for my TalkGirl, my Barbie dream-car, my skip-bo, my first CD (Hanson), my IPod, and a smattering of awesomely creative photo albums, picture frames, and pieces of furniture I'll have for the rest of my life.

In a phrase, my Aunt Lori has been responsible for my being culture-fied. Not to be confused with country-fied. Which, that's different post altogether. (Looking forward to March 2, 2010).

I'm not saying we didn't have our differences. When I was just 7, she rolled me out of the bed we were sharing for kicking her in the shins 100 too many times. Sheesh...get some tougher legs, woman. Also, when I was 9, I kept her up all night talking in my sleep. All I was saying was, "Come here little fishy, Come here." Nothing to be alarmed about. Hey, could I help it if we had watched The Little Mermaid the night before? I didn't deserve that pillow she threw at my head.

But besides the few and expected sleep wars we've had, we get along pretty well.

I used to think that my Aunt Lori was secretly a super-hero. That anytime she came to visit, she had come from saving the world, and her cape was stashed in her suitcase. I wanted to be around her every minute stayed with us, and I can even remember crying one year when they made me go to bed before her. I knew, unequivocably, that when Aunt Lori was around, so was Fun.

Now that I'm older, I realize that I was not too far off.

Aunt Lori is a beautiful woman who has dedicated her entire life to helping those who are broken, hurting, and poor. A woman who has often went without to provide for and help others around her. A woman with a spirit shining the love of God and a life that blesses all who know her. A woman that our family is incomplete without. A woman who's house, when robbed for the third time, yesterday, the day before her birthday, found the humor in the situation and joked with us. A women who has taught me that life is about living unselfishly for others and laughter is the therapy that keeps you going.

She is a super-hero. She is my hero.

Happy Birthday, Aunt Lori.

You deserve it.

Area 51

2009-09-03T08:18:00.002-05:00

Top Ten Reasons....

2009-09-01T20:47:00.003-05:00

I love me the internets:

10) Random Time Wasters
9) Twitter
8) More Random Time Wasters
7) Awesome Music....FOR FREE
6) Even More Random Time Wasters
5) You Tube: Especially this clip
4) Awesome TV shows.....FOR FREE
3) Facebook
2)Movie Trailers....FOR FREE
1)Not Feeling Like a Stalker While Learning Everything You Can About Your One True Love

AIN'T Part Two: Studying About the Good Ole' Day

2009-08-26T23:43:00.002-05:00

We interrupt regular programming to bring you a breaking news announcement.

*cue a Craig Ferguson-esque tune*

The famous and greatly admired blogger, Kaitlin Hardy, has returned to her post. Literally. This is her post. She's just returned to it. This surprising rendezvous has readers, fans, friends, and Tom Hanks all wondering: Is it for good, or will blogrolls be disappointed, yet again?
______________________________________________________

Please, please, contain yourselves. I know you were almost ready to throw your computers out the window. Try not to get caught up in the inevitable depression that settles in when you go a month without reading my brilliant writing. I hear the internet has other things to offer. Perhaps not as inspiring things....but things, nonetheless.

Hello?

Anyone?

Well, at least the crickets understand my humor.

It's true, I haven't written in a while. And, I guess, that's not very surprising to those of you that read (or watch) anything I randomly put on here. Honestly, I had a post planned for the beginning of this month. But I found, that when you write things in the heat of a moment, and then return to them the next morning, they sound a lot more immature and picky than they did the night before.

And I have been dealing with Grad School. Oh, Grad School, my Grad School, forever my Grad School.

And an internship at Vanderbilt Psychiatric Hospital. Oh, Vandy, my Vandy....anyway, you get the point.

I just wanted to say, before I start out (and yes, I have only just begun), that Nashville and I have been getting along much better. For one, I have mastered three roads, compared to the one. Letter B, I have discovered foods that, before, I could only dream about (Gigi's Cupcakes, I am all yours!) And thirdly, have I mentioned the shopping? New York and Company, I never knew thee in Searcy.

This installment of AIN'T focuses on the savin' of my very soul through the search for a redemption-teaching, Bible-preaching, joy-filled singing church. (That's how they talk about church in Tennessee....didn't you know?)

Part of me wants to follow down the path of the very eye-opening book, Jim and Casper Go to Church, using it as a parallel to my own experience.

I'm not that clever.

Suffice to say, until very recently (recently as in "tonight"), Kaitlin Goes to Church was not a happy, nor encouraging tale.

Church 1: No one spoke to me.
Church 2: No one looked or spoke to me.
Church 3: No talking happened when I was around.
Church 4: Someone showed me where the restroom was.
Church 5: No one said a word....to me.
Church 6: Someone's coming up to say something to.......the person next to me.

Now, I want it to be known, my dear blog readers, that I had three friends from three different churches who invited me with them, and were extremely welcoming, kind, and sweet to me. They were wonderful, and I wish I could've brought them with me as I searched for the "right" fit.

And you might be thinking, "Kaitlin, why are you being so picky? It's just church. Get over it, deal with it, and maybe in a few months you'll make some more friends."

And I appreciate that. Thank you for your input.

Here's the deal, after church 6, I started trying out churches with a group of other "mis-fits" who were also looking for a place to belong. Our needs were simple and few. We needed a semi-large young adults (preferably not all married) group committed to each other with a shared love for their community and, most importantly, God.

But how could we see this in just one visit?

Stop right here if you are a minister, deacon, elder, Sunday school teacher, song leader, song singer, Sunday school attender, communion taker, or pew sitter.

Did you stop?

Ok.

The M O S T important impression a church can make on its visitors is the friendliness factor.

I have visited, most likely, 50-100 churches in my 22 years of living. I have moved 13 times, changed schools about 9 times, and have lived in several different communities.

The M O S T important impression that a church could make on me was its ability to recognize me as a visitor, and strike up a conversation.

Christians of the world, listen to my plea! TALK TO ME! It's all I ask. And if I don't feel welcome in your church, me, who's been going to church since I was in my mother's womb (sorry, Mom), how do you think an outsider feels?

We are a family. We need to start acting like one.

It is unacceptable to leave a Sunday school class of 20, without a person even introducing themselves. It is ridiculous to walk up to an Information booth, only to be thrown a pamphlet and ignored.

It may be scary to do at first, but it is the difference between a 1st time visitor and a 3rd time visitor.

Tonight, Kaitlin Went to Church as a 2nd time visitor. Thank you for stopping to talk.

Coming Soon: AIN'T Part 2

2009-08-25T22:48:00.002-05:00

Honestly, I'm working on something, but in case you or I need to go to bed before it's done, here's a little hint and preview of what's to come:

Imagine

2009-07-26T02:12:00.004-05:00

My heroes, Rhett and Link, for you viewing pleasure:

Update coming. Soon. Maybe. Possibly. Ish.

Snape, Snape, Severus Snape

2009-07-07T22:43:00.003-05:00

To christen the new Harry Potter movie debuting next week, Heavenly Hats brings readers, SFYT (straight from You Tube), one of my faves...

A little strange, maybe, but what didja expect?

School's Out for.....oh.

2009-07-05T17:23:00.007-05:00

Summer II starts next week.

Whoo hoo.

To commemorate, I thought I'd give y'all some insight into how I do homework.

I get it from my dad.

Totally Rad!

2009-06-27T23:24:00.004-05:00

'80s Dances: How To Do The Thriller

Thanks Dancing Kim! Now Dancing Kait feels the need to toss her homework out the window, burn it, and do The Thriller all the way down the alley.

AIN'T Part One: Welcome to the City

2009-06-13T00:52:00.004-05:00

(Click to enlarge...and to experience some intense jealousy.)

Well, I survived my first few weeks in Nashville. (I KNOW...I can't believe it either.) Looking back, I think it's been a pretty enriching experience so far:

I've almost driven down a one-way street (almost...dang GPS), I've impaled a sweet Tennessean butterfly on my antenna (I will always remember how free you floated, Butter, before I smacked right into you), I've gotten into a small wreck (Listen, buddy. Blinker does not mean "come on over." Next time, make sure someone isn't in the lane right next to you. Just a suggestion.), I've narrowly avoided a drug deal next door (no, I do NOT "smoke", thank you very much), I've eaten a scoop of Lavender-Vanilla ice cream (pretty good for being flavored after a flower), I've been invited to my first 11pm-3am country music fan-club get-together (Blake, who?), I've already visited five churches of Christ (out of 3,000), I've dodged 12 Nashville Auto Diesel College students walking across the street to Subway (For XBox 360, introducing "Gallatin RD Rage"), and I've already been to Starbucks 4 times (but who's counting?).

Oh, and I think I'm going to grad school.

A couple Saturday nights ago, Gran Jean, Liz, and I made our way to the only remaining authentic part of the Opry-opoly. The Grand Ole' Opry (of which I have fond memories of...back when I was just a young'n, and it was in the middle of a magical place called Opryland, where all of my dreams came true...well, most of my dreams came true....at least, this one time I was allowed to get some cotton candy after riding the Hangman) welcomed us into its banjo-pickin' auditorium for a night full of music, laughter, and stale popcorn.

We listened to Little Jimmy Dickens and his stories about growing old. We laughed with Marty Stewart, and his jokes about growing old. We gasped when Vince Gill came out and realized that boy, he's getting old.

The highlight of the night, however, came when my old friend, Steve Martin, came out to entertain us with a little banjo-action. (I like talking about stars like I know them. It makes my life more interesting.)

He was terrific, and I swear he smiled right at me (and the other hundred people crowded around me on the front row) as he played alongside Vince Gill and Amy Grant. (I like to name drop on this blog...) It was an awesome experience, and I suggest to anyone visiting Nashville to stop by the Opry and enjoy a night of great, real country music.

And, Steve, if you're reading this, give me a call. I'd love to do lunch!

What to do with a fried brain?

2009-06-04T00:35:00.004-05:00

Watch one of my favorite YouTube videos ever...

We have something special, In The Heights and I.

I promise I'm in the middle of writing the first installment of AIN'T...but I'm also in the middle of writing a six page paper, reading millions of pages of journal articles, sleeping, and watching Late Night with Conan. I'm just one girl.

watch out world, here i ee cummings

2009-05-29T23:39:00.007-05:00

Part 1 of AIN'T or TON or TOMMB (see comment from Anonymous Aunt Lori in previous post) is coming at the end of this weekend. But since I originally drew you all here with my clever linkage to videos of Justin Timberlake in a dress and much anticipated movie trailers, I didn't want to leave you hanging. I figured I'd give you all a little something for your hard work.(It's hard holding that jelly doughnut, while simultaneously clicking "go", isn't it, Dad?)

I was saying good-night to Gran Jean, when I saw a story I had written her when I was about five years-old laying in her bookcase. It was just laying there, unread, this literary masterpiece. So I thought I'd give my readers (still just three of you? even with the shorter posts?), an exclusive look into the genius of Kaitlin Hardy. (Shut up.)

THE STORY ABOUT THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE WOLF
by Kaitlin Ann Hardy, 5-ish

Wonday ther was a little Girl
She was a cuet little girl
But won day she met a wolf
A men wolf
He sed come her little girl
Shr sed the little girl, Wer r we going
Wer going to my plas
Then wen she wasnt looking the wolf grab her!
But her dad keld him
And she lrd nevr to tok to stragrs agn
And day levd happyl evr afr
The end

Oh, you are so welcome. Too bad you couldn't see the accompanying illustrations.

AIN'T: Coming Soon to a Blog Near You

2009-05-26T23:19:00.007-05:00

Adventures in Nashville Town, or more commonly known* as AIN'T, is coming direct to this blog irregularly and with or without fail. I figured it would be a good way for me to keep y'all up-to-date on my "goings-on". Up-to-date is a phrase that here means, you might find out about it a few months after it happens. As it is, Chapter One of AIN'T begins in a few days...maybe.

P.S. Better name submissions will be accepted. Along with major credit and debit cards.

*More commonly known now that I just made it known to the common* people who read this blog.

*Common as in totally awesome and cool.

Hello? Garfield? We've got a problem with Gallatin Rd....

2009-05-25T00:02:00.007-05:00

I'm sitting in my newly painted, newly furnished, newly decorated, newly acquired room in my new stomping grounds of Nashville, Tennessee. My room is in my old Gran Jean's house, or better put, the old house of my not at all old Gran Jean. (It's amazing how the simple placement of an adjective can be the deciding factor in whether or not you get sent to bed without dinner.) (It's also amazing how that paragraph sounded a lot like I was writing a Dr. Seuss book.) (Isn't it amazing as well how weird all these parentheses look next to each other?)

In my new room, I'm looking at an old street sign I have hanging above my window. My parents got it for my birthday. (Shut up. You just wish you got something that cool for your birthday. Seriously.) Aesthetically, it complements the sparkling water shaded wall behind it. (Say that with a British accent.) But aside from being cute, it is a very nostalgic street sign. Nostalgic looking? Nostalgically pleasing? Nostalgic placed? The point is, it brings me back.

I was in the second, third and fourth grades when I lived in California. I start this flashback with that disclaimer, because sometimes when I describe my childhood on here, I feel like I'm describing a day at the Funny Farm with Kait and her family. I was not a weird child. Repeat. I was not weird. Just different. And imaginative. And the only. Which led to more imagination. You could say that my imagination had an imagination. And it bred fun. Got it? Fun. Not weird-ness. You may proceed.

On the way to school, we had to pass through this one intersection. Every day we'd pass this street light, and every day, we'd get stuck at the red light. If you know my family, you know that we get places on time. Sometimes late. Rarely early. And as a kid, I attributed this to the lights. (Actually, as an adult, I still attribute this to the lights....) And as a kid, a FUN kid, an only-child, imaginative kid, I thought I could talk to the lights to make them change. So I did. I begged. I pleaded. But then I realized one day, when the lights weren't listening to me, that, duh, we live in a society. What was I thinking? The lights have a boss! They'd listen to him. And so, it came to pass that one morning on the streets of Sacramento, California, a boss was born. And his name was Garfield. And they shall call him Garfield.

