All day, the clock has ticked on. And all day, I have frantically thought, “What can I blog about?” Some days are just like that – nothing in particular that strikes my mind. Other days, I write 4 or 5 entries, and store them up for days like today.

But I’m out of those entries.

And so, as the clock is approaching midnight, and I want to have a blog posted before Monday is over, I reach back in the far recesses of my mind to bring you this gem. It has nothing to do with today. It has nothing to do with anything I have experienced recently. It is simply a story that I should share, if for no other reason than it is horrifying.

When I was a junior in high school, I went to prom with sweet Dylan Schoo. (That is not the horrifying part.) We stayed up all night with our friends, watching movies and talking and laughing, and the next morning, his mom made breakfast for all of us. Then, I went to church, and stayed up all Sunday long. When I finally crashed into bed on Sunday night, I was exhausted. So naturally, I overslept on Monday morning.

The alarm went off; I was late for school. I jumped out of bed, and frantically threw on clothes. I sat at my mirror, quickly applying makeup, making sure that my eyeliner was extra dark to hide my tired eyes. Though it didn’t make sense, as I was already running behind, I decided to take the extra second to use that pesky contraption called the “eyelash curler.”

I am not a frequent user of the eyelash curler. In fact, I think it’s quite silly. It’s the kind of apparatus that men will sit around a campfire debating its actual existence – as in, the men who live with women against the men who do not. A small metal clamp that women place against their eyelid, thus curling their eyelashes? Who knew?

But on that fateful morning, I clamped.

I clamped hard.

I clamped so hard that when my elbow slipped off of the desk, I ripped every last eyelash from my right eyelid.

If you are wincing as you are reading this, YES, IT HURT THAT BAD. The pain was intense, but it did not hold a candle to the alarm I felt when I opened my eyes and saw the eyelash curler still clenching every single one of my eyelashes. In my hand. Detached from my face.

There were tears. There was panic. There was absolute frenzied hysteria. In fact, I got in my truck and drove straight to the church where my mom was in a prayer meeting. I marched in and interrupted these ladies’ communion with the Lord because I’M SORRY BUT THIS IS MORE IMPORTANT.

I wore fake eyelashes for 3 months, until the real ones grew back.

The end.

You guys should see my new apartment. Really, you should. Unfortunately, my camera is out of commission, since I dropped it when I was in Seattle a few weeks back. And just like that, with a tiny crack, all of my road video dreams came to a screeching halt. I had grand plans of giving you a virtual video tour, but that will have to wait until I score a cash cow of a job, and have expendable income galore to get a new camera.

I will have to use words.

If you were to come to my house (MY HOUSE AAAAAAGGH!) this morning, this is what you would find.

- A 1940’s, one-story brick building on Music Row. Eight units in a U-shape around a little courtyard. Two steps leading up to my own front door. A porch light, and a curlicue number to mark it as mine.

- A tiny living room with refinished hardwood floors, furnished with my 1950’s vintage floral chair, and my grandmother’s copper-doored cabinet. And that is all. And will be all, for awhile. Today, the sun shines through the big windows and hits me as I type this.

- A huge kitchen, with a dishwasher and plenty of space for a kitchen table, but no immediate promise of a kitchen table. Very few (and very impractical) dishes grace the brand new cabinets. There is a baby-sized gas stove that freaks me out, and I don’t want to use it. I might have to get a hot-plate to cook my daily egg, because carbon monoxide is not something that I want to deal with.

- An old-school bathroom with peach and black tile on the floor and on the walls. It’s amazing – I love it. A shower with fire-hose-strength water pressure. A full-length mirror already mounted on the door – it’s the little things that I adore.

- A strong and free wireless signal. This is too good to be true.

- Two good-sized closets, now housing my clothes. Hung in order by color. Just like I have dreamed about every day since last June, when I moved out of my Seattle apartment.

- A little bedroom with a sleeping bag on the floor, which is where I woke up this morning. And I opened my eyes and looked around and thought, “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” I set out to move to Nashville and get my own place. And I’ve done it. No matter how long this lasts, and what kind of job I wind up getting, and how many weeks/months/years I decide to stay here… I did it.

That’s money in the bank.

Dear Grant (“the man that I live with”),
You have stored up major treasures in heaven.

