Message in a Gather book

It's kind of funny how God communicates sometimes. Not that I'm expecting him to send me a message in a bottle or anything like that. Although it would be pretty sweet to get a little, "You will win $1 million in the lottery" written in whipped cream on my pancakes.

I've taken up tea drinking. Now I've always been a tea drinker, but for the first time since I was rising at 5:30 a.m. to catch the bus to one of my internships senior year, have I taken a serious turn to throwing myself a tea party every day.

And no, God did not reveal his latest plan for my life in a bunch of tea leaves. Hardy har har.

As a result of my two bags of Earl Grey a day, steeped extra long, by the time lunch rolls around I am bouncing off the walls, ready to play fetch or frisbee or something like that. Tuesday was such a day. Having run into my old partner in musical crime at 10pm masses back in the day at Marquette the night before, I did the only thing my over caffeinated brain could think of.

I went to my trunk. Pulled out my Gather Comprehensive II accompaniment books (feel free to laugh here at the fact I carry hymnals around in my trunk) and made a beeline for the Cousins Center chapel.

I was going to play me some church songs.

(Come on now, stop the laughing before you wet your pants. I'm not THAT much of a dork!)

Well. At least I wasn't out committing felonies or something like that.

I started with the peppy and exciting stuff (yes I did just say that in the context of church hymns) before popping over to the psalm section of the book.

And with the light shining in the most picturesque way possible on me at the piano, I began to pray.

Psalm 131: In you O Lord, I have found my peace. Psalm 95: If today you hear God's voice, harden not your hearts. Psalm 23: Shepherd me O God, beyond my wants, beyond my fears, from death into life. Psalm 63: O God, I seek you, my soul thirsts for you, your love is finer than life. Psalm 91: Be with me Lord, when I am in trouble, be with me Lord, I pray. Psalm 19: Lord you have the words of everlasting life. 

I didn't notice what I was doing at first, just thought my fingers were running over the keys that they were so familiar with in my time accompanying at Marquette. But as my fingertips hunted through psalm after psalm, stopping at particular numbers and glazing over others, I realized that each time my brain picked a song, fingers struck the keys, the words resonating in my head, I was lifting up my own prayer. Each psalm had its own application to what was going on in my life, each carried a special meaning.

I never quite realized God could sneak attack you into praying...but I really shouldn't have put it past him. 

Patience, young grasshopper

It's grasshopper hunting season. 

Back in the day before bugs made me squeamish and things that slithered signified the end of the world, in the far corner of my grade school playground we hunted grasshoppers.

Bug jars in hand, scarfing down our fish and scroodles at lunch so we could race out to the playground and hunt, the sport of catching grasshoppers could only be rivaled by one activity.

The swings.

But that's another story for another day. 

Given their whole hopping thing, the grasshoppers presented a challenge. But not as much of a challenge as butterflies, so it was an easier ego boost for us second graders to catch them mid-hop.

Monday marked the second year of classes starting at Marquette, and me not placing a single butt cheek in a desk. Friends that I remember as doe-eyed freshman are starting their senior years. Others have done the impossible and had the actual nerve to graduate, making my 23 years seem ancient.

I'm not ashamed to admit that if I don't watch myself, I can get hung up on a not so little thing called drama. And lately I've gotten a bit hung up on the whole being a grown up drama.

Oh woe is me, I don't have three months off during the summer!

Oh woe is me, all my friends have homework now and can't come out to play!

Oh woe is me, I'm on a tight budget and can't spare any extra cash to go out this weekend!

Oh woe is me, I can't skip work this morning because I stayed out late the night before.

Oh woe is me, I actually have to shower and put on dress clothes to go to work!

Oh woe is me, I have to work all day today and can't go shopping!

Oh woe is me, I'm a grown up, and life is no fun!

Excuse me, Amy Catherine. You're 23. Life is no fun? Shall I mail you your "I'm officially old"  complimentary set of dentures and pack of granny panties?

Last time I checked I was young and fun...well at least fun in my world. Maybe it's time to forget the Oh woe is me spiel and remind myself of the Oh my life is fabulous mantra.

Now if you'll excuse me I'll need my bug jar and a net. There are some hoppers at the Cousins Center I'd really like to get my hands on. 

Well....maybe not. 

A glimpse in the Seth mirror

It's not just the way my eyes light up at mention of his name. The inevitable blush that comes to my cheeks. The way my mood is cheerier, my smiles and laughs more frequent, my optimistic disposition even more annoyingly so.

It's the way some things that seemed to matter, suddenly don't.