Garfield was a street near our church and after that morning, any time I had a problem with a traffic light, I'd get out my phone (which suspiciously looked like my thumb and pinkie finger, btw) and I'd threaten to call it's boss, Garfield. Then I would call Garfield, and tell him which street I was having the problem with, and mysteriously, by the Power of Garfield, the light would change to green. It worked for me every time. So much, in fact, that my parents started saying, "Kaitlin, call Garfield for us." every time they got stuck in traffic or at a light. And I would. (Thanks, Mom and Dad, for your encouragement.)

I don't still believe in the Power of Garfield. (I know you all were holding your breath on that one...) But I do see the use in it. In total, unadulterated belief. As I look at the Garfield street sign hanging in my room, I can't help but think back on how simple life was then. To be a kid again.

And maybe that's what "faith like a child" means. Because how awesome would it be if I actually believed that when I came to a red light, I could call the Boss and get it taken care of. How awesome would it be if I truly and fully believed in the Power of God. That I could call on him whenever I "got stuck in traffic".

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

(And also, help me not only to figure out how to navigate life's little twists and turns, but Nashville's as well. Amen.)

Classic Peg

2009-05-14T23:01:00.005-05:00

New post soon. (Do I always say that? It's not laziness...just selective-ness. I'm just really picky about the days I choose to write my blogs. Don't judge me.)

To hold my deafening crowd of fans over (Really guys. Calm down. I know you're excited about this post, but seriously), here's a little Saturday Night happiness.

Video Recaps | Full Episodes | Webisodes

The Best Thing I've Seen in a Long Time

2009-04-14T23:52:00.001-05:00

Watch this. It will change your life.

Blue Ribbon Campaign

2009-04-09T01:06:00.003-05:00

Last semester, I had the privilege of putting on a fundraiser for the phenomenal White County Children's Safety Center. Well, I didn't actually put on the fundraiser. My talented group members did that. I kind of stood in a corner and made sure I wasn't in the way. Trust me, it was helpful. Especially since during the brainstorming phase my brightest idea was a pig race and mud wrestling. The corner was right where they needed me.

We learned a lot about child abuse from that one semester. I remember coming home horrified at the statistics we learned in class. But what impacted me the most was the public response to our cause. In our efforts to advocate for the safety center, we encountered everything from apathy to avid concern. And in my experience, the apathy seemed to overwhelm the concern.

And that frustrated me. I stood in my corner and yelled for the rights of the children. How could those people not give? Why don't they care for the children? And then I went home.

And looked in the mirror.

Child abuse is a hideous thing. It is a widespread, hidden epidemic, rarely discussed. I understand. It is a difficult subject to address.

I mean, I know that my friends don't appreciate it when, over our Sonic cherry limeades, I bring up the statistic that 1,500 children die from child abuse and neglect everyday. I start to hear the Debbie Downer theme song in my head. So I don't talk about it then. Or when we're watching Grey's Anatomy. Or when we're standing in line for Spring Sing tickets. And then, I slowly forget about it. Because it's not affecting me. It's not my life.

Sometimes I struggle with the person standing in the corner screaming and the one drinking cherry limeades without a care in the world. And I wonder, where's the middle ground? The corner girl is ineffective and judgmental (and really annoying) and the limeade girl is oblivious and apathetic (and apparently really thirsty). And neither are raising awareness. And neither are doing anything to help.

This April is Child Abuse Awareness and Prevention month. All this month, people are wearing blue ribbons to raise awareness for the plight of the abused child. Some have chosen a particular day in April to wear all blue. Others are hosting Blue parties and Blue Bake Sales. People are doing something.

I realize now that the "middle ground" is finding what is effective. Screaming and shouting doesn't get the point across. But getting 20 friends together to order Blue Ocean Waters instead of cherry limeades might bring attention to the cause. We can do so much, more than we even realize, to prevent this awful injustice to our children. We can give. We can care. And while we don't have to relegate this cause to the month of April exclusively, now is a great time to start.

It doesn't take much. No one is asking for a million dollar donation or a impossible time commitment. Just a word or two to family members and friends about child abuse. Just a prayer or two for those children. Just a thought or two towards how you will prevent child abuse in your family.

Remember, the number one way you can help an abused child is to report abuse. If you believe a child is being abused, report it. Report, report, report. Because if you don't, who will?

To report suspected or known child abuse, call: 1 800 4 A CHILD (1-800-422-4453)

And if you want to help more, here are some terrific links:

CASA
White County Children's Safety Center
Prevent Child Abuse America

Anyone want to get an Ocean Water with me?

Where the Wild Things Are

2009-04-04T13:16:00.007-05:00

Sometimes, something from your past comes along that reminds you that sometimes, it's ok to still be a kid. That sometimes, it's alright not to have all the answers. That sometimes, it's perfectly fine to throw back your head and scream like a wild thing:

Madame Kaitlin

2009-04-01T01:35:00.002-05:00

I was a special child.

Not the Dakota Fanning, play the cello at three, My Baby Can Read! kind of special. It was more like the talk to mirrors in department stores, sing in the bathtub while pretending I was a kidnapped princess, go to sleep making silly faces kind of special. The only child kind of special.

I bring this up because my life isn't interesting enough to consistently write about my current day-to-day meanderings. When I decided to keep this blog up after my Human Situation class was over, I wanted to make sure that my reader(s) wasn't plagued by posts describing my spring-time allergies and my trek to the student center for a chicken biscuit. So I told myself that I would write about the interesting stuff in my life. The stuff people would care about.

That lasted for a day.

Then I threw caution to the wind and decided that since no one usually gets past the first few paragraphs that I'd just tell stories. And I'd keep them as honest as George Washington and spare not one embarrassing detail.

Stupid cherry tree.

So, in the spirit of reality television and the hope and prayer that everyone has given up on me updating, I'm going to use this space to tell a quick story. You may "x" out now and go visit Hulu....I hear Neil Patrick Harris plays a pretty decent Dr. Horrible.

I played dress up a lot when I was little. My parents thought that "pretend" was such a great way to help me release my artistic juices, i.e. keep me occupied so I wouldn't be badgering them with constant questions, like "won't you take me to funky town?" and "how does one actually get to Sesame Street?" Hey, I was a curious kid.

Well, one night, when I was about 7 or 8, and all was quiet in the house and I was looking for a way to keep from going to bed, I announced to my parents the arrival of Madame Kaitlin.

"Ladies and gents, step right up to my bedroom for the amazing, traveling Madame Kaitlin. Tickets are going quick, so you better not miss the opportunity to get your fortune read by one of the very best."

I had turned off all the lights in my room, except for a Little Mermaid night light and a desk lamp. My Crayola table was covered in a tapestry, and sitting on top of it was my newly acquired Magic 8 ball.

I closed my door (which had a sign on it that said, "Enter here for fourchun reading") and waited for my many customers to knock.

*knock, knock*

"Come in, come in my dear, and sit down." (A special child. Not weird. Special.)

My mom, mimicking my serious tone, put her payment (25 cents) on the table, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

I cleared my throat and began...

"I see great things for you. You will *poot*...ahem....you will make a *poot*....excuse me....you will become..."

By this time, my mom is holding her sides, cracking up. I'm not sure what she found funnier, the fact that I was trying to maintain such a serious atmosphere, or the fact that at that moment, I was acting more like my dad in the living room recliner. (Love ya, Dad!)

I wish I could say that she stopped laughing, got a hold of herself, I told her fortune, and we forgot the whole incident. I really, really wish I could say that. Unfortunately, short, insignificant slip-ups like cutting the cheese during a fortune reading usually leads to a lifetime of regret, shame, and nicknames.

Nicknames like The Pootin' Teller.

That stick with you at family gatherings.

To this very day.

Singleness is a blessing, right?

I know a lot of you might think this is too much, too soon. I mean, this blogging relationship is barely out of its toddler stage. And I'm already talking about embarrassing bodily functions. What's the dealio, Kaitlin?

I guess I just figure life's too short to always be on guard.

To always be serious.

To always be "cool".

It doesn't matter in the long run.

That's my prediction, at least.

14 more days....

2009-03-29T02:00:00.007-05:00

God, grant me the serenity....

What an experience this has been. I'll blog about it soon.

Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah

2009-02-24T02:56:00.003-06:00

I lived in Hawaii for three years. Sometimes I like saying that. Random people will ask me for the time or directions to the bank and I'll say, "I lived in Hawaii for three years." And then I run away. I don't own a watch...or have money...

Unfortunately, those three years were probably the most awkward years of my life. (Please, try to contain your shock. I'm not that awkward now....) Eleven through thirteen year-olds have it rough, and my journey through pubescence was no different. And while I'm not going to talk about my journey through pubescence on this blog (ever), because....well....ewwwww, I do have some really fond memories from those years.

I was thinking about one particular memory the other day. I was hungry (I'm always hungry) and I wanted something to eat (I always want something to eat) so I pulled up to the McDonald's drive-thru window (they give me my own lane), and it all came rushing back. (Don't you hate it when reminiscing gets in the way of ordering your Mighty Kids Meal 6 pc. with Hot Mustard? I know I do.)

I'd like to apologize before I begin this riveting tale. It's a memory from camp. Anyone in the Church of Christ knows the implication of the "camp story." We all have them. And once we start telling them, there's no stopping us. We will talk about our respective camps from here to eternity. (Which, I hear, is a short movie compared to the length of time it takes to listen to a church camp story.) Not only will CoC kids go on and on and on about their camp, it is also a known fact that ever CoC kid believes their camp is the best. No cabin can beat Cabin Moses at Camp Christfeather. It's the best camp ever. At Camp Wiregrass, we make diamond encrusted macaroni necklaces to give away during the bonfire devo. It's the best camp ever. Camp Pearly Gates has mixed swimming! It's the best camp ever.

Seriously. It can go on forever.

To spare y'all some pain in reading this, let me start by saying that everyone who went to Aloha Christian Camp did not make the claim that it was the "best camp ever." In fact, my friends and I had a different name for it. We called it "Aloha Concentration Camp."

You've got to remember, we were thirteen year-old punks. Awkward years. We barely appreciated the rainbows we saw everyday on our way to school, let alone the beauty of Aloha. But really, what thirteen year-old wouldn't balk at having to go to the bathroom in a trough? And, scoutshonorcrossmyfingershopetodie, the camp staff's signal for "quiet" was the Nazi salute outstretched arm.

But even through the ant infested swimming pool and insanely early wake-up calls, we learned to love it! Kids from all islands would come to Oahu to enjoy the event that IS camp. And looking back on it, I can really appreciate the diversity that I was exposed to.

At the time, however, we were still thirteen year-old punks. And diversity doesn't mean much to growing girls. With a growing stomachs. And very sensitive taste buds. Just saying.

Auntie Espy (because everyone in Hawaii is either Aunt or Uncle) was cooking for us that week. Boy, I wish I had the words to do Aunt Espy justice. I'm really not poetic enough. But you've got to trust me, this woman is amazing. This Filipino woman, shorter than my shoulder, with a heart bigger than Braddah Iz's stomach (look him up) and a smile brighter than the Hawaiian sun (not bad for not being poetic), was the best cook in all the islands. Arguably, the best in the world. And here she was, donating her time, cooking for us all the Hawaiian and Filipino staples our meal required.

The problem was, for Haoles like myself and my cabin, the Hawaiian staples were not "stapely" enough. We didn't grow up with them. And it's hard, no matter if prepared by the Iron Chef or Aunt Espy (who was much, much better than the Iron Chef), to train one's palate in less than a week to appreciate the finer flavor of spam musubi, fried noodles, macaroni salad, and sticky rice. Especially when it is being made for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. With seaweed flavored popcorn during snack time. Now that I'm away from it, I'm salivating. But at thirteen, all I was craving was a steak.

After six days of dutifully eating our spam and rice, our cabin gathered around the mess hall table and looked at one another. I remember playing with them the same game my friends and I played just a few semesters ago in England. The "if you could go anywhere to eat, right now, where would you go?" game. We said Red Lobster, Jack in the Box, Olive Garden, Dixie Grill, etc. etc. etc. Then someone mentioned the Golden Arches...

Oh what we would give for a cheeseburger. French fries with Fancy Ketchup. A Big Mac and a large coke. Chicken nuggets and an apple pie. American food. Haole food.

By this time, our whole table had tears in their eyes. Both of our counselors were hugging one another for moral support. And that's when the scheming began.

Tracie, our head counselor and one of the coolest people I knew (she was also a lot of the reason I came to Harding), decided it was time to act. The people had gone hungry long enough. So she modeled to us an important life lesson: How to get what you want by being a girl. She went up to the camp director (a quiet, nice guy) and told him that she needed to leave camp for a few hours to go buy some things. Some things that girls need at certain times. Some...and that was all he needed to hear, as he blushed and gave her permission to leave. Hey, technically, it was true. We girls needed some food.

We waited anxiously for Tracie. We sat through "The Gods Must Be Crazy", the closing devo, and Taps. Then, we waited in our cabin. (Which, adding to the Concentration imagery, looked more like a bunker than a cabin...) Tara, our other counselor and another extremely cool person, took charge.

"Now remember girls, technically, we aren't allowed to have this food. When Tracie gets here, you have to remember to keep quiet. I mean, I don't want to hear a SOUND from you. We can't get caught. No one say a word."

*sounds of a car pulling up, headlights shine into our cabin, we stay quiet and still as Tara reminds us:

"AHHHHH! She's here! Tracie's here with the food! Oh my goodness, I'm SO EXCITED!!!"

Ok, so maybe Tara lost herself for a second, but, to her credit, she was the first one to smell the salt on the french fries.

