Sometimes I wonder exactly what percentage of the time I spend doing stuff I’ll have to confess or apologize for later.  I have a feeling I run on about a 20% efficiency rate, which is even lower than the HVAC system we just had inspected in our new house (Ed. note: contract pending).

Take yesterday, when I ran by said house to meet The Husband, who was there for the entire inspection so I wouldn’t have to be (he knows these things make me bored at best, panicky at worst).  After fifteen minutes, I had reached my fill of someone pointing out all of our new possession’s flaws–I got enough of that in dental school–and signed some papers brought by the realtor so that I could hightail it back to the couch, my waiting Bible, and a cup of coffee.  As the last drop of caffeinated goodness fell into my Crate and Barrel wedding registry mug, the phone rang.  It was The Husband, calling to tell me that I hadn’t signed all the paperwork and would need to go back to the house to do so.  Frustrated with him (for no reason), real estate, and ultimately myself, I hung up the phone as violently as one can a touch screen (finger jab = pain) and slammed the only thing I could, which was my new cup of coffee.  On my Bible.  Well if that isn’t a metaphor, I thought, brown liquid dripping onto leather-bound wisdom.  (All our best efforts are like…)  My only accomplishment before noon: being a gigantic ass.

I went to see The Sis and The Niece later, and the baby smell was wearing off after I left their house and was merging onto GA 400.  Which must explain why, as a car cut in front of me and nearly rammed the front driver’s side (MY SECTION!!!), I yelled out a string of insults at the driver.  Most of them really weren’t fair, considering I don’t know his mother, but for a few moments, the inside of my car blasted with the decibels of my own self-righteousness.  I gave the guy a sarcastic thumbs-up as I passed him, an improvement over the digit I normally use on such occasions, and drove on.  I thought about how The Sis is starting to take The Niece out on excursions in the car now (she LOVES Target) and how much angrier I will be when I have a child in the car and get cut off.  As in, angrier than now, which is both hard to imagine and threatening to my blood pressure.  Serenity now, I thought.  NOW, dammit! Meanwhile, my Bible lay at home in the remains of brown stickiness, unopened for the day.  Time for an on-site tutorial.  Nicole Nordeman’s voice was the next to pop up from my iPod playlist (in between DMX and R.E.M., mind you), and as she sang about how deep the Father’s love is for me, my lead foot eased off the pedal and my heart began to slowly unwind from its mortal coil.  Who I am in traffic is not the truest thing about me, thank God.  I headed home.

I may have a lot of work to do on myself, but not nearly as much as has been done on my behalf.  Besides, as Kanye West might say, “I’m trying to right my wrongs, but it’s funny them same songs helped me write this [blog].”  Dear Kanye: you may have even me beat in the jerk category, but you just nailed grace.

I never need an excuse to be selfish, but I do think that our impending move, demolition-construction project, and their inevitable unsettledness has me on an especially thin edge right now.  And anxiety has a way of tinting our view so that we see greener grasses in the wrong places.  Like New York, where grass barely grows outside of Central Park.  The Husband and I went to dinner at Table 1280 at the High Museum recently.  As we walked out we passed Symphony Hall and I saw a crowd of people in the lobby.  Intermission, I thought, and my mind drifted back to Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center.  And in that moment, my heart ached with a New York longing so sharp took my breath away: the bagel shop, the hills of the park, the crowd of people of all colors and backgrounds and opinions gathered in one place to appreciate beauty.  I missed it.

Then The Husband and I got in the car on the way to our spacious apartment and blasted the radio and opened the sunroof and I was okay.

Bipolar?  Maybe.  (Actually, not.  I’ve taken quizzes.)  But it’s clear to me that in this world, I will always be between destinations.  Always in transit, on my way to somewhere: the weekend, a new Chuck episode, a better attitude.  And with a heart that finds and longs for home in multiple locations, I am thankful that I’m not there yet.  Home, that is.  Because of all the places I’m headed, Home–a place I believe to be devoid of traffic and full of baby smell–is the last stop.