We did not know each other – you were the friend-of-a-friend – and yet you graciously opened your doors to me. You helped me carry my huge purple suitcases, and big boxes of dishes and books, and all of my linens, into your spare bedroom. You gave me a corner of the shower to put all of my pink bottles of smell-goody shampoo. You cleared out the bottom shelf of the fridge for my eggs and bread and yogurt. You didn’t complain when I left my frying pan on the stove, morning after morning, because I don’t wash it every day between frying eggs… you didn’t even tell me I’m a gross human being for not doing so. You didn’t lose your mind when I put MY bedspread on your guest bed, just to make it feel more like home. You lent me your car to go pick up big pieces of furniture that I bought on Craigslist. You edited my resume. You told me what I should do if a tornado hits.

You didn’t kick me out. For over a month, and mostly with no end in sight, you let me stay.

I don’t know what I would have done without you. I am forever indebted. I’ll miss sitting in the living room at night, you always on the couch, me always on the love-seat (why did that always just happen?), talking about our days. I never cured you of your TV addiction, and you never cured me of my internet obsession, but hey – we tried.

Oh, and I’ve been meaning to bring something up. You use Mentadent toothpaste? The double-barreled wonder? I kind of forgot that existed.

Well, cool.

Gratefully,
Annie

There’s this woman named Sara Groves. She used to be a teacher in Minnesota, but now she tours as a singer/songwriter. She is one of my very favorite musicians; she has a conversational style of writing that cuts straight to the heart of the matter. Even when she introduces her songs before playing them, she proves herself to be eloquent and wise and absolutely real. Besides being, objectively speaking, one of the most stunning humans I’ve ever seen up close, her spirit is even more compelling. Sara Groves makes me want to be a more beautiful person.

There’s this girl named Julie. Julie and I have a mutual friend in Kansas City, and met up here in Nashville. She’s a nursing student at Belmont, and has gorgeous hair and a generous smile. She is high-spirited, vivacious, and truly interested in what I have to say. We have only known each other a short amount of time, but our interactions have been full of laughter and squealing and depth. I feel like I can be exactly myself around her. Julie makes me want to be a more beautiful person.

There’s this girl named Katie. Katie lives here in Nashville, and has Down syndrome. She attends high school and summer camp and Young Life Capernaum. She is exuberant and uninhibited, yelling out her emotions and dancing when she feels like it. She gives spontaneous hugs and loves people. She smiles and laughs and does not care who you are – she loves you anyway. Katie makes me want to be a more beautiful person.

To quote from a favorite Sara Groves song that I heard last night, sitting beside Julie and behind Katie, “And this is grace: an invitation to be beautiful.”

In the midst of the insanity that is my existence, I took a walk this afternoon. And as the sun shone down and I thought my many complicated and stressful thoughts, one thing kept popping into my head. Gratitude.

Over and over, there are things to be grateful for.

Despite uncertainty, despite my lack of health insurance, despite phone bills $100 more than they should have been, my life is pretty amazing. Things have a way of working themselves out. And joy has a way of finding its way back into my heart.

The trees are brittle and bare. There is a sharp edge to the wind, and the green grass is nowhere to be seen. It’s cold. It’s silent. But on some days, like today, there is sunshine. I am grateful for this season – this season of absence and anticipation. It means that the budding time is next.

I think that God gives us a lot of freedom to choose our own path in life. When it comes to the everyday decisions, I don’t believe that there are too many hard-and-fast absolute “rights” and “wrongs.” Should I ask that person out? Which car should I buy? Paper or plastic? God is big enough to handle whatever it is that we may decide, and use it for his good. After all, we have a God who is in the business of bringing life out of death.

However, I do believe that there are certain times where we are given a choice, and the outcome is of serious importance. There’s a fork in the road, and which path one chooses will direly affect that which is important in one’s life.

Today, I faced that decision.

I got hired. I worked 4 days. And today, for some serious reasons, I quit.

Then, I signed the lease on an apartment.

Backwards, huh? AM I INSANE? Cutting off my already-meager source of income, and then throwing every penny that I have at an apartment, simply because I feel deep down in my spirit that this is somehow going to work out? That this is the right path? That this is good?