That moment, so insignificant to others, has meant so much to me. The Great McDonald's Operation of 2001 will live in my heart forever. The silent chomping in the darkness. The great, secret trek up to the dumpsters to discard of the evidence. The frantic run back to our cabin after seeing an ominous shadow on the kitchen wall. All these things I will remember forever. And tell my children. And the McDonald's drive thru window lady. And write about on my blog. Because I can. And I also can unequivocally make this next claim:

Aloha Christian Camp is the best camp ever!
Forever and ever.
Amen.

Isn't it great how the little things in life can make all the difference?

*This post is dedicated to the late Samuel Mac Smith. Mr. Mac was a great man and always made our time at ACC more than enjoyable. His faith, strength, and wisdom inspired us all, even as young, pre-teen punks. We look forward to partying with him in heaven.*

Return to Sender

2009-02-13T00:54:00.003-06:00

Working on updating (story of my blog, isn't it?) but here's something to hold my many readers* over...

*Hi Mom! Hi Dad!

Like a Fetter

2008-12-30T23:51:00.011-06:00

Freshman year, I had a friend who was in the throes of first-semester, white-swing, cafeteria-date, Harding University-style type love. It was a big deal, folks. And I only mention this because, like most of these types of romances, it ended a few weeks later. My friend, wise beyond her years (one of those annoyingly beautiful and smart and sweet people...oh how I hate their guts...) told me something that I will never forget: You must guard your heart, Kait.

It was a simple statement made in passing. We went on to talk about What Not to Wear or Christian music or Texas or something, and we didn't really dwell on it. But for some reason, that statement always stuck with me.

Guard your heart.

It stuck with me through my second-semester, my Sophomore year, and my Junior year. And as my heart began to feel strung out and worn out and tough from almost being pulled out, I held fast to her words. Guard your heart.

You know what I found? It's a 24-hour job being a heart-guard.

When I was in the sixth grade, my school started a girl's basketball team. I was so excited. I wanted so badly to be on the "A"-team. Of course, anyone who knows me knows that this was almost a laughable dream. I am (1) not athletic, (2) adverse to any movement that even resembles running, (3) not athletic, and (4) I don't run. But all the cool girls were on the "A" team and I wanted more than anything to be accepted into their exclusive circle of "Friends" trivia, premature make-up, and school-dance gossip ring. They were "the bomb."

So, even after I made "B"-team, I stuck around because we all practiced together. (Did you know that Rachel likes Ross, and Ross likes Rachel, but neither of them will tell one another? Oh, the drama.) And as I "ran" drills ("ran-walked" actually....don't judge, I have "exercised-induced asthma".......ok, it was mostly "walked-walked"...and I got the diagnoses from one of my friends...), I was actually looking forward to the day of our big game. Our coach, a big Samoan fellow who yelled at us from a chair during our practices, prepped us for the game. He positioned us. "Kaitlin, you're playing point guard."

I'm going to stop here for a moment. Remember, I joined the basketball team for the make-up advice. Ok, we can continue.

Let's just ponder for a moment the meaning of this assignment. Point guard. Was I excited? Nervous? Empowered by his faith that I could play one of the most essential parts of the game? Heck no. I had no clue what he was talking about, and as I just looked up the position on Wikipedia a second ago, I have a feeling he didn't either.

At the age of twelve, I took the position point guard as a literal interpretation of the phrase. And boy did I guard my little heart out. I guarded all the points. I point guarded. And guarded guarded. And ran to guard my teammates and my basket and the other team's basket.

Two minutes later, I guarded the bench. A worthy job, since some of the parents watching the game seemed to be eyeing our Hawaiian print water bottles.

For two minutes I was a guard. And it was exhausting.

It's interesting, but I found that heart-guarding is even harder.

The heart is an amazing organ. It is a life-giving organ. It is also one of the most precious organs in your body. I think that is why Scriptures reference it so much.

Create in me a clean heart, blessed are the pure in heart, search the heart, hide the heart, love the Lord your God with all your heart.

Wisdom deems the heart be guarded.

Guard your heart.

I think of all the times I've failed at this. All the times my heart has been hurt and I have been left out in the open, bleeding and broken, sitting on the bench. I am not a good heart-guard. Either I overcompensate and never let anyone in, or I let everyone in too far and I end up in a salty sea of Alice-in-Wonderland type tears.

This New Year, I think I will appoint a new guard.

"And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:7

This message is approved.....

2008-11-04T15:36:00.001-06:00

You heard the man....

Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing

2008-09-14T23:01:00.038-05:00

The most depressing moment of my elementary school career (besides the day they ran out of chicken nuggets on Chicken Nugget Friday) came from underneath the monkey bars of Town and Country Lutheran School's playground.

For some reason, I experienced a lot of my embarrassing moments at T&C. There was the spelling bee incident.(Since when does "tomorrow" have an extra "r"?) The Christmas pageant incident.(I misspoke, alright. Get off my back!) And as I recall, a rather upsetting library incident. (And, really, just what kind of librarian tells you you're too young to read "Great Expectations"? If Matilda can do it, so can I!)

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, and this time we moved to California in the middle of my second grade school year. I remember clutching my Power Rangers Pink Ranger lunchbox in one hand and my Lisa Frank backpack in the other. I was so scared. Until I saw him.

Sigh.

He was wearing a blue baseball cap (backwards, what a rebel!) and an Animaniacs t-shirt (funny, to boot!). And as my teacher walked me over to my desk, he grinned at me.

Like, really grinned, teeth and everything!

Double sigh.

I was in love.

Of course, I denied it all through the third grade. I mean, we'd do things together. Our moms were friends and we'd have play dates and stuff, but it's not like I was in love with him or anything....

...

Alright, I was in love with him. I mean, I just admitted it like a paragraph ago.

Mrs. Nolan Murphy. Mrs. Kaitlin Nolan Murphy. Mrs. Nolan Hardy.

I've never been sure how this maiden name married name thing works.

In fourth grade, our (non)relationship reached the pinnacle of all elementary school crushes...we raised the flag together. Every morning, during prayer, our teacher would let us leave the classroom to raise the huge American flag in the center of our courtyard. (Michael Moore is probably turning over in is his McDonald's booth at that last sentence...) But I was not moved by patriotism, but instead, a greater force: my secret true love.

It was almost summer, and fourth grade was quickly coming to a close. My class threw me a surprise party since I was going to be moving to Alabama that week and would never see them again (hey, I'm a realist).

We were playing outside and Nolan came up to me. He wanted to secretly see me under the monkey bars.

"Ooooooh.....Kaitlin and Nolan, sitting in a tree....K I S S I N G"

"Shut up, Ryan C."

I never did like Ryan C. He was so annoying. He always took the ball away from me during four square and he said the word "fart" all the time. You can't trust a boy like that.

"Hey, Nolan! Are you excited about going to McDonald's after school?"

"Kaitlin, I don't think we should play together any more. All the boys make fun of me and say I like you. So, I can't talk to you at recess. Bye."

Sigh.

As Charles Dickens said in "Great Expectations": "I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.'

Ok, so thanks to T&C, I never read "Great Expectations". I wiki-quoted that. I don't even think it's from "Great Expectations". And it doesn't really have anything to do with my story...

Moving on....

Double sigh.

Here's my point. It's easy to get bogged down in life experiences that don't live up to expectations.

Girls have this down. Especially in the romance department.

"A happy heart makes the face cheerful, but heartache crushes the spirit." Proverbs 15:13

I've been thinking about this verse. What is it that makes a happy heart? Heartache permeates this world. I will never be Mrs. Nolan Kaitlin Murphy Hardy. How can my heart be happy all the time? How can I avoid a crushed spirit?

Heartache is unbearable. And whether it is the loss of a friend, a spouse, a child, a parent, or even a relationship, it is crushing. And God is no stranger to pain. He doesn't ask us to be fake-happy all the time.

He understands hurt. He has to. He heals it.

"My flesh and heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever." Psalm 73:26

And I don't think the solution is to lower expectations. God has plans to prosper us, to give us a hope and a future.

I think the solution is something a little more hopeful, more doable.

A happy heart.

Despite heartbreak.

Despite unfulfilled expectations.

A happy heart.

Without a boyfriend.

Through divorce.

In the middle of a crisis.

A happy heart.

When that big paper is due.

When a family member gets sick.

A happy heart.

In times of doubt.

Despite low self-esteem.

Through death.

"But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation." Pslam 13;5

"The Life-Light was the real thing: Every person entering Life he brings into Light. He was in the world, the world was there through him,and yet the world didn't even notice. He came to his own people, but they didn't want him. But whoever did want him,who believed he was who he claimed and would do what he said, He made to be their true selves,their child-of-God selves. These are the God-begotten, not blood-begotten, not flesh-begotten, not sex-begotten." John 1:9-13 MSG

A happy heart.

Because of Him.

Updating, but in the meantime....

2008-09-10T14:40:00.001-05:00

Watch this!

Father of Mine

2008-06-15T01:02:00.010-05:00

Remember when the Star Wars movies were re-released into theaters? I was either eight or nine, in second or third grade, and had never before seen a George Lucas film. For three consecutive weekends, episodes IV through VI (I never got that...) would play at the local Cine-world for $4 admission (those were the days). My dad had promised to take me ("No child of mine is going to miss out on seeing a Stars Wars movie on big screen for that bargain!") and since I had never before seen them, he was super excited about being there to witness my discovery of the oh-so-original plot line.

Unfortunately, my joy in discovering the actual relationship between Luke and James Earl Jones was deflated by a stinky, stupid boy, when he told me on the playground,

"Whaa? You haven't seen Star Wars? Well of course, you MUST know that Darth Vader is...."

"LALALALALALALALA....I can't hear you. Don't tell me, don't tell me!! My dad is so excited!!"

"Ok, I won't....I promise.....

...............

LUKE'S FATHER!!! Ha!" (insert stinky, stupid boy laugh)

Ooh. I was so mad. I knew my dad was looking forward to sharing that father/daughter moment, the one of many we cherished, so I decided not to tell him I knew. And as we sat in the theater, during Empire Strikes Back: Episode Who Cares, I let out an EXTRA loud gasp just to let him know I wasn't expecting such the plot twist.

I think he bought it.

Ever since I started writing on this blog, my dad has expressed deep concern over my writing material.

"Don't write about the time I almost drowned you looking for my sunglasses."

"Ok, Dad."

"Oh, and don't write about the time I tossed you up into the fan when you were a baby."

"No problem, Dad."

"And don't tell embarassing stories about me."

"Dad, would I even think about doing that?"

Fortunately, my father doesn't get many opportunities to read this blog.

But whether he's dancing in public, or forgetting his shoes on the way to O'Charleys (so that we park in the parking lot and get out, as he realizes he's left them at home, and we have to drive back to the house so he can find them, put them on, and then drive back to the restaurant, as he explains that the only reason he forgot them in the first place was his excitement in kissing his wife of 27 years in the backseat of our van while I drove), he is my hero.

People tell me all the time that I look just like my father. We tease each other about that a lot, but inside, my heart swells with joy (and not the kind of joy a stinky, stupid boy can deflate). Because, you see, I long to look like my father--on the inside.

My dad has taught me more in my last 21 years than I have ever learned from a teacher, mentor, or friend. Compassion, dedication, responsibility, faith, and most of all, love. He has comforted me in times of sorrow, he has celebrated with me in times of accomplishment, he has remained patient with me in times of trial, and he has accompanied me in times of mischeif ("Hey, Mom, want to get another poodle?").

Memories keep pouring in as I think about everything my father and I have shared together. He is my roller-coaster buddy, he is my philisophical-discussion friend, he is my medium-steak splitter.

He is my brother in Christ.

I remember leaving church one day and stopping with him at the gas station. As he was sitting in the car, I started talking with him about my relationship with God. To this day, I still remember how comfortable I felt sharing such deep thoughts, a comfort that has only intensified as we've spent the years discussing our spirituality. I knew that day that I wanted him to play a special part in my commitment to the Lord. One month later, my father baptized me.

The bond that we share is strong, and wrapped in love, understanding, and respect.

And though the relationship we have will always be filled with laughter and kidding-around, I can seriously say that he is the best dad ever.

With or without shoes.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I love you!

Insert Tom Chapin Song Here

2008-05-11T00:36:00.006-05:00

When we lived in California, my family would take frequent trips down to San Francisco. It quickly became one of my favorite cities to visit. The sights, the sounds, the smells...well, not so much the smells. I enjoyed these excursions very much. My favorite part of our trips to San Francisco was Pier 39. I used to run to the very end of the pier, mesmerized by the gigantic sea lions. As per the only child within me, I even named one ("Chubby") and claimed that I could pick him out every time I visited. He would bark at me, and I pretended he was sending me secret messages that only I, the great Lion-whisperer, could understand.

But I digress.

Really, just forget all that.

The point was San Francisco. We went. Often. We loved it. End of story. Sea lions--not important.

Part of our San Francisco experience always included something that I have now dubbed "The Shrimp Walk". We would walk from the Pier to Ghirardelli, and along the way my mom would consume two, sometimes three, "walk-away shrimp cocktails" (extra oyster crackers please). She LOVES her mobile seafood. For years during our trips to San Francisco I would watch her lovingly eat these shrimp cocktails, wishing so much that I was not allergic so I could partake in the deliciousness.

When I was about twelve, on a trip back to see my grandparents, we walked towards Ghirardelli. Mom stopped for her cocktail. She paid the guy, and then turned to me.

"Want a bite?"

"But Mom, I thought I was allergic."

"What!? You aren't allergic."

"But you said."

"When?"

"When I was younger I asked for a bite and you told Dad not to give me one in case I was allergic."

"Oh...well...you see..."

I am pleased to say that now when we visit the City, I join my mother in getting a walk-away cocktail...or two....or three. The moral of this story is that when it comes to protecting her shrimp cocktail from hungry little child mouths, a mother will do anything. Even if it means pretending that child has an allergy.