Well look at us being all grown-up and buying a house!  (Ed. note: Contract pending.)  And because consistency is overrated, we decided on a dwelling that ran contrary to our original plan of No Fixer-Uppers.  Being completely inexperienced and unfamiliar with fixtures, designs, floor plans, and materials hasn’t stopped us from diving headfirst into that world.  I have already started praying for the kind of patience that is all but absent from the process of demolition and construction and waiting for the Before shots to turn into the After.  But there is something wonderful to be found in the rubble of making a home your own rather than pitching a tent among someone else’s color scheme, and in (rather blind) faith we press forward to that reward.  Spoiler alert: blood, sweat, and tears ahead.

Speaking of blind faith,  it’s a theme for us lately.  That thought occurred to me as we sat in the half of a gym that houses our church, a new plant by the name of Grace, with about a hundred members instead of the five thousand regular attenders we were surrounded by at Redeemer in New York.  I have no problem with well-oiled machines; in fact, I am partial to them.  But again with that beauty in the rubble…being a part of the small beginnings means showing up and knowing your face will be seen and recognized; it means an involvement past attendance and entering the realm of self-sacrifice, because how else can an introvert refer to a constant request for vulnerability?  Being there at the start means being a part of the at times uncomfortable During that comes between Before and After.  Spoiler alert: awkward moments ahead.

In between buying a house and attending church, we hit the couch and noticed a recurring theme on the black box this week.  First there was Glee‘s Grilled Cheesus alongside Kurt’s lack of faith, accessorized with a fabulous hat and tear-inducing pain.  Then there was Modern Family and Jay’s Golf vs. God conflict. Finally, Jeff faced the issue of death with insistence upon a belief in nothing on Community.  The Husband and I turned to each other and asked, “Is it God Week on TV?”

Not played so much for laughs, Kurt’s response to religion was the most profound.  He cited the “Church’s” opposition to gays, women, and science. Whenever I hear a similar viewpoint, I struggle between two responses: “Which church are you talking about?” and “Tell me about it.”  I marvel at the unfathomed depths of God’s love that go unrealized by people who use His name to preach hate and ignorance; I cringe when the same people who rightly point out that ignorance and intolerance exercise their own form of it.  Being one who falls in the camp of believer, and having never known any other campsite, I know I take for granted my inclination to faith while others struggle with all the questions it raises.  But as I read all the commentary on the Grilled Cheesus episode, I kept seeing words like atheist and agnostic and agnostic with atheist leanings and (Word Dork that I am) noticed something these designations have in common besides alliteration.  The a- prefix meaning “not” or “without.” Not being something, not having something.  I think about how even our language reflects a human inclination to seek something beyond ourselves, and not finding it lands you in the Without camp.  Linguistically speaking.  And then I think about people like Kurt and so many others I know and love whose “No thank you” to faith is accompanied by a veneer of anger, which is really only a lid painted with brushstrokes of pride and independence that, when lifted, exposes a cauldron of boiling emotion underneath.  People simply don’t not care about this subject, no matter which side of it they’re on.  (I’m looking at you, Dawkins and Hitchens. Shut up, Pat Robertson.)

As for me, I can only testify to how the greater narrative of grace (NOT religion) coincides with mine.  I can tell you how far a regimen of self-improvement got me, which is to say Nowhere, and that redemption is the only During that takes one from Before to a very different After.  I can say that something inside me aligns with the idea of a vision powerful enough to lead from rubble to beauty, that something in my soul shifts when I know that everything good about me began in a paradox of darkness and apparent weakness and ultimate vulnerability and sacrifice.  I cling to a faith whose best stories have been told not under vaulted ceilings and in marbled hallways, but in dirty troughs and tombs.  I believe because, even though my daily inclination is toward a glass-half-empty brand of pessimism, the deeper and truer part of me yearns for the transcendence of more; wants to always look for that glittering line just beyond the edge of my sight; has to leave room for mystery; only makes sense as part of a story where Before always becomes After.  Spoiler alert: glory ahead.

For the first time since leaving New York in the spring, I accomplished a successful outdoor run last week.  I had mapped out a path in my new car back when we arrived in Atlanta in May, but sweltering heat and humidity conquered my longing to escape the boredom of a treadmill workout…until fall hit us.  The mosquitoes vanished, the humidity dropped with the temperature, and I set out on my run.