And if your mind immediately jumped to my friends and family, the answer is no. I am not one of those girls, the ones that so eagerly abandon all that was part of their life prior to the moment that the one they want to spend the rest of their days with, walked in. How awful.

I'm talking about the mundane things. Things that used to make me cranky. Things that used to make me worry. All replaced with the soothing calm that my Southern Charmer has brought into my life.

Particularly in one area. My own body image.

I've read enough articles in Glamour, Cosmo and Good Housekeeping to know that in some relationships, men only aid and abed their lady friend's body image woes. Another work of my miraculous medal-- the Southern Charmer does the exact opposite. 

I've never been skinny. It's not in my baby-making hips disposition to be so. There was a time when I was beautifully average, but of course thought I was disastrously overweight, one of the tragedies of being a teenage girl. I tried the cabbage soup diet. Dropped 12 pounds via Atkins two weeks before prom and paid the price for the mindset all the way through my sophomore year of college. 

It's amazing the guilt that can be associated with eating Pop-Tarts. And I'm really not kidding. 

I've eyed the Schwan's catalog with a longing typically associated with Harlequin romance novels. Drowned myself in gallons of water. Counted calories with a freakish accuracy. Skipped meals. Made up for it with Chipotle and Coldstone binges. No matter what the method, there was always that villain sitting in the bathroom corner.

The scale.

In the weeks leading up to Seth's initial visit to Milwaukee, the anguish over what he would think upon stepping off that plane and into my presence was horrifying. Sure our solid communication and faith we had placed in the relationship should be enough, but still. The hours spent at the Y. The beers and bowls of ice cream sacrificed. What if I wasn't skinny enough? My hair too short? My teeth not white enough? My nails grubbily manicured? 

What if I wasn't skinny enough?

Early in The Great Seth Saga, an old choir buddy and I got together for dinner and drinks. In the glow of my new romance, we of course got to girl talk. And she said something that stuck with me forever. I'm sure I don't have the exact wording down, but it was something to the effect of, "It took me a really long for me to believe him when he told me I was beautiful."

How sad, that we, God's creation, can forget how beautiful we as human beings are. But as a woman, I'll admit, how easy it is. How easy it is to dwell on the number on the dress. The numbers on the scale. The numbers of calories and fat on the label.

In my almost eight months of dating Seth, while yes, the numbers do in some respect still matter-- after all, it is my duty to keep this vessel God borrowed me in at least somewhat decent shape (if my body is a temple I don't think it should always be overflowing with microbrews and fried cheese)-- in a whole other realm, the numbers don't matter. Seth loves me and my body for what God created it to be, just as He intended. 

And for the first time since my hormones started raging so many years ago, at the end of the day, I can't help but feel beautiful. 

But as it is, God placed the parts, each one of them, in the body as he intended. If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it; if one part is honored, all the parts share its joy.

-- 1 Corinthians 12: 18, 26

WHOA?!?!

Where are you and what on earth has Amy done with her blog?

It's me. You're here. Never fear. As all my young kiddo friends are spending obscene amounts of money on textbooks and the air takes on a new sort of chill, I'm itchin' for a change.

And since I'm growing my hair out, finally have it back to its normal color, can't afford a wardrobe/makeup makeover and love love LOVE my boyfriend, this is about the only thing left in my arsenal of things that could be changed that I'm willing to tweak.

So there you have it. Bear with me as I reconfigure things in the coming days...

I rather like it though. It's got Amy with her nieces and nephews (although they're all way way wayyyy past the baby stage), Amy with her Southern Charmer (but he's blonde and MUCH taller than me), and Amy frolicking about the world.

Which anyone that has witnessed me on a caffeine high will tell you, I frolick often.

Finding the order of things

First comes love.

Then comes marriage.

Then comes a baby in a baby carriage. (Or 2 or 3 or 12. Whatever floats your boat). 

That much I get. Really. I do. You can ask my jump roping partners from first grade.

My best friend from high school Em and I got in a discussion Sunday afternoon about relationships. Not about the "proper order" of things, but rather, the proper timeline of things. How we should figure things into our iPhones and Blackberrys when it comes to our romantic relationships.

How many weeks should you wait before you officially call yourselves a couple? How many dates should you go on before you change your relationship status on Facebook or MySpace? How many months, weeks or days should you wait until you introduce them to your friends? Your family? How long do you have to date before he puts that ring on your finger?

Or worse. How many years do you give him to put that ring on your finger before you pack up and move on? 