In all seriousness, though, when it comes to my mother, she will do anything. For me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what I wanted to write for Mother's Day. Should it be a confession post? "Dear Mother, remember many Christmas's ago when we made chips and dip. You thought I went to bed, but I actually snuck out after you were asleep to eat a plate full. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!" Should it be an apology post? "Dear Mama, I am sorry I left that pogo stick in front of the door when we lived in California. I should have put it away like you asked me to and then you wouldn't have skinned your leg and you would have been able to take out the recyclables. HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!" Should it be an inside joke post? "Have a heckydarn of a Mother's Day! Put it in a baggie and nip it in the bud! HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!"

I think I have had such a difficult time because, and excuse the cliche, words can not even begin to express how I feel about my mom. She is my best friend, she is the Lorelai to my Rory, my shoulder to cry on, my confidant, my mentor, and my sister in Christ. If I were to write about all of her qualities, if I were to tell you every way she has been a blessing to me, you would have to stop reading here, or you'd be on this blog for a year. (Though some of you have already stopped reading at the Sea Lion story...)

One of the hardest moves for me was my freshman year of high school. I had spent three wonderful years in Hawaii, and was not looking forward to the prospect of living in D.C. A couple months into the move, my mom could tell I was not happy. I was downright miserable. Knowing that I had not made any friends, that I was missing life back in paradise, and that I was having a horrible time at church, she surprised me with tickets to see my favorite band, dc Talk. She took me that weekend, and we rocked out to "Jesus Freak" and afterwards, went to Baskin Robbins for a chocolate-chip milkshake. Five years later, I still remember that night. I have never been more grateful.

Throughout my life my mom has always been there for me. She has been AMAZING...beyond amazing...and I will never be able to fully thank her for all she's done for me. From sending me a can opener (rush delivery) in a time of great need, to belting out Jason Mraz's "The Remedy" on the way home from school, to sending me the coolest clothes and movies in care packages, to making me my favorite birthday brownies, to establishing Chuck E. Cheese Tuesdays during this past summer, she has exceeded the definition of "The Best Mother in the World." Truly. I looked it up in the dictionary. The Dictionary of life. The Dictionary of Kaitlin's life.

But I digress.

Dear Mom,
I've just returned home from college. As you know, I've had a rough semester. I don't know how I would have gotten through it if it hadn't been for your words of encouragement, love, and wisdom. As I lay on my bed (finally, my bed), I am trying to come up with the words to thank you for all you've done for me.

I can't.

So just know that I love you very much. I respect you a whole lot. And I pray daily that I will grow to be half the woman you are.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Too close, Mr. DeMille!

2008-04-18T16:02:00.001-05:00

I was in the first grade. I had missed school the week of "auditions" for our end-of-the-year, school-wide, parent production and I came back to a seat in the bleachers, assigned to sing in the background with the kindergartners. I really wouldn't have made a big deal about it, but, you see, the people on stage got to wear Bee costumes. Like with felt stingers and antennas. So I ~~cried~~ handled the situation in a very mature manner. And I got a speaking role. I don't remember my lines, but I do remember that I got to stir a pot of honey with a couple of third graders. I was flying high.

Ha ha ha.

Flying high.

Flying. Bees.

Get it?

After my experience as a bee and the only pilgrim mother with baby doll (Zion Lutheran School Thanksgiving pageant '93), I knew my calling was to be an actress. (You have to say it like that, with a lot of emphasis on the last "s"...it makes it more dramatic...you wouldn't get it, it's an only child thing...) My dad ~~prayed I'd grow out of it~~ supported my aspirations as I went from Pilgrim Mother to dancing insomniac (don't ask...Town and Country Lutheran School '95) to the height of my career as Harriet Ames, love interest of Stuart Little (Sacramento Community Theater '96).

I took a break from the stage during 5th grade to pursue other dreams, such as...well, I'm trying to forget 5th grade....and came out of retirement at the request of all my adoring fans, a word which here means, "my mom wanted me out of the house." In Hawaii, I spent my summers "acting" in VBS plays (don't laugh...I'm sure someone somewhere could call it "acting") and I won first place in the 6th grade talent show for singing the Little Mermaid's "Part of Your World", which really can be added to my acting resume, because the judges only voted for me based on my "facial expressions." And if you heard my singing, you'd realize those must have been some pretty strong facial expressions...

(Remember boys and girls, if its talent you lack, just wiggle your eyebrows and smile like the dickens. It's all you really need to succeed in life. That and a chocolate-iced, creme-filled, Krispy Kreme donut.)

I moved schools, grew up a bit, decided that maybe possibly it wasn't the most probable thing for me to move to Hollywood at 16 and marry Tom Hanks and star in a successful Friday night teen sitcom, making millions as the next Danielle Fishel (especially since my range of parts consisted of a bee, a pilgrim, and a mad German scientist...don't ask...Pearl Harbor Church of Christ 2000...)

Now I am a year away from graduating college, excited beyond belief about my major in Behavioral Sciences, and happily living in Searcy, Arkansas. And, while I know I'll never be an actress (except in the play of life...hahaha...play...life....get it?), I have been able to realize my dream in other ways. In more fulfilling ways. And I couldn't ask for anything more.

Last weekend, I was blessed to share Harding's stage with a few amazing people. How they let me on, I do not know, but I can not express the joy these guys brought me during our rehearsals and performances. And, honestly, as I sat in that trash can picking my nose (don't ask...The Actor's Nightmare, Harding University 2008), I was completely and totally happy.

Thank you guys for letting me, for just a few days, live my dream.

Food for Thought

2008-04-14T18:21:00.007-05:00

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me....I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."Matthew 25:35-36,40

When I think of a food crisis, I think of the lack of Hot Pockets in my freezer or DCB on my student id. As my stomach rumbles in my Human Diversity class, my mind is on what I will eat when I get out in an hour.

Food is far from sparse in my life. I have access to food in my dorm, in the cafeteria, in classrooms, and a block away on the corner of Race Street. Not only do I have the access to food, but I have also never lacked the means of paying for my food. I have never gone more than a day without eating, and I have never experienced hunger so intense that I've been doubled over in pain.

I have never been so hungry that I've eaten mud.

There is a food crisis in Haiti. All around the world, actually. The price of wheat has increased at a rapid rate (120% this year alone), leaving many of the poor spending close to 75% of their income on food (CNN).

These rising prices have led to violent rioting in countries such as Mozambique, Bangledesh, and Egypt. In Haiti, starving people are desperately baking and selling mud cookies in an attempt to find sustenance.

This global food crisis has reached a state of emergency. The Secretary of the United Nations has "warned that the rapidly escalating global food crisis threatens to negate seven years of progress in the fight against poverty" (Telegraph). Seven years! Currently, the World Food Programme is asking the international community for $500 million in emergency funds.

It is so easy sometimes to get caught up in petty dramas. As college students, we are almost wired to focus on ourselves and our own problems. We hear constantly about the priveleges this country affords us and how rich we are and how blessed we are, and we scoff and gripe and say to ourselves, "They don't know how bad we have it." and "What can we do?" and "Why are they always guilting us?"

But you see, here's the thing: We are the future of this world. And whether we like it or not, we are members of this global community.

Maybe we don't have the power to send our leftovers to China. Maybe some of us are struggling financially and lack the means to send monetary support.

Maybe that's not the point.

Maybe it's the attitude that needs to change.

This attitude of selfishness and pride and arrogance. This attitude of "it's not my fault I can eat and they can't."

It's a simple attitude check. An adjustment that only takes a moment. An awareness of the human struggle. A love and compassion for others.

Honestly, I'm at a loss at what to do for the people of Haiti. I have no clue how to help the impoverished of Chicago afford their food.

But maybe I need to start with my outlook.

This morning, I found myself complaining about the quality of food in the cafeteria.

This morning, thousands died from the lack of food in their homeland.

Where sad is bad and happy is cool!

2008-04-08T01:48:00.003-05:00

To make your life a little sweeter and your day a little brighter......

Watch the whole thing...it's worth it!

One and Lonely

2008-03-31T15:45:00.004-05:00

Last Saturday, I went to a luncheon with some high schoolers. I met a couple of junior girls and their friends and asked if I could sit with them. Hey, it shouldn't be an issue, I thought. It's my third year in college. I'm legit. They should be asking to sit with me. So, I waited for their answer. My palms started sweating and my throat became dry. What was the big deal? These girls were almost five years younger than myself.

"Well, we have people sitting there."

"Oh. Ok..."

"But, I guess you could pull up a chair or something."

"Thanks! *initiate Kaitlin babble* I'm really glad you guys came! Where are you from? Do you all know each other? Are you excited about this summer? I know I am!"

Whole table rolls eyes and laughs under their breath. Small talk ends. Kaitlin turns red. Eats sandwich in silence.

I have never been the epitome of cool. In fact, I'm a pretty big dork. And I'm ok with that. I've come to embrace the dorkiness. I am at one with the dorkiness. Most of the time. And, trust me, what happened at lunch didn't scar me for life. It annoyed me a little bit, but nothing more.

So why, a week later, am I still thinking about it?

Fifth grade was the first time I experienced a "lack of acceptance". I remember vividly trying to find a place to sit at lunch, only coming to the conclusion that I would have to eat my "make-your-own pizza" Lunchable at the end of table, near the trashcans. Junior high was a little bit better. I had friends to sit with, and while they'd talk about me behind my back, they would at least let me sit by them. My freshman and sophomore years of high school weren't painful at all, but, unfortunately, church youth group almost became unbearable. I spent a year and a half developing the technique of walking in two minutes before anything started as not to draw attention to myself, either in sitting alone or in leaving alone. When I moved, for the 11th time, during my junior year, I spent a few months eating lunch by myself, and spending the rest of the lunch period in the bathroom---an avoidance technique taught to me by DJ Tanner, herself.

One of my biggest rants about the human race deals with this issue of acceptance. It is an issue of acceptance and compassion and, above all, love. And it hurts me to see that we still can't grasp this concept. We continue to raise up generations of people, girls and boys alike, who clique and gossip and ostracize others. As Christians, we should be at the forefront of the fight against division, rather than the leaders of the dividing parties.

These schools I attended were Christian schools, my youth groups were led by Christian leaders, and yet, my experiences in them were far from Christ's approval. I think there is a tendency to let this issue fall by the wayside. Most people grow up in the same town, go to the same school, attend the same church and say that they never have to deal with the burden of finding acceptance. But, I would propose that this is not true. We all look for acceptance. At times, we all feel left out. And whether a military brat or a lifetime resident, this need to be accepted is great.

I have learned a lot from the experience of moving 13 times. People are not aware. Some people are just plain mean. And many refuse to leave their comfort zones to reach out to the alone and lonely. I have attended numerous churches and many schools, and have found that this trend is not selective to a certain state, city, church, school, or even, religion.

I hear all the time, "We are a welcoming congregation. We are a welcoming youth group. We are a welcoming school." But I still see people sit alone. I still see people eat alone. And as I look around, I still see people crying out for acceptance.

Loneliness permeates the society we live in. And it may just be the human condition to feel alone and, as one of my friends said to me recently, like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. But just because this feeling is normal, does not mean that this feeling should be ignored. Why do we let people around us feel like this? Why do we continue to divide and clique and ignore, while people's hearts are crying out for love and acceptance?

If Christians are having a hard time being accepted by other Christians, what does that mean for non-Christians? How can we preach Christ's salvation for all, if we can't even get along with "our own"? Honestly, if I were searching for the Truth, I wouldn't want to look for it sitting by myself.

Comfort zones are difficult to cross and barriers are hard to break. But this doesn't excuse the lack of trying. At the risk of sounding rude, I believe we need to get over ourselves and start reaching out. We miss out on so many opportunities to serve the Lord when we are so inwardly focused. While we work on building our social networks or comparing our club jerseys or finding the "one" or just acting cool, there are people all around us sitting alone, longing for someone to reach out to them.

Christ calls us to be champions of the friendless. He implores us to be a people of acceptance and unity. We should not be known as an exclusive people, but as a people whose table is open to all!

"We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. Each of us should please his neighbor for his good, to build him up.... May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you a spirit of unity among yourselves as you follow Christ Jesus, so that with one heart and mouth you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God." Romans 15:1-7

It's a Beautiful New Day..ay..ay...ay....

2008-03-28T01:18:00.005-05:00

I'm working on updating.

In the meantime.....

Stand in the Rain

2008-03-16T02:34:00.012-05:00

On Thanksgiving day, when I was about six, we made our traditional trek over to Cracker Barrel. My mouth had begun watering for some fried chicken tenders with steak fries and ranch dressing (still my favorite meal at the Barrel). On that particular day, though, everyone and their dog had the same idea. Our wait time was easily two hours.(Which just goes to show all you naysayers that many people enjoy Cracker Barrel on Thanksgiving...) A two hour wait time! If any of you know my father well, you know that when struck with hunger, his sweet, sensitive side takes on a more sinister personality. When this happens, you better get him food and get him food quick! Number one rule in the Hardy household: Never come between a Hardy and his food. But even after 6 years, I had not fully grasped that concept. After all, my mouth was watering. No restaurant had chicken like Cracker Barrel, let alone the delicious ranch dressing to dip it in. I had been so excited! So, as my increasingly ravenous Dad motioned for us to leave, I decided to calmly and maturely express my feelings towards his decision.

I planted my feet to the ground and burst into angry tears. Boy, did I wail! That shows him, I thought. Doesn't he know that no one comes between a Hardy and her food? But as I sobbed in the middle of the rock candy aisle, I looked up into the face of my hungry, military officer father.

He stooped down, looked me in the eye, and quietly asked, "What are you crying about?"

Gulp. "I'm sad for all the little boys and girls in the world who don't get a Thanksgiving dinner."