Funny how hills are so much flatter from behind the wheel of a car.

At the north end of Central Park is a stretch of pavement called Heartbreak Hill. It was the bane of my existence while I was training for the half-marathon a couple of years ago.  Not only is the hill relatively steep (I say relatively because it’s a nice word to throw in when you want to qualify your weakness since there are people out there who have climbed Mt. Everest), but it curves around a rock that blocks the hill’s peak from view.  So the runner battles an incline that seems never-ending, and looking up for a source of hope–the beginning of the downhill stretch–only ends in discouragement as the asphalt goes on and up.  I hated Heartbreak Hill before and during each of my runs…until the glorious moment I felt the ground give beneath me and, just when I thought my heart would burst, it loosened in my chest and I felt like I was flying.  Then…then I loved Heartbreak Hill.

And so it is here in Atlanta.  Within the first mile of my run, Ashford-Dunwoody Road begins its incline and I feel gravity, the devil on my shoulder, encouraging me to slow down, run backwards, even pop into Chili’s for a skillet of cheese and a bathtub-sized margarita.  Once again, the road stretches on for awhile before I see the peak–and once I reach that peak, all hope vanishes because this hill, bestill my failing heart, is a double hill. Rise, plateau, rise.  The last incline passes by Dunwoody Baptist Church and as the steel cross in its front yard glints in the sunlight, I am thankful that the lovely families entering and exiting the building can’t hear the steady current of profanity that scrolls through my head.  Then I remember who can hear it, and I am thankful for grace.

In the midst of recent hills–waiting for a diagnosis, waiting for a house, waiting for a big break–I  have seen the kind of truths that crystallize in the blood, sweat, and tears of life rather than on its sunny beaches.  Like that I am blessed beyond belief to face the hills in my way rather than the mountains in the paths of some.  Or the realization that hit me after I had to quit the hill and start walking the other day.  The next time out, I refused to look up, knowing that the slope of the road would only kill my resolve and give me an excuse to stop.  I kept my eyes on the sidewalk a couple of feet ahead of me and focused on the rhythm of my arms and the pumping of my feet.  I thought, Keep going and in a few seconds you can let go and enjoy this. The thought landed like a ton of bricks as I realized how much of my life I have labored under that idea:  enduring rather than living.  One goal after another, waiting for the next big thing to happen.  I decided to stop listening to my own head and start listening to the cast of Glee as they belted out a Madonna tune.  Head down, two-foot vision, uphill climb?  More like a healthy body, killer tunes, and the open road ahead of me. This is living.

All the changes of the past year–engagement, move, wedding–have resulted in multiple adjustment periods for me and The Husband.  Being married to each other doesn’t feel a whole lot different from what we were before; that either speaks to our level of commitment or our old, settled ways.  But transferring a life from New York City to Atlanta? Adjustment.  Transferring a couple from the beaches of the Caribbean to the daily grind of the office and a living space devoid of maid? ADJUSTMENT.

But this daily grind is where our real life is, and where our marriage begins.

I moved to New York because I wanted to lead a remarkable life.  I wanted to have experiences that would set me apart, stories that would be worth telling.  I wanted the city to be a part of my narrative.  I wanted to feel good about myself, and I enlisted New York’s help in achieving that goal.  For five years, I lived the life I had imagined: walks through Central Park, being stopped and asked for directions in Times Square, learning the subway system, sitting on a fire escape with a glass of wine in one hand and a pen in the other, falling in love. And now that all my dreams came true, I have the resulting life to live.

I battle the mundane nature of an existence anywhere but New York.  It sounds so cynical and judgmental to say that, but what it really reveals to me is my fear of being ordinary.  For so much of my life, all I wanted was to fly under the radar.  I dreaded attention; I loathed standing out.  Then New York happened and I stumbled upon the identity that had been crafted for me without my knowing it, after years of hiding from the world had buried it underneath layers of self-consciousness.  New York’s grit (and Tim Keller’s preaching) has a way of undoing all masks.  Now I know all the world has to offer those who don’t hide in the safety of fear.  I know how it feels to ask a personal hero a question in front of a room full of people; to walk into an apartment packed with strangers and leave with new friends; to run further and longer than I knew I could; to sip wine in Tuscany; to fist-pump at a bar on the Jersey Shore; to ride the subway at midnight; to tell your best friend you’re in love with him.