While being single a long time prior to Seth gave me a lot of free time-- for walks by the lake, too many drinks at Buckhead and hours spent shriveling up in bubble baths, it also gave me a lot of thinking time to set a timeline on what I viewed as the perfect relationship.

About a year and a half to two years of dating seemed about right before the bling came. The last thing I'd want to be is one of those girls forever stuck in a relationship with Destination: Nowhere stamped on the luggage tag. Maybe two weeks of dates before we achieved couple status. Three months before I introduced him to the parents. Definitely a year long engagement to plan a decent wedding.

Ugh. My plan, my plan, my plan. When it comes to running errands and planning out my week, My Plan definitely comes in handy. But when it comes to life who needs such restrictions?

After rehashing our own relationships and others, Em and I came to one conclusion: it's ridiculous to put a timeline on a relationship. While yes, it may seem sensible to protect your heart, sticking so rigidly to some ideal when your emotions tell you differently is crazy. We know couples that got married after a month of dating and are still together 10, 50 years later. Other couples that went through the rigmarole of doing things by the relationship book that didn't last five years past their wedding day.

So what's the point?

As usual, submersing myself in some coconut cream suds last night, I realized that our great conclusion had already been made somewhere much greater. Enough of My Plan and living life by the book (as in all rule books other than THE rule book). 

What about His Plan?

There is an appointed time for everything,

and a time for every affair under the heavens.

A time to be born, and a time to die;

a time to plant and a time to uproot the plant.

A time to kill, and a time to heal; 

a time to tear down, and a time to build.

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them;

a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces.

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

a time to keep, and a time to cast away.

A time to rend, and a time to sew;

a time to be silent and a time to speak.

A time to love, and a time to hate;

a time of war, and a time of peace.

He has made everything appropriate to its time, and has put the timeless into their hearts, without men's ever discovering, from beginning to end, the work which God has done. I recognized that there is nothing better than to be glad and to do well during life. For every man, moreover, to eat and drink and enjoy the fruit of all his labor is a gift of God. 

I recognized that whatever God does will endure forever; there is no adding to it, or taking away from it. Thus has God done that he may be revered.

What now is has already been, what is to be, already is; and God restores what would otherwise be displaced.

(Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8, 11-15)

Back away from my comfort zone

I don't do extreme outdoors.

Well. My definition of extreme outdoors and the rest of the world's definition is probably not the same. I like to enjoy God's creation. 

From a safe viewpoint where I won't get bit, stung or eaten.

As Seth and I have progressed in our relationship, my comfort zone has gradually expanded. He got me to go swimming in the ocean. Try new foods. Go on rides at Disney World.

But when he attempted to get me to go on a .5 mile hike through the woods in the Great Smoky Mountains he hit a brick wall. 

I think it had something to do with sending me the link to the website that talked about the National Park. Which included the bit about the bears. And the two types of poisonous snakes.

I don't do snakes. Not even in the zoo.

Approaching the clearly wooded trail my back stiffened. My grip on his arm tightened. My eyes began a constant scan for bears and s-words.

And I got cranky. 

Don't throw rocks at my comfort box. I just may throw them back and hit you where it hurts.

After crabbing and complaining and yelling (ok not yelling, I didn't want to disturb the bears) at Seth we finally reached our destination. The trees fell away. And there was nothing but mountains. Miles and miles of mountains. God's creation, like I had never seen it before.

With a little bit of luck, and throwing more rocks at my box, I'll be camping in a few years. Sleeping under the stars with some of the critters that hopped on the ark so many years ago.  

But only in a place with indoor plumbing. I don't think I'm quite to the point where I'm ready to use God's natural bathroom.   

Good night moon

My fish doesn't tell me good night.

Well. I guess I probably can't hold that against him. 

Back in my college days (because I'm sooooo old that that was sooooo long ago), my favorite college roomie and I used to say that having a roommate was like having a sleepover every night. Often times we'd be lined up in the dorm bathroom, taking out our contacts and brushing our teeth together . When the lights would go out it would be a rare event for our giggles and talking to stop. And when they did, it was almost always with the words, "good night."

I guess that must mean that living alone is like being stuck in solitary confinement. No one to say good night. No one to giggle with. And certainly no one to tell you a bedtime story.

Not even your fish.

*Sigh*

Some of my favorite moments at Seth's mom's house over the weekend always came in the midnight hours. After a game of cards, meeting with friends or watching a movie, I'd get ready for bed and crawl under the covers in the room that Seth grew up in. And just like my parents did when I was a little girl, he'd sit beside me, go through our good night spiel (which is much too vomit in my mouth worthy, not to mention personal, to share), make sure the covers were nice and tight, and kiss me good night, before making his way downstairs. 