Quick recovery, if I do say so myself. I'm still pretty proud of that one....

I do not like crying. And I would rather drink a whole tub of vinegar than cry in front of people. There are many reasons for this.

Crying is a very ugly affair. Because I'm an only child and I take things to the very extreme, my tears do not fall gently or roll sweetly down my face, but, instead, drop as rather snotty and blotchy bursts of salty wetness that make my eyes puffy and my lips swell with redness.

Crying invites vulnerability. I don't like to feel vulnerable. I don't know any girl who does. Our hearts are fragile enough without adding any extra "softness" to them. And heaven forbid our tears be chalked up to "hormones" or "being over-dramatic." That's the absolutely last thing a girl wants to hear when she's shedding tears.

Crying hurts. Now, I am a firm believer in the healing powers of a good cry. I've even put them to very good use this week. But that refreshed feeling only comes after a good cry. The actual crying itself is a painful process. Just as the events or feelings or instances leading up to the cry are painful. And I'm a wimp. So, logic follows that I would hate something that brings me pain.

I can handle crying in my room. I am "fine" with crying alone. It is the public crying that makes me tremble in fear and run away in shame. I can think of only a few times I've cried in public. I'm not talking about the sensitive cry at a movie or the happy cry at a joke, but the total and complete cry at a stinky situation or a horrible, no good, very bad day. The kind of cry you are trying to save for the privacy of your room, but a comment or look from someone opens the floodgates a little earlier than expected. The embarrassing cry.

Moving from Hawaii to D.C., I cried from the security gate all the way to California. I remember crying once in the Ladies bathroom at church, and since I've been at Harding, twice in the Student Center.

I know it must seem weird that I remember these times so vividly. It must seem even weirder that I have such issues with showing these emotions in public places. But, I have a feeling that I am not alone in this. I have a feeling that many of my friends would agree with me.

This past week, I've thought a lot about the action of crying. And, as whenever I need some major comfort, I've thought a lot about my Big Brother.

"When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled...Jesus wept." John 11:33,35

There are many stories in the Bible that elicit my respect for Jesus. But this one completely blows my mind. Because here, Jesus deals with one of my biggest fears. He weeps. Completely breaks down. He doesn't have Garden of Gethsemane type privacy. He is surrounded by people, strangers and friends alike, and he just loses it. I'd like to think that Jesus' tears did not fall gently or sweetly. I'd like to think that it was an ugly, vulnerable, painful, Kaitlin-type cry.

What an example!

There are times when the only comfort I can find is knowing that Christ has felt exactly the same way as myself. And no matter how many times I fall or break down, even in public, He is always beside me, holding me up, drying my tears.

It's taken me a while to realize the implications of this. That it is alright for me to be vulnerable. That not only is Christ standing with me, but He has also put friends in my life who could care less about what I look like when I cry, and more about how long I'll let them hug me as I cry on their shoulder.

And I want them to know that I am grateful for their shoulders and I promise that mine will be there whenever they need it.

I Feel a Breeze Cover Me Called Jehovah.....

2008-03-14T15:52:00.006-05:00

There is a song by tobyMac that I absolutely adore. This song is "that" song for me. It is the song that I blast the volume to in my room, the song that I play on repeat over and over again during "those" days. For some reason, it just makes me feel better...no matter what ridiculous stuff I'm dealing with at the moment.

I'm working the front desk right now, listening to this beautiful song. Sometimes, I wish there was a soundtrack that could constantly play in my head. Something that when I'm suffering through classes, feeling sick, or worrying about life, I can press play and hear the encouraging lyrics and uplifting music of some of my favorite artists.

Of course, I could see how this would be problematic at times. I'm sure my teachers might refer me to counseling if they saw me rocking out during a test, and I'm positive my friends would disown me if they heard me randomly humming during a breakdown. But, still, it would be nice to constantly hear these words and feel the comfort of these tunes during the most trying of times, and not only after the fact.

Music is such a mysterious and beautiful friend. It evokes emotion and relates to the deepest part of one's spirit. The power of music constantly amazes me. I know I rarely count music as a blessing from God, but as I think about it, I can not imagine a life without music.

Especially today.

Thank you Lord for music.

I pray that I can rock out to the soundtrack of my life next week.

Ballooning Hope

2008-03-11T21:15:00.003-05:00

Watch more DIY videos on 5min.com

Paradise is....

2008-03-10T15:32:00.010-05:00

Playing "Go Fish"

Kisses on the cheek

Holding babies

Playing pranks

Painting pews

Shaking hands

Hugging

Improvisational rapping

Sharing Shave Ice

Looking for sea glass

Drinking from coconut monkeys

Singing off-key

Reading "Is Your Mama a Llama?"

Spraying away roaches

Clapping for sunsets

Swinging on vines

Looking for shooting stars

Praying for enemies

Feeding a James

Snorkeling

Eating potato skins with a favorite friend

Hula Pie

Talking until 4 o'clock in the morning

Dancing in the car

Garlic

Teaching....and learning

Getting pied in the face...or watching it

Naming sea turtles

Host Families

Junior High...Ho....

Losing terribly in Mario Kart

Purple shirts

Listening to good music

Old friends

Hospitality

Chicken Katsu and Banana Lumpia

Middle School boys

Mini Toy Helicopters

Commissary trips

HUH?

Blue skies

Figuring out middle names

Intentional leadership

Lion-mane paint brushes

Leptospirosis...or the lack thereof

Free doctors and funny policemen

"Alooooooha"

Wonderful churches and the beautiful people in them

Mahalo nui loa! What a wonderful ohana you all have been to me. Let's do it again. Soon.

All God is Saying....

2008-02-27T01:25:00.002-06:00

"Consider the blameless, observe the upright; there is a future for the man of peace."
Psalm 37:37

"Too long I have lived among those who hate peace. I am a man of peace; but when I speak, they are for war."
Psalm 120:6-7

"When a man's ways are pleasing to the Lord, he makes even his enemies live at peace with him."
Proverbs 16:7

"The fruit of righteousness will be peace; the effect of righteousness will be quietness and confidence forever."
Isaiah 32:17

"How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, "Your God reigns!"
Isaiah 52:7

"This is what the LORD Almighty says: "The fasts of the fourth, fifth, seventh and tenth months will become joyful and glad occasions and happy festivals for Judah. Therefore love truth and peace."
Zechariah 8:19

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God."
Matthew 5:9

"You know the message God sent to the people of Israel, telling the good news of peace through Jesus Christ, who is Lord of all."
Acts 10:36

"The mind of sinful man is death, but the mind controlled by the Spirit is life and peace."
Romans 8:6

"If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone."
Romans 12:18

"Let us therefore make every effort to do what leads to peace and to mutual edification." Romans 14:19

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law."
Galatians 5:22-23

"Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace."
Ephesians 4:3

"For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross."
Colossians 1:19-20

"Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful."
Colossians 3:15

"Hold them in the highest regard in love because of their work. Live in peace with each other."
1 Thessalonians 5:13

"Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good, to slander no one, to be peaceable and considerate, and to show true humility toward all men."
Titus 3:1-2

"Make every effort to live in peace with all men and to be holy; without holiness no one will see the Lord."
Hebrews 12:14

"But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere."
James 3:17

"Peacemakers who sow in peace raise a harvest of righteousness."
James 3:18

"He must turn from evil and do good; he must seek peace and pursue it."
1 Peter 3:11

Mahna Mahna Christianity

2008-02-24T00:14:00.017-06:00

During the spring of my senior year, our family hosted a girl from Argentina. Juli was a joy to have in our house and during the two months she lived with us, we became great friends. At that time, I was taking my fourth year of Spanish and struggling (what else is new?) to comprehend the language. Juli, who wanted to practice her English, decided that I would speak to her in Spanish and she would respond in English. Of course, her English was very advanced and my Spanish was, in the words of someone somewhere, "muy mal"....or something to that effect.

Since I'm an only child (i.e. stubborn), our conversations usually ended up like this:

Juli: "How are you?"
Me: "Comer."
Juli: "Where do you want to eat?"
Me: "....McDonald's."

Me: "Dormir."
Juli: "I was thinking of taking a nap as well."

Juli: "Did you have a good day today?"
Me: "Soy feliz."
Julie: "It's 'estoy' not 'soy'."
Me: "........Wanna get some ice cream?"

And it would go on like that for a while. One day, Juli had enough. She looked at me, rolled her eyes, and sighed.

"Kaitlin, what if I spoke like that to you? You'd never get to know my personality. If I was hungry, I'd just say "To Eat" and if I was tired, I'd just say "To Sleep". When you come to Argentina, I want my family to know the real you, not the "comer" you."

"Lo siento, Juli.....Hablar mejor..."

What can I say? I will forever be an only child.

Juli still teases me about this moment and I still respond with infinitives. But is that only the case with Spanish? Have I gotten into this communication habit? I was thinking about this as I sat in church today. When talking about Jesus, do I speak in infinitives?

I think Christians have the tendency to do this.

"Those are lost souls."

"I was bought by the blood of Jesus"

"Are you born-again?"

"He has fallen away."

If we want to communicate effectively with those whose language is foreign to the Bible or to the church, we can't speak in infinitives.

Many times, that's all these statements are. To outsiders, the Christ-language is nothing more than a group of infinitives, lacking the personality, lacking the zeal, lacking the honesty of adjectives or nouns.

Let me pose to you the same question Juli posed to me those years ago. What if Jesus spoke like that? What if, instead of:

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:28-30

the passage read:

"Accept me into your heart and come into the fold." or, for the sake of my illustration, "Sent to comfort you."

What a difference.

These words we use are not untrue. When I told Juli "comer", I literally said, "to eat" or "eating". The meaning was as real as my hunger. "Comer" definitely means "to eat". Just as if I said to a non-Christian that I was bought by the blood of Jesus. That is unequivocally true. But as Juli would wonder what I wanted to eat, how hungry I was, and if I was speaking in the past, present or future, so that non-Christian would wonder what in the world I meant. With what were you bought? How much did it cost? Who is this Jesus?

That's the danger in using infinitives. A lot of things are left out. A lot of things are assumed. Important things.

After about a two-minute conversation using infinitives, Juli and I would stop speaking Spanish. Conversations like that don't last long because they're frustrating and pointless.

I wonder if that's the reason I've had a hard time with evangelism. Am I trying to carry on long conversations in only infinitives?

I wonder if that's the reason some churches are having a hard time "reaching the lost". Are they trying to build relationships out of infinitives?

I believe there are four "axioms" (thank you, Dr. Cox) to communicating a new language successfully. These apply to every language, but, I think, especially to our Christ-language.

1) Practice.
I hear it makes perfect. While we won't always be perfect in our efforts to show others the love of Jesus, we have to get out there and try!

2) Leave your comfort zone.
For me, this is the scariest part of the Christian walk. (It's also the scariest part of my Spanish walk.) I struggle daily with finding the courage to begin a conversation about Christ. I'm always afraid I'll say the wrong thing.

3) Allow for mistakes.
Man, this is a doozy for me. This is one of the reasons I am so hesitant about speaking Spanish. I want to be perfect, so instead of practicing or leaving my comfort zone, I sit in my room and study the technique or the formal rules. Theory doesn't produce results. Practice does. I can't be so caught up in whether I'll say the right thing or have the proper "Christian" response. I need to be genuine. God will work through that.

4) Let your true spirit shine through.
Juli called it "personality". God calls it "gentleness"(Phil 4:5). But it is the one thing that will make your message permeate the hearts of those who hear it.

Being a Christ-follower is not about infinitives, but about a personal relationship with Jesus.

"Guard the treasure you were given! Guard it with your life. Avoid the talk-show religion and the practiced confusion of the so-called experts. People caught up in a lot of talk can miss the whole point of faith. Overwhelming grace keep you!" 1 Timothy 6:20-21

What really gets on my nerves....

2008-02-21T22:13:00.007-06:00

I usually don't write about things that happen to me during the day (usually, things don't happen to me exciting enough to write about). But, today, something happened that I think needs my commentary.

And I think precious few things need my commentary.

Quit smirking. And laughing. And saying things under your breath.

I figure you get tired of my long, drawn out "essays", so this time I decided to put it in poem format. Or ballad format depending how long your attention span is. I did this for you. My peeps.

Enjoy.

"All Washed Up"

The University that I attend,
Finds many a way to frustrate me.
While on wedding rooms, my money it spend,
I trek miles to do my laundry.

Down two flights of stairs I carry my clothes,
Stumbling through the Sears parking lot,
While the rain soaks and freezes my toes,
For matching and clean socks I have not.

Already I am annoyed with the fact,
That it is such a struggle to clean.
I'm grumpy and tired--wet as a cat,
Feeling perfectly ready to scream.

Here is the crux of my lame little poem,
The one point that you need to understand.
Watching the basin fill up with soap foam,
I turn to find some girl with her man.

See, this pet peeve of mine may seem quite trite.
But, really, it's not hard to explain.
I scamper to move some clothes out of sight,
He sees something that causes me pain.

'Cause out of my arms, embarrassment fell.
As it lay pink in front of his feet,
I blushed and hid and wanted to shrink.
I felt small as he laughed to his sweet.

Oh, weren't they just too cute, the two lovebirds---
The girl doing his laundry for him?
I glared as I tried to say some choice words,
Like "I'm so sorry. Let me get them."

So if you're a girl and you have a man,
And you want to act like his mother.
Go ahead, wash his clothes, don't take a stand,
But don't do it with one another.

It is to a girl's laundry room I go,
The East Married's is not far from here.
So next time you want to wash your man's clothes,
Please go over there with your Cheer. (Or Tide. Or Gain.)

Telly Monster Duet

2008-02-20T16:16:00.003-06:00

At times, when I should be doing homework, I don't. And this is what I find.

You're welcome.