By grace alone, I have realized some serious potential.  And now that my tenure in the trenches  is over, now that I am a grown-up with a viable career and new last name and house offer on the table, I am afraid of how easy it could be to crawl back under the covers and never challenge myself again.  Surrounded by all that is comfortable, will I get lost in it?  So much of my New York life was about newness–new city, new apartment, new people, new restaurants, day after day–a barrage of possibilities.  So much of life in The Settled Down phase is about maintenance: refueling the car, replenishing the fridge, reloading the dishwasher. I don’t want the remarkable phase of my life to ever be complete, but that’s hard to remember when I am nearly lulled to sleep by the rhythm of red lights on my way home each day.

Moving to New York never meant I was better than anyone else, just more desperate.  But living there gave me a hunger for living radically.  I look around now and wonder what to do next: buy a house, find a dog, have kids.  I know me, and I know how easily I take things for granted, to the point of seeing them as obstacles.  Like those red lights–they seem to be a personal vendetta of the transportation department against me.  I wonder if I’m going to see the other aspects of my life the same way: the dog pooping to make me step in it, the kids crying to ruin my day.  I have a charming way of making everything about me, and of considering that which doesn’t add to my leisure as a negative.  I’m a victim of my own victimology.  Then I consider how much of my time in New York was spent being uncomfortable, and how many of those moments of discomfort led to moments of beauty and love.  And how, in an auditorium at Hunter College, I learned about a grace kind enough to forgive me for taking credit for anything good about myself (also called self-righteousness); a grace good-humored enough to work through my constant willingness to think my knowledge of the world is complete (also called ignorance).  I think about how hopeless a world would be in which my momentary perspective is omniscient: how a bad day might not be worth living past, how every loss would be final, how each red light would be a hindrance.  Limitations everywhere.

But it’s not so, and I have to keep reminding myself of that, telling myself my own story to remember.  The potential to be found in the narrative of redemption is endless, even among dirty diapers and oil changes, and who am I to think that New York is the best part of anyone’s biography–that God can’t write a good sequel?  After all, there are red lights there, too…and all I could do at those was stand and wait for them to change.  Here, within the newly purchased comfort zone of my own car, I can sing.

Written August 18, 2010

This morning I was able to walk for miles, something I haven’t done since we left New York.  These days my feet are more likely pumping gas and brake pedals than concrete.  But today I took off my shoes (something I couldn’t do in NY) and let the white sand of the Gulf coast smooth out my rough spots.  This gulf is a place where, after creating the Seven Wonders of the World, God walked in and decided to REALLY show off.

These are the beaches I loved as I grew up, year after year becoming less of a child (perhaps to my detriment).  This is the beach I will stand before in three days to say my marriage vows.  This is the place I go whenever I want to feel the nail marks in His hands and touch His side because, like Thomas, sometimes we all need a little more faith.  This is where I find mine.

The water here is struggling—fighting against man-made disasters to stay alive and beautiful.  As I look out from the shore, I see the algae and seaweed that the storm has stirred up and washed in.  In the tide pools along my path, I see traces of orange and black.  There is a darkness here that is new and unwelcome, and I glare at it like the stranger it is until I am humbled by the realization that only too often, I am the oil in the water.  I carry my own darkness and shadows and I need a cleanup crew the size of heaven’s armies each day to mop up the debris I create out of my attempts to run the world, or at least my corner of it.  I need to be shaken out of my illusion of control.  I used to think that shaking was God putting me in my place; now I know that it’s Him giving me a place to rest.  It’s easier to see that from the shoreline of this beach.