One of my absolute favorite psalm settings in the Gather hymnal is by David Haas, written for Psalm 131. The refrain, "In you O Lord, I have found my peace, I have found my peace" got me through one of the roughest periods of my life in college. Whenever I feel anxious or stressed, I turn the song on and soak in the solace it exudes. 

Smiling as the light went out as Seth tucked me in each night, a similar feeling to the one I get when immersing myself in Psalm 131 washed over me. A feeling of love, being taken care of, of comfort, support and strength. 

How lucky we should all be to not only find that feeling on this earth, but to know in our hearts that it can be with us for all eternity. 

Tears in Tennessee

I was crying. Again. 

Winding through the mountains of Tennessee Tuesday afternoon, destination the airport in Nashville, I sobbed into Kleenex after Kleenex after Kleenex. 

Another long weekend with Seth. Come and gone.

Seth, as usual, held his composure, determined to put up a strong front for the both of us. He sat in silence, driving, the occasional statement of comfort flowing from his lips, a genuine look of concern on his face, as he rubbed my back and listened to the sounds of my ugly cry.

It's been a long time since I've blogged. A long few weeks that I sat in my apartment, absorbed in how much I missed my boyfriend. In my defense it was pretty darn hot and I couldn't do much else in my un-air conditioned apartment except for sit in my underwear (no, I'm not ashamed to admit it) and think. Think about where I've been, where I am, and where I'm going. 

It was about last year at this time that I finally let go of this [insert expletive here] guy I was hung up on and finally decided to turn my love life over to God. It wasn't very easy considering I wasn't seeing Jesus chatting it up with the hot dog guy on Water street at 2 a.m. on the weekends or shopping for lettuce at Pick n' Save, but I did it. At 22 I gave it up, telling the Big Man, "Here you go. If you want me to find someone I will with your help. And if you want me to be a nun that's fine too. But I'm not getting rid of my subscription to Vogue that easy." 

My mom prayed without fail for my miracle. I lit vigil candle after vigil candle. Not necessarily that I would find him the second I walked out of church, but that wherever he was, he was alive and well, happy and content, and that God was present in his life. 

And of course, I prayed that he was gradually making his way into my life. Whether at the pace of a turtle or a Harley, it didn't matter. Well. Maybe it did matter when I had PMS. But for the most part Ms. Amy "I want it right now!" Guckeen attempted to practice patience.

Seven months ago yesterday, he appeared. Contrary to what I may have been expecting, he didn't radiate some sort of cosmic glow. Didn't come wrapped in a bow with a gift tag, "To: Amy. From: God." But all the same, there was my miracle.

And with that, summer almost gone, I am concluding my temper tantrum about Seth not being right here, right now. All that matter is he's here *points at my heart*, where it really matters. Let the blogging begin once again!

(And let the real soap opera that is my life begin once again!)

Return to Chick Lit Land

I have been there and I have done that so many times it's not even funny.

The Notebook. The Holiday. 10 Things I Hate About You. Pretty in Pink. The Wedding Date. Pretty Woman. Must Love Dogs. How to Lose A Guy in 10 Days. 13 Going on 30. Love Actually. And Love Actually again. And again.

And again.

Always single. Always whining, "Where's my Prince Charming?" or my tried and true, "I want that."

Of course, I don't really want that. I imagine Jude Law is much more high maintenance than I could ever dream to be. And Richard Gere, handsome as he may be, is admittedly, way too old. 

Whether it be a Sex & the City marathon (I've always been an Aidan girl...Mr. Big is much too smooth for me) or identifying with Bridget Jones, for as long as I can remember, chick flicks have always left me with this empty feeling inside. This pining. This longing.

Theology may suggest that that longing can only be filled with the Lord, and while Jesus Christ is my ultimate favorite, he's not what I'm thinking of when I watch Andrew McCarthy lay a wet one on Molly Ringwald.

I've always wanted that. Not necessarily the excess saliva (I'm plenty productive on my own thank you very much), but the that. 

Ladies you know what I mean. Guys, I really don't know if I can describe it.

Since obtaining that, I really haven't done that much chick flicking. Until Saturday night. For the countless years I was single, I always wondered what sort of feeling I'd be left with after watching a chick flick while having that. 

I don't think it worked. As in, I think such an experiment needs to be done when your that is at least in the same time zone as you. Because after watching (crying, cheering, crying some more) Definitely, Maybe, my feeling was pretty much the same. With just a minor tweak.

I want my that here.