A Beautiful Part...In this World

2008-02-17T23:14:00.007-06:00

Tom Hanks is beautiful.

Really. He is.

My love for this actor and his work runs deeper than my love for napping. And snacking. And snacking before napping. Now that's big time for me.

You see, I have developed a major appreciation for Tom Hanks over the years. My friends might say that's a bit of an understatement, but I digress. The point is, I am very fond of Mr. Hanks.

I was ten years old when That Thing You Do! came to theaters. I became obsessed with that movie. Even more so, its genius director, writer, and actor. His talent was only encapsulated by his beauty. At least, that's how he appeared to my ten-year-old brain.

For about 11 years now, I have loved, to the very core of my celebrity-loving abilities, Tom Hanks. His movies have always served as inspiration to me (as much as movies can) and I am able to quote most of them by heart. He is the kind of actor who appeals to everybody.

Don't believe me?

Love love? Watch "Sleepless in Seattle".

Have an enemy of the opposite gender? Watch "You've Got Mail".

Dog aficionado, perhaps? "Turner and Hooch" is calling you.

Diagnosed with a brain cloud? "Joe Vs. the Volcano" will tell you how to live life.

And those aren't even his best. I could write posts and posts on the awesomeness of Tom Hanks. The healing powers of movies he's been in such as "The Terminal" or "Apollo 13" or "Saving Private Ryan" or "Forrest Gump" or even the iconic "Toy Story 2".

But, unfortunately, there are heretics that exist in this world who would disagree with me.

"I went back and examined his look over the years and stumbled across a weird phenomenon. Tom Hanks has bad hair. Go back and look at his early career and you’ll see he has some of the worst chops this side of...Rosie O’Donnell. But then, as if by magic, the hair got better when he started winning Oscars. And then it got wild again after he had got carte blanche as an actor. He’s had a tremendously up and down hair career. It’s as if sometimes his hair is in control of his career and sometimes not. Tom Hanks’s Hair (To which will now be referred to as “THH”.) is its own being, working independent of Tom Hanks the actor, to carve out a place in history for itself. A place where white guy afros are considered high couture, and poofy bangs are beloved." (http://www.thejay.com/2006/05/17/grading-the-career-of-tom-hankss-hair/)

Can you believe the audacity of this guy t.....wait....why are you laughing? You find this funny? You...You think he has a point?

It strikes me, as I hear my virtual audience giggling at my Tommy-Tom's choices in hairstyle, that not everyone finds him beautiful.

I was talking to my friend the other day, and she said that having a crush on Tom Hanks is like having a crush on Danny Devito. Ouch.

Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder.

We can all laugh at jokes about Tom Hanks hair (well, most of us can) and we can all make jokes about fashion faux pas.

But what happens when it hits closer to home?

Last Thursday, I went to Spanish class. Most of my good friends know that this class gives me major heartburn. This time was no exception.

We were reviewing vocabulary over hair. Long hair, short hair, curly hair, and straight hair.

"Which way do you part your hair?" asked my teacher.

She went down the line as my three other classmates responded. To the right. To the left. To the right.

"Do you part it down the middle?" she asked.

A resounding "No" came from all three girls as they did that infamous nose scrunch and shook their heads violently.

"No you don't. How do you say, 'Very Ugly' in Spanish? MAS FEA!" exclaimed my teacher.

She turned to me and said, "How do you part your hair?"

"Um...Sometimes to the right.....um......sometimes to the left.....haha......um.....sometimes....not at all?" I replied, silently thanking God that I had the foresight to put my hair in a ponytail that day.

Because, you see, no one ever told me that parting my hair the middle was ugly. I've been doing my hair that way for a very long time. And I've liked it. Yet, just a little five-minute conversation in broken Spanish took me from feeling good about myself to a place where self-esteem does not dare to enter. A place where thoughts become dark and mirrors become avoidable at all costs.

Isn't funny how we judge beauty?

Isn't funny how we are so driven by looks?

I would like to propose that true beauty is in the eye of the Beholder.

And I thank Him for that.

I have very beautiful friends. These girls are just overflowing in the beauty department. Not only in appearance, but more importantly, in spirit. They have a love for God that radiates in their face and a joy for life that is more beautiful than any model or actress on this planet. But, sometimes, they don't see it.

It hurts my heart to know that these, in the words of the Bruce Almighty protagonist, B-E-A-UTIFUL girls feel ugly. Feel worthless. Feel like they'll "never get a guy" because they aren't "pretty". It hurts my heart because it's not true. It hurts my heart because, the truth is, as much as one tries to build self esteem, there will always be people trying to knock it down. It hurts my heart, because I have felt exactly the same way. Even as I write this, I can't seem to shake the feeling that my Spanish class left me with.

It is hard, sometimes, to remember what true beauty is. It is even harder to feel beautiful when you become your biggest critic. It is hard to feel beautiful when you compare yourself to others, especially when the "you" that you are comparing isn't the "you" that God sees or your friends see, but a fake "you" that Satan is encouraging you to see. You see?

Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder.

"How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news, who proclaim peace, who bring good tidings, who proclaim salvation, who say to Zion, 'Your God reigns!'" Isaiah 52:7

"'Leave her alone,' said Jesus. 'Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me.'" Mark 14:6

"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them." Genesis 1:27

Promise me that you'll remember each other's beauty this week.

Promise me that you'll remember your beauty this week.

Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder.

And I have a feeling He doesn't judge it by the type of hair part you have...

Great Whacking Things, Skis....

2008-02-13T16:34:00.008-06:00

Tomorrow, Friday, and Saturday nights, Harding University presents Agatha Christie's "The Mousetrap." As it's a murder mystery set in 1950's England, a good time will be had by all.

Four Things You Should DEFINITELY Know about "The Mousetrap"

1) It's a play. In the Ulrey Performing Arts Center. Grab a map, find a friend, and trek on over.

2) It's set in England, but we don't have English accents in our version. Get over it and pretend we do. And please come support the arts. Since I asked so very nicely...

3) I sing. Really, I do.

4) I can't tell you who the murderer is. Ever. Even if you don't come. And you wouldn't want to feel all left out, would you? Be cool...come to the show.

I have been honored to call myself a member of this cast. I want to thank my beautiful director, Amanda, and my genius stage-manager, Courtney, and my AMAZING friends in the show for letting me be a part of this experience. I have learned so much from you all...not only have I become a better actor because of you, but, more importantly, a better person. So, I accept this Oscar with gratitude and....oh...wait...I got carried away with myself. (And I guess it would be a Tony. Or is it, a Heisman? Anyway, Hi Mom!)

So, all of you other people out there, come and be a part of the magic.

Or else.

"The Mousetrap"
7:00 pm, Ulrey Performing Arts Center
Feb 14, 15, 16

A Perfect Failure

2008-02-12T14:55:00.000-06:00

What is it about failure?

I'm going to be very honest here. I don't like failure. It makes me cringe. If there's something I think I'm not good at, I won't even try it. Practice makes perfect, and if I'm not perfect after a few practices, I just want to give up.

Good plan, right? Giving up. Not trying. Striving for perfection all the time.

Because, hey, it should be easy for me to achieve perfection. I mean, it's not like I'm human or anything. I should be perfect at everything. Heaven forbid anyone sees me mess up. Heaven forbid I appear normal.

What is it about failure?

Many of my friends know that I don't like singing in front of people. When I do sing, I try to make it very silly and especially horrible. You see, I dread using my real voice. I have a very real fear (real to the point of shaking violently) of someone hearing my singing voice and cringing...or, even worse, laughing. I think I can trace this fear back to the 7th grade. I was given a solo in our Christmas production for our "little brothers and sisters" (the 1st graders). I was to sing "Silent Night". During one of our practices, I heard one of my "friends" make the comment that she didn't know why I got a solo, when I couldn't even sing. The next day, during the production, my teacher waved for me to start.

"Si-i-lent Nigggghtt, Ho-o-ly Niggght, all is cal-lm, all is....*ugh*"

That *ugh* was me throwing up. That's right, I didn't even get through the first verse. I threw up in front of my class, my teachers, and the whole First Grade. I went home, telling them I was sick. And I was...kind of.

Do you know what that kind of experience does to a middle-school girl?

I didn't really sing in front of people again. I couldn't. I was too scared, too worried about what people were saying about my voice. A voice, that, with practice, probably wouldn't sound as awful as I think it sounds. But, even now, practically eight years later, I can not bring myself to sing...really sing...in front of people.

What is it about failure?

As a military kid, I've had to move a lot. Thirteen times to be exact. A person that only stays in a place for three years or less is required to make some relationship adjustments. Because of this, I couldn't afford take my sweet time in making friends. If I wanted any social interaction, my friendships had to form quickly. Therefore, the level of intimacy I strived to maintain with my friends was one that would make it easier for me to leave them.

Don't misunderstand me.

I don't mean our friendships weren't deep, or that I didn't miss my friends when I left. There are so many people I've met and made friendships with that my heart still longs for. But, when making friends, I always had to take into consideration how long I was going to be there. One year friendships don't leave a lot of room for failure. If I didn't hold back, if I had let people see my insecurities or failures, I wouldn't have had the "make-up" time always required in a relationship. The "I'm sorry, forgive me for being stupid" time...

People always try to make great first impressions. For me, I felt that "the first impression stage" had to last the whole time I was living in a place. I didn't want the friendship to fail, so I tried to be a perfect friend. (Not saying I succeeded...)

What is it about failure?

I've come to a realization over the past few years: I can't be perfect. I know this doesn't shock you, especially those of you who know me, but it was kind of a heavy blow for me to deal with. I couldn't understand how to cope with failure.

And I'm still working on it...

I was reading John the other day while thinking about this. It was a passage I've read often, but, for some reason, it stood out to me this particular time.

"Then he said to him, 'Follow me!'" John 21:19b

Pretty straightforward, right? Jesus asking someone to follow him. Nothing out of the ordinary. But when I look at the context, I can't help marveling at my Savior. Peter had betrayed Jesus three times---talk about some major failure. But Jesus didn't focus on the failure. He focused on the future. He didn't tell Peter to give up or to stop "singing"; he told Peter to follow Him. He wasn't concerned with Peter's perfection. He was concerned with Peter's commitment.

That says something to me. Maybe I shouldn't strive for perfection, but instead, commitment. If I do things to the best of my ability, if I try my hardest, if I remain committed, even when I fail, I don't need to be perfect.

Because, in the grand scheme of things, I already am.

"Because by one sacrifice, he has made perfect forever those who are being made holy." Hebrews 10:14

Oh, by the way, I failed my Spanish test today. Can anyone commit to tutoring me?

Talk about the Kaitie! Talk about the Kaitie!

2008-02-10T15:40:00.000-06:00

Today's your lucky day, because today I'm going to share something deep and insightful about myself. Some little known fact that will make you better people for hearing it, and as it inspires you to feed the poor and plant daisies, you'll comment on how glad you were to read this post. And then you'll plant some more daisies out of sheer joy. Because daisies are my favorite flower. But that's not the fact....

Are you ready for this?

Little Known Fact #34: Kaitlin likes to talk. A lot.

I didn't mean to shock anyone with that exciting new revelation! I know it must be so weird to hear that from quiet ole' me. But as unbelievable as it is to all of you, as you alert the newspapers and The Ellen Show, let me assure you that it is quite true!

And it began at a very early age.

Of course, as an only child, I had to talk incessantly. It was in my nature. I talked to Bobby and Goggy, my imaginary friends. I talked to Glowie, my Glowworm. I talked to the mirrors at department stores (Don't judge me, you normal kids with your siblings and your friends and your normalcy). I talked to myself. And, of course, I talked to my parents. My poor, poor parents. I would talk to them for hours on end. (Well, that's what they get for just having one kid...or come to think of it, maybe that's why they only ever had one kid... )

Anyway, my parents were very smart. Whenever I would "bless" them with a particularly long spiel about my socks or regale them with last night's dream about Big Bird, they'd pull into McDonald's, and ask if I wanted an ice cream cone. That'd shut me up for about thirty minutes. And thirty minutes of silence from me is like pure gold (precious and rare). Ask any of my friends.

I remember one especially long road trip from our home in Northern California down to San Diego. My parents had put my dear Gran Jean in the backseat with me, and during the whole ride down and the whole ride back, I tortured her with my new Christmas present: a Talkgirl. Oh, I loved that thing dearly. I could talk in it to my heart's content, and then, wonder of wonders, play it back to myself. It was an only child's dream! I could hear myself over and over: in slow motion--sped up--distorted. I think I went through four whole cassette tapes, Sides A and B.

Oh, yes, I loved to talk. And I still do. (Sorry, Mom and Dad, that ice cream thing is what we professionals like to call operant conditioning and it means you only encouraged more talking).

Here's where I run in to trouble. Not only do I like to talk, and not only do I talk a lot, but I often talk about nothing.

I secretly admire those people who can talk for hours on end as they solve the world's problems or ponder the meaning of life or analyze the psychosocial issues surrounding the world and its problems and its life. I admire them because the only thing I analyze is the psychosocial issues surrounding the next Monk episode, and the only meaning I try to discover is the meaning of the Dollar menu at Wendy's. Yes, I am a talker, but sometimes, I really do do it just to hear my head rattle!

Because of this, I am not widely known for my intellectually stimulating conversations. Philosophy has never really been my forte. And, a lot of times, I feel lost and shy around those who talk with a purpose. (Those whose points consist of actual logic and research instead of television quotes and chicken nuggets.)

See, here's my problem: I've developed "talker anxiety". When I actually have something important to say, I get tongue tied. I can't think of anything at all. Or, even worse, I develop the dreaded babble. This also happens to me around those I want to impress, those in authority, such as teachers, or, even worse, around...gulp...boys!

This anxiety gripped me Friday afternoon, in Bible class. Dr. Cox asked me if I felt any better. "You're the one who passed this on to everyone else in the class, aren't you?" He kidded me...