This has been a week of reflection and preparation, and not in the ways I had necessarily planned.  Naturally.  Yesterday I went with my parents to visit my nearly-century-year-old grandmother, possibly for the last time.  She was wrapped in her covers, tucked into bed at four in the afternoon, and she didn’t know who we were.  This woman who gifted me red panties and sassy attitude as I grew up is fading away while I celebrate the biggest milestone of my life, and I found it hard to look at her unless I reminded myself that this really isn’t her, she doesn’t know what she’s saying, she’s no longer the lady I knew.  I tapped into logic and repeated the science of it to myself, the progression of dementia and age that renders her unrecognizable and us unrecognized.  Then, a few hours later, tiredness kicked in and tore down the walls I had built that kept me sane but unempathetic, and as I walked the beach this morning I let it all out.  The salt in the air mixed with the salt in my tears and I was reminded of my other grandmother, who still says that salt water heals everything.  I think about what a child told me yesterday—that God is bigger than everything—and I realize that my faith runs deep but sometimes could afford to be simpler.  I think about the commitment I am making in three days and the blessings and drama that unfold alongside it, and I once again let go.  The tears have passed, they have run down my face and through my soul and stirred up a peace that passes understanding.  I know who really heals everything, and His handprints are all over this place.

“This is the most profound spiritual truth I know: that even when we’re most sure that love can’t conquer all, it seems to anyway.  It goes down into the rat hole with us, in the guise of our friends, and there it swells and comforts….The truth is that your spirits don’t rise until you get way down.  Maybe it’s because this–the mud, the bottom–is where it all rises from.”

(Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies)

I finally hit bottom. It occurred to me the other day that though I am a big complainer–always have been, recently became aware of how big a complainer I am, and even with this awareness still do it way too much–it occurred to me that lately I’ve been outdoing even myself in this department.  I’ve been complaining about a wedding, for the love of all things holy, and I’ve been complaining about this in the midst of the best year of my life: an engagement to my best friend, a move to a new city with family, a niece on the way, new jobs that the BF and I actually like (considering it’s still work), a wedding on the beaches that I grew up loving, and a honeymoon with drink flags. I mean, hello! There are people with actual problems, problems that start with C, problems of soul-shattering loss and apparent hopelessness.  And here I am, writing about crumbs and vendors.  What a luxury.

Now, before I sound too sane, let me point out that we are in the home stretch.  I just created a wedding program I love, and almost everything is checked off the Master To-Do List.  There is room to move around and air to breathe and this allows me to relax and unclench multiple body parts.  In addition, I have bleached my teeth, worked on my tan, toned my arms, and am feeling an overall sense of well-being that is the bastard child of overpreparation and a forced surrender to things I realize I cannot control.  But still, I got here.  And I’d like to stay.

This morning, the morning of my thirty-third birthday, I thought about the botanical gardens in Birmingham where I spent so many afternoons pining over my singleness (or really, an absence of a match for the love in my heart) and praying for things to be different.  I realize now, of course, that had my prayers been answered according to the vision I had, I would never have ventured beyond the borders of that town, would never have wandered other gardens, like those in Central Park. I would never have been uncomfortable enough with my square footage of planet to increase it exponentially, would never have known the joy and emotional divisibility that comes with having more than one home.  I would not be getting married, at least not to this man, and any other man simply would not do.

So my outsides are polished up a bit and the insides are coming along, slowly as they always do, and I can see the light.  I’m walking towards it.  (And running–that helps with the toning.)  And there’s fun along the way.  Last night the BF and I scored tickets from his company to see Tom Petty at Philips Arena.  I’m not too big on concerts–I generally don’t like to be around other people–but there’s no substitute for the feeling you get when the first few live notes hit your ear and you immediately know the rest of the tune, recognize the song, speak the words from memory.  There is a deeper place that records these melodies in our lives, and there is a moment when they go from being outside of us to being a part of who we are, like the phoenix song heard by Harry Potter.  They echo through the chambers of our hearts and remind us we have a story that can be complained or proclaimed but either way, it will be told.  Grace is what turns my complaints into proclamations, and I feel the language of grace being absorbed by my heart every time I move from resentment to love, from bitterness to gratitude, in the midst of struggle or celebration, of just life–grace is the song I’m committing to memory.

A lot of the recent yuck comes from that ever-present concern of what others are thinking and how I appear.  But the people I hold closest have seen me with unbleached teeth, pale skin, and cheese-dip arms.  I don’t have to save face.  I can wander gardens without fear of the future now because I know the author of my story; I know the thirty-three year old who spent his last night in a garden for me.