*Warning* You are about to read a very tragic account of someone who fell victim to "talker anxiety" and developed the babble. Reader discretion advised.

I laughed, coughed, laughed again, and said, "Yeah, I'm pretty generous like that. Just like Santa Claus. *snort, giggle, snort*"

Just like...Santa Claus? Oh, how charming, Kait. That was real smooth. And not corny at all.

These things happen to me all the time. Unfortunately.

Oh, how I wish there was a cure for this. "Talker anxiety" is an awful curse for those us who enjoy talking almost more than breathing. Since we talk more than the average person, we experience these embarrassing moments more than the average person. A lot more!

Praise be to God that my "talker anxiety" doesn't get in the way of my prayers. Praise be to Him that I will always come across as a smooth, clever Daughter when I speak to Him...even if I sound like a babbling idiot to everyone else!

"Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good." Romans 8:26-28 (MSG)

If only the Holy Spirit would speak on my behalf all the time...

Sign me up for the "Rock of Love"

2008-02-06T23:39:00.000-06:00

I've been in bed with the flu and bronchitis this week, so I've had a lot of down time. I've gotten pretty good at filling my days with the important things, such as sleeping and eating, and sleeping again. But, sometimes, after being tired of all that sleeping, I've taken much needed breaks by channel surfing.

Recently, I've taken to watch a little show called "Rock of Love". Now, I am not proud of this media choice, and as a general disclaimer to any blog reader, I do not recommend this show. Let's just chalk it up to high fever and some intense drugs. That being said, this show, for some train-wreck of a reason, is very addictive. VH1 always has always had that going for their shows, for just like "Flavor of Love" or "I Love New York" or "Flavor of Love 2", this network thrives in producing quirky "girl meets weird boy and makes fool of herself to win weird boy's heart" kind of shows.

"Rock of Love" follows rock "star" Bret Michaels on his deep, soulful journey for love...or, really, just some arm candy. It is an inane show with little plot and girls running around, completing "challenges" that really just sell their body. As Bret takes each girl on a special "date", he attempts to get to know her on a deeper level (to see if she's compatible). Usually, this "deeper level" requires a lot of kissing and handholding.

Even my summary of this show lacks any redemptive or forgiving quality. The show stinks. I sit there, unable to change the channel, wondering what on earth broke in these women that make them so easy. How can they sell themselves for such a low price? Of course, I'm not ignorant, I realize that a lot of it is an act and the money they receive from VH1 far outweighs the shame of throwing themselves on Bret Michaels. But, still, I wonder, what is it that popular culture is teaching my peers (and those younger than me) about love?

Love is cheap.

Love is fickle.

Love is demanding.

Love is flesh.

Love is desire.

Love is jealousy.

Love is greedy.

And so on, and so on, and so on.

As a girl (or lady, as Harding chooses to label me), I have seen my share of "Rock of Love" type love. I'm sure you all have. This "love" that I'm talking about is a superficial love, a love for the game, a love for the flesh. It is a love that fails and a love that never conquers. It is a love that only lasts ten episodes.

What I wish more than anything is that we embrace a true "Rock of Love" type love. Not VH1 style, but New Testament style. Because true love only begins at the "Rock" of Love. True love begins with Jesus.

I hear a lot of people say that they will never find anyone to love them. And it's hard to feel any differently when surrounded by such superficial examples such as Bret Michaels and Flava Flav, when raised in a culture of broken homes and influenced by those who have given up on love altogether. It's hard to feel differently when one's life experiences have lacked love and when one's only example was that of hate and derision. Why even look for the "Rock of Love" when you have no gear available to climb it?

It is hard, even for me, who has been blessed by great examples of love, to accept so freely the love given to me by Jesus. Even then, it is harder to show that love to others. Or, even, to believe that I will receive that love from others. So how much more difficult is it for my friends, who have suffered broken homes? Or my acquaintances, who have never felt love in their lives? I can not imagine...

I wish I had the words to comfort. I wish, as I'm sitting here, disgusted by the antics of Bret Michaels and his posse, that I could figure out how to teach everyone what "true love" means. But, I realize, that is not my specialty. I can not explain the wondrous love of Jesus scientifically...it just is. All I can do is promise those out there, those who don't feel loved, those who feel as if they'll never be loved, those who don't understand love, those who don't trust love, or, even those who don't love, all I can do is promise that Jesus' love is fulfilling. He is the ROCK on which love thrives.

You haven't loved until you've loved with Jesus.

I know I am guilty of forgetting this at times. Sometimes, watching reality shows or listening to marriage propaganda in chapel (disclaimer: I'm sure it's not propaganda, it just really feels like it a lot of the time), I forget about The Rock of Love and begin wondering if joining the next episode of VH1's "Rock of Love" is the answer...

But here's the difference between the two: THE Rock of Love teaches true love.

Love is patient.

Love is kind.

Love is not proud.

Love is not rude.

Love is not self-seeking.

Love is not easily angered.

Love keeps no record of wrongs.

Love never fails.

Here's the great thing about true love, a love that all of us have access to and love that all of us are capable of giving: "It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres" (1 Cor 13:7).

As next week rolls around, as Valentine's Day approaches, as marriage talks are being planned in chapel, as Bret Michaels chooses who to give his VIP pass to, always remember the Rock of Love.

And share it with those around you.

When you say "I love you", first remember 1 Corinthians 13 and act like it!

Finally, don't be discouraged. Don't be dismayed. Because there is Someone who really does love you, and way more than a rock star ever could!

Matthew, Mark Berdin, Luke, and John....

2008-02-02T23:26:00.001-06:00

During the 6th, 7th, and 8th grades, I attended St. Elizabeth's Catholic School in Aiea, Hawaii. Our principal was a little Filipino nun named Sr. Mark Berdin. Sister Mark was a very sweet and dynamic person. She always had time to talk with her students, and she always seemed interested in the welfare of her school. But it was her name that really set her apart! Sister Mark Berdin. It just rolled off the tongue. "Sister Mark Berdin, can you help me with my algebra? Sister Mark Berdin, can you play basketball with us at recess?" Ok, so we never really played basketball at recess and I didn't start algebra until my freshman year of high school, but the point is, we liked the name.

What is it that makes a name so important? I have a song about my name that my parents taught me when I was younger. Now, everytime someone spells my name wrong, I sing them the "K-A-I-T-L-I-N Song". My name has to be spelled right; I will not accept a "y" as a substitute for the "i" or a "c" as a substitute for the "k". For some reason, I feel that when my name is spelled wrong, it really isn't my name anymore. When my name is spelled wrong, it isn't ME anymore.

I can not imagine changing my name. At this point in my life, I am bound to Kaitlin. I am not a Brittney or Rebecca or Delilah. I am Kaitlin. The name is part of me. So when I think about my nun teachers or my priest acquaintances, I wonder how they felt about such a drastic change in their lives. Sr. Mark wasn't always Sr. Mark. But, after she took her vows, she changed her name, which, really, reflected a change in her lifestyle. She adopted Mark's name...a Biblical character with an enviable relationship with Jesus. And I'm sure that name change represented something much more than a superficial alteration on her birth certificate. It represented a new identity...a new life.

A name is important for many reasons. First, it provides definition. The quickest way to identify someone is by using their name. "That's Tom Hanks standing over there waiting to meet you." See, the name makes the sentence mean something. Consider the difference, "There's a man standing over there waiting to meet you." It doesn't do the same thing for me...what about you? Second, a person's name becomes synonymous with a person's character. This is a slow process, one that develops over time and throughout one's life. What do these names mean to you? Hitler. Churchill. Jesus. Ghandi. Their names have become more than letters, but symbols of their influence on the world.

Does the name make the man? No, the man makes the name. But what happens when the name becomes, to use "old-school" wording, besmirched? Think about someone you don't like. What happens when you hear their name? Do you cringe? Do you only remember what they've done to you or how they've wronged you? All those feelings brought on by a simple mixing of letters.

I wonder if that's how God felt about us. My name, Kaitlin, was the name of a sinner. Someone who had turned her back on God, who had totally left His presence. While I'm sure God loved me very much, my name, as a sinner, couldn't have been very pleasing to that Holy Ear. But when I decided to return to those saving arms, he changed all that. My name was no longer the name of a sinner, but the name of a Christ-follower. My name was Christian.

God takes names very seriously. When He changes a name, He changes a person. This is shown throughout most of our Scripture. From Abraham to Paul, God has demonstrated that the name-change is a spirit-change as well.

Does this hold true today? Do I, newly named "Christian", show a spirit-change? Do I live up to my God-given name?

The beautiful thing about the grace of God is that my name "Kaitlin", once a name of a sinner, is now "Kaitlin", the name of one redeemed. But my name is also "Christian" and I share that with a whole body of believers. So when I leave my room in the morning, I'm not only representing myself and the Lord, but also everyone who shares my name. It brings more clarity to the theology of being "one body". We have ONE name and that name is what unites us. That name indicates possession: As Christians, we belong to the Lord.

This week, may our example give all the Christians of the world a good name. Literally.

Tic-Tac-No!

2008-01-30T02:03:00.000-06:00

Our culture places a lot of emphasis on freedom. The freedom of speech, the freedom of religion, the freedom to choose. fighting for freedom, freedom fries, freedom rings. Freedom is just a natural part of our western vocabulary. But what about our Christian vocabulary? Where does freedom fit in?

I remember going to church a couple Sundays after I had been baptized. I was 10 years old and excited to share the news with one of my best friends. We usually sat together during the service, and that Sunday was no exception. After taking the Lord’s Supper, I settled in for the sermon as she took the back of the bulletin and began drawing our weekly tic-tac-toe game. But I refused to look at it. After all, I had just been “born of the water”. It was not time for games, anymore, but notes. Because that’s how a “mature” Christian does church! She didn’t sit with me again. I moved away a couple weeks later, and we gradually fell out of contact with each other.

Isn’t it ironic that I can’t remember that sermon, but the hurt on her face will be with me forever?

I wonder how many times we refuse to play tic-tac-toe with people who are hurting. How many times do we find ourselves emphasizing rule over relationship? I wonder sometimes, that if I had responded differently, she would have grown up with a better view of the church. A kinder view of the church. I wonder if she would have kept going to church….

What made me, at such a young age, decide to limit my Christian example to “no playing tic-tac-toe during the sermon.” No one had taught that to me. And, yet, the way I decided to demonstrate my Christianity was with a bowed head and pursed lips. It got me thinking about all the rules we use as boundaries to our Christian walk. We walk the line, and boy, is it a tight rope at times!

Humans deal with complexities daily. We are a complex race. We think complexities, we act with complexity, and we are forced to make very complex decisions. Sometimes, to counteract this, we try to simplify things by making them black and white. It is easier for a group of Christians to say “No dancing” than it is to say “Use your judgement.” I find this happening all the time in churches today. Traditions and rules and nuances that aren’t found in the Bible, are touted as truth. And, honestly, it is a lot easier for someone to live in the boundaries of a bunch of laws, than in the freedom of discernment…than in the freedom of Christ.

Because the truth is, that though we are bound by a few very important laws (Love the Lord, Love your neighbor as yourself), we have been released from those old laws. We’ve been told to forget the fundamentalism, and embrace the freedom. Unfortunately, many don’t want to leave the comfort of those chains.

This can pose a problem at times, especially for a church. What do you do when half of the congregation embraces the freedom of Christ and the other half enforces the traditions of his faith?

As churches, as Christians, as people, we should strive for unity. Yes, Christ gives us amazing freedom. So many times does the Bible speak of this freedom: 2 Corinthians 3:17, Galatians 2:4, Galatians 5:1, Ephesians 3:12, Colossians 2:6 and on and on and on.
But, more importantly, in Galatians 5:13, Paul says “You, my brothers, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge in the sinful nature; rather serve one another in love.”

Look at that! It is a verse that unites those who embrace the freedom of Christ, and those who want to live fundamentally by rules. “Serve one another in LOVE.”

I could go on and on about how amazing it feels to live in the freedom of Christ. I could give verse upon verse that would support my belief that churches need to move from embracing fundamentalism to accepting freedom.

But what turns others away from the church more than anything else becomes those stalemate debates on whether or not to use PowerPoint, whether or not to have kitchens, or whether or not to pass the Lord’s Supper to the right or to the left. Love is really what matters.

Our world needs to be inundated with love. Not debates. Not unnecessary rules or regulations or fights about these rules and regulations. Our world needs desperately to feel the love of God. How can we show them this, when we have our backs turned, lips pursed, refusing to play tic-tac-toe?

I wish I could have understood the importance of fellowshipping with my friend. I wish I hadn’t acted so haughty. And though that was an important step for me learning about the freedom Christ has given me, I realize that I can not stop there. This freedom can not be a catalyst for arguing with my brothers and sisters in Christ, nor can it be a brick wall that I sit on top of for the rest of my life. What good is that freedom, if all I do is talk about it? The only good it serves is if I can use it to bring others to Christ.

I sincerely hope that the freedom we find in our Lord helps us fill the world around us with hope and love.

I sincerely hope that that freedom allows you to find someone this week to play tic-tac-toe with.

It's gonna knock you right on your head...

2008-01-27T02:31:00.000-06:00

Go buy it. Now.

Peace out.

Consistent Christianity: Are you Regular?

2008-01-25T15:41:00.000-06:00

I've been thinking a lot about consistency lately. I think, and if you've ever thought about it you probably do too, that leading a consistent, "real" life is a greater testimony to the people around us than...not. To put it simply. :)

Now, when you start down this kind of "cognitive" path, which usually happens to me about two in the morning when I'd rather be sound asleep clutching my stuffed Eeyore and dreaming of Tom Hanks, a whole slew of questions arise. Am I consistent? Am I real? What will that look like in my life? And, esentially, for me, it became a question of if I walked what I talked.

Being the Mental Health professional that I am hoping to become, I decided to take an "inventory" of my consistency. (Yes, Dad, my education has helped me learn big words like "inventory". Thank you for investing in my future...)

"Kaitlin's Consistency Inventory"

1) I consistently take naps. Well, actually, they're more like mini-sleeps. Don't judge--I'm a hard worker! My first class is in the wee hours of 11 a.m. and when I get done at 2, I'm beat.

2) I consistently eat. (Actually, I feel like I'm kind of cheating with this one. From what I'm told by my friends majoring in biology, most of us humans eat consistently.)

3) I consistently talk. Unless you know me, you really don't know how consistently true this statement it.

4) I consistently write on this blo...*edit*....I consistently think about writing on this blog. Really. I do.

So, after coming up with 4 "consistencies" in my life, I got bored and took a nap. And then had to remind myself that I had a post to finish.

It occurred to me that living a consistent life is a lot harder than it sounds. I wanted to put things like "Reads Bible consistently" or "Prays consistently" or "Treats friends with love consistently", but I found that I couldn't. I mean, I try to do these things often, but doing things with consistency requires a focused heart and constant awareness. And as much as I've read my Bible, or prayed, or bought my friends cones at Dairy Queen...ok, well, I've never done that...I thought about all the times I hadn't. And I wondered how many times I had promised something or preached something or even argued about something that I myself didn't practice. When people look at me, do they see a consistent Christian, or a Christian who goes to church on Sunday only?

I believe that we need to live lives filled with consistency. I don't mean we need to be boring...but we do need to be real.

If we preach love, we need to love.

If we preach human rights, we need to support human rights.

If we preach God, we need to know God.

I'm not talking about having a "perfect" faith or living a "saintly" life. I'm talking about a will and effort to live truthfully, to "keep it real." One of my teachers calls it "transparency".

And it is one of the hardest things a Christian has to do.

I need improvement in this area. I need to, essentially, to quote someone I deeply respect, be the change I wish to see in the world. (Instead of just talking about said change...)

May your life be one of consistency.

London "bridges" falling down...

2007-10-10T03:42:00.000-05:00

Culture shock is a curious thing. Sometimes it can hit you violently and abruptly. I can imagine that American missionaries to Africa or Asia feel the shock straight away, most likely even expecting it to come and preparing for it (as much as they can). At times, though, the shock adopts a stealthier, more gradual approach.

The UK has many similarities to the US. Maybe that's why I wasn't expecting the culture shock that was yet to come, or maybe I was just naiive. It shouldn't have been an excuse, though. I, even more than most, know how shocking it is to move, and I've only ever been within the country. (i.e. Hawaii to D.C or California to Alabama) But I didn't think it would be that different over here. They speak English. They have cars and movie theaters, big cities and shopping malls. If there was any shock, I thought, it would come from being away from home or living is such close quarters with six other girls.

Of course, it did not happen like that, and, before I knew it, I became a victim of culture shock. Though things looked familiar, they were actually foreign and unpredictable. And while I'm now recovering, I still find it difficult to adjust to the differences.

Differences span from language ("chips" are "crisps", "fries" are "chips", "Band-Aids" are "plasters", "restrooms" are "facilities" or "loos") to food (no Saltines, ranch dressing, honey mustard, Wendys, familiar desserts or snacks) to unspoken formalities (don't ask for refills, don't make eye contact, the "queues" starts farther back, look to the left when you're used to looking to the right and vice versa) to everyday living (turning on an outlet, flushing the toilet, tipping, opening doors).

This experience, probably small and insignificant to outside observers, has provided me with extremely valuable insight and newly formed compassion. I can not expect visitors to my country to immediately understand the nuances and unspoken rules of my culture. To expect a new American citizen or exchange student or immigrant to follow my cultural expectations, especially right away, is naiive and insensitive. Patience is key.

I feel like I'm getting the hang of British culture, but I have a long way to go. It will be interesting to see how it feels to be back home in December.

2007-09-13T18:49:00.000-05:00

I'm watching Mary Winkler's first interview on "Oprah".

My aunt has worked at a domestic violence shelter for many years. Sometimes, when I'm visiting her, I try to help out. So, maybe this case is too close to my heart. Maybe I'm on my soapbox....again. But if you had to choose any of my soapboxes to listen to, please, please listen to this.

One of the saddest things about domestic violence is few people believe the female victims. Most who hear of this type of violence, including family members, think that the violence is either exaggerated, "made-up", or "not as bad" as the victim says it is. A lot of times, when women leave their abusers, they still lose their children. The typical abuser is a saint in the store, and Satan at home. He is charming to the public and a great liar. For this reason, many judges grant custody to the abuser, who says that the reason the victim left was due to drugs or mental instability. And most believe him.

What is it about our society that spurns domestic violence victims? Women and men alike choose to pity Matthew Winkler, while scorning Mary. Take this interview. Oprah, champion of the poor and leader of the underdog, sits, arms crossed, eyes practically rolling, as Mary attempts to explain her actions. Implying that she is lying, Oprah then demands to know every detail leading up the shooting. "Why did you pick up the gun? Why couldn't you just talk to him calmly?"

Have you ever talked calmly to a violent person who was bigger than you, stronger than you, who has beaten you before, and threatened you before? Have you ever talked calmly to a violent person and it worked?

One of the guests on Oprah hates that Mary Winkler "got away with murder." She says that Mary should never gain custody of her children because she has "such poor impulse control that she solves her problems with gun violence."

Wow. People never cease to amaze me. Put yourself in her shoes. No, she shouldn't have shot him, but where was his impulse control when he kicked her out of bed or threatened to "chop her into little pieces"?

My point is not to condone murder. I do not think that Mary Winkler's situation gave her the right to kill. She should have left. (Which, if you wanted an even longer post, I'd talk about how hard it is for victims to leave an abusive home....) But for people to lack any sort of compassion for Mary is just wrong.

Victims need understanding and support, not shunning and disbelieving snorts. Churches need to embrace victims of domestic violence, showing them God's loving and healing arms. Victims should not be scolded for divorce or disobedience.

Let's teach our women to be strong. Let's teach our women confidence and self-reliance and inner beauty. Let's eliminate domestic violence.

Be a support.

Be compassionate.

Be a light.

The Raiders of the Lost Summer

2007-08-21T00:14:00.000-05:00

Three things I learned today:

Lifetime movies are formulated to make you cry.

Chuck E. Cheese employees are big fans of Barack Obama.

According to our Commissary bagger, London, England is just like Belleville, Illinois.

My summer was (and continues to be) a lot of fun. I went on a cruise with some of my favorite people in the world. My mom now wants to live on a cruise ship every winter of the rest of her life. My aunt wants to marry either our karaoke host, Shawn, or our Scottish cruise director, "Wee Jimmy". Gran Jean is searching for a bus trip that includes a casino, a 24/hour ice cream and pizza bar, and daily animal towel folding. My dad is still crying over the bill. We had a blast.

After the cruise, we packed our bags....and house, and moved to Fairview Heights, Illinois. (It's about 10 minutes from St. Louis.) I am loving the Midwest. The friendliness! The laid-back...ness! The corn! The Senators!

I've been getting ready for my semester overseas. I'm going to London in September and I can not wait! Chanel is coming also, so she's been living with me this summer. We've been preparing by researching (reading Harry Potter 7), investing (buying clothes at Old Navy), and building our immune system (sleeping in/eating).

A couple of weeks ago, we rented Indiana Jones. This was my first time seeing the movie. (And no, Sarah, I did not have to use my inhaler for this one...) It made me think, though. For all my Harding friends, do you have a teacher like Indiana Jones? One that you could see, after class, leaving in a leather jacket and whip to go fight Nazis for the Ark of the Covenant? Who would it be? Just wondering....

The little one said, "Move over, move over.."

2007-05-28T23:25:00.000-05:00

I hate it when this happens.

I went to see Pirates 3 the other day. Arriving at the theater about 40 minutes before the movie started, I found an empty row near the back and took the middle seat. As the theater started to fill up, I started settling in. A few minutes later, a couple walks into the theater, looks around, and starts make their way up the stairs. They pass about 50 empty seats. They continue walking. 20 more seats. Walking. To my row. To my empty row. They continue walking. Near the middle. Past several empty seats. They finally sit down. Right next to me. And I mean, RIGHT next to me. (Of course, my parents, who were with me, found this hilarious...this happens to me all the time!)

I would like to propose a buffer seat rule. To all of you theater goers out there, hear this. Do not, when a whole row is open, take the seat right next to a stranger. Leave a buffer seat. There is something beautiful about personal space, even if it is in a public setting.

Now I understand that you paid for that ticket. Technically, you can sit in any empty seat available. But show some compassion! Why fight for an arm rest when there's an unoccupied one two seats down?

People of the silver screen! It's time to wake up and make a difference. You never know. Today, seat buffering, tomorrow, cell phone silencing! Just think about the possibilities...

School Shootings

2007-05-10T02:21:00.003-05:00

Above is my final project for Human Situation. I think it accurately reflects my position regarding a certain piece of technology and society. May we never forget.

By George, I think he's got it!

2007-05-07T02:09:00.000-05:00

Every Sunday morning, I wake up (usually twenty minutes later than I intend), pick up my friends (usually five minutes later than I intend), and head to church. We arrive in the middle of the first song, and, as quietly and as inconspicuously as we can, we take our seats in the back. Two songs, one prayer, sermon, Lord's supper, announcements, and then, the race to lunch. It has gotten pretty routine this semester.

Today, I started thinking about routine religion. It can't be all that bad, right? Athletes have routines to warm up--to get ready for the big race. Parents are encouraged to make routines for bedtime. And teachers usually have routines in the classroom.

But that just doesn't satisfy me. You see, athletes use routines to train, but each race is different and spontaneous. Parents set routines for their children, but only until they mature. Thinking about it some more, I can't imagine God being happy with the way we often treat our Sunday morning gatherings. As Christians, should we not see church as part of the race, rather than the training session? It seems like we all strive to be mature in our faith, but then, on Sunday, we revert back to our childish ways. We sit, we sing, we pray, and we forget that church requires just as much vigilance as a mission field on Monday morning.

I have gone to the "Searcy church of Christ" since my freshman year of college. For two years, now, I have attended its services, and for two years, I have left uplifted and refreshed. For two years, I have seen "George".

Let me tell you about George.

George is probably in his late fifties or sixties. He is short with a full head of grey hair and a contagious smile that is always on his face. He walks into the auditorium with a bounce in his step, looking for anyone that will make eye contact with him. As people file in, George grabs a seat cushion, still searching for a friend to sit with. He raises his hand as members stream in, hoping to catch a high five. People usually avoid his eyes, walk past him, and place their Bibles on the seat next to them, most likely waiting for their late friends to arrive. It doesn't faze George. He finds a seat, usually next to a stranger, takes out his Bible, and waits for the service to begin. He rarely speaks, but he laughs at the sermon jokes and he sings with all the songs. He is usually alone when he comes and alone when he leaves.

But George, even with his routine, makes time for people. He high fives them. All of them. Every one who passes. Not only that, he is never in a bad mood. He is always smiling.

This past Sunday, George sat with one of my friends. She told me about it later. As a visitor to the SCoC, she made a very insightful observation. Never meeting George before, she did not know what to expect. Because George is differently-abled, his interactions with others are usually discomforting at first. Why was no one from the congregation with him? Why were there no members to take him in, as a friend?

It seems to me that the way we act on Sunday morning sets the stage for the rest of the week. Should church really be such a selfish and routine endeavor that we forget about those sitting around us? If I notice George as a regular attender to the SCoC, and I am just a college student, surely the eldership and membership have noticed him.

We need to be running the race all week, not just Monday through Saturday. This doesn't just go for reaching out to George, but also to Betty Widow, Cameron College Student, and Mary Middle-Aged. I know it sounds dorky, but we need to be people full of love and acceptance. Especially in church.

Too many times have I been to churches that treat Sunday morning as a movie theater. Get your seat, enjoy the show, shuffle out quietly. Too many times have I been that shuffler. As a family, we need to drop the routine and start focusing on our brothers and sisters. Even if it requires waiting twenty minutes for a table at Colton's, we need to take time to meet people and their needs.

Let's all learn from George and start high-fiving.

Twinkle, Twinkle

2007-04-10T01:49:00.001-05:00

"So that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe." Philippians 2:15

Whatever happened to purity? Pure speech, pure intentions, pure actions, pure heart. This tiny little word seems to have been forgotten, pigeon-holed into settings involving the opposite gender.

Many Christians seem to have sprinkled themselves with purity, while immersing themselves in culture. I am not at all advocating for Christians to lead ultra reclusive lifestyles. In fact, I very much support culture-appropriate mission work. I just wonder how much we become of the world, in order to "reach" the world.

Why are we so complacent? And why does it offend us so much when someone challenges this complacency?

For example, when did it become alright for Christians to swear? When did it become alright for Christians to almost swear? Is saying the letter of the word really more pure than saying the word itself?

I would like us to strive to be people who are blameless and pure....in thought, speech, and action. I don't believe this is a "holier-than-thou" issue, but rather, a "wow, I wonder what's so different about him or her" issue.

When it comes to movies or books or jokes or even just treating people-ALL people (even if they are annoying, or mean, or rude, or stuck-up, or hateful)-with the dignity God gave them, everything should be evaluated on such a level.

It makes me cringe to see the way we treat others. I believe this is very much a purity issue. How brighter would we shine if we could get along and find worth in EVERY single person. Our attitudes should be those of forgiveness and grace, not of contention and hate.

I know my ramblings in the middle of the night do nothing to change the world. But if anything, they serve as a reminder to me, that, even though the name "Kaitlin" means "pure", this Kaitlin has a long way to go before she can achieve it.

Thank God that He is gracious.