I have always been one who makes decisions intuitively. Last night was spent in a relative panic about my situation: knowing that this job was not the job that I needed to be in, knowing that this apartment was where I wanted to live, knowing that Nashville is a place that I makes me come alive, despite the brick walls I have faced at every turn. It was a real soul-searching time of asking the question, “Should I even be here? Should I move back in with my parents in Kansas City? Am I crazy to have given up my amazing life in Seattle?” I prayed that God would give me the right answer, that he would appear in a pillar of fire or a cloud in the sky. I prayed. I asked. I waited.

No answer.

I cried myself to sleep, feeling alone and afraid.

And when I woke up this morning, before I could rationalize or be tugged back and forth by my emotions, I had the strong assurance of what I needed to do. “Quit your job. Sign the lease.” So I did. With great terror, but strong conviction, I did.

I am holding fast to the assurance that I will always have what I need when I need it. I am actively searching for employment. I am watching for the ways that God will provide, and listening for his whisper. And I am praising God that after 6 months in boxes, I AM NO LONGER HOMELESS!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!

People! I am now accepting visitors!

I’ve heard it said that “courage” is being the only person in the world who knows that you’re scared to death. Well, I suppose I’m blowing my cover. Tonight, I just feel a little bit scared.

I feel scared of failure. Of running out of money. Of never finding a place to live. Of making the wrong decisions. Of pursuing my dreams. Of not pursuing my dreams. Of getting cancer while I don’t have medical insurance. Of my car exploding. Of people being mad at me. Of gaining a million pounds. Of being alone. Of never living in Seattle again. Of never living near my family again. Of disappointing people.

Of caring too much.

Of caring too little.

For ages, America has been keeping a secret. In all of my road-tripping travels, I never unearthed the truth. But this weekend, all of that changed. What was once kept tightly under wrap is now being revealed via this blog. I experienced the Central West End of St. Louis. And it was amazing.

Equally cosmopolitan and quaint, the streets are lined with trees and brick buildings. Dignified and impressive homes on private streets extend from the urban hub outward, like spokes on a wheel. Boutiques and antique shops and restaurants keep the sidewalks busy with shoppers. Companion is a notable coffee shop; between free Wi-Fi and 30 cent mini-cookies, it worked its way into my heart very quickly.

The people-watching was awesomely diverse, with everyone from skinny hipsters to older couples walking hand-in-hand. My favorite find was a slightly cross-dressing man, almost retro in style. He wore tight jeans and a leather jacket, but also a woman’s blouse, diamond earrings, and pink lipstick. I watched him from my perch in the window of a restaurant, walking up and down the sidewalk on his cell phone. He was animated and flamboyant, gesturing wildly and laughing freely. It gave me the sense that if I sat down to talk with him, I’d probably think he was fabulous.

I watched other people pass him on the sidewalk, gaping and gawking at his gaudy, garish get-up. (Apparently, I like words that start with “G.”) It made me sad that we make assumptions about people before ever talking with them. Because when I walked past this man, I overheard him talking about a “costume change,” and I thought, I wish I could get in on that conversation. He was vibrant and colorful, and just as valuable as anyone else.

It reminded me of a speaker that I heard on a weekend retreat in college. I don’t remember who he was – I think he was famous, though. One of those Christian authors who are all the rage for a little while, and then fade into the background until they write another “Prayer of Jabez” or whatever. But this man talked about how we need to “ascribe worth” to every person that we meet. To every person that we come into contact with. To every person that we interact with at the grocery store and the mall and at work and in our homes.

With everyone that we come across, we need to take the posture of saying, “I ascribe worth to you.”

I think that would change the world.

Just my thoughts. And St. Louis was awesome.

January was a great run, in terms of blogs. Check it out – 28 posts! That is by far my highest record to date. I’m glad that you’re reading. I like you. Thanks for continually checking in and following along in the adventure that is my life.

It’s funny: I have always been a person who is a planner. I plan for my day, my week, my month, my year. I plan financially. I plan what I’m going to eat. I plan in order to reach my goals. I even plan when I’m going to shower – yes, I write it in my calendar.

But this is the first time in my life where there has been no plan. My story is not even sketched out – it is being written, day by day. In all areas, my life, rather than playing out in a very “scripted” and “planned for” way, is simply unfolding. I have absolutely no idea what is going on.

But as my friend George recently reminded me, we can only experience God in this present moment. Yes, he is the God of the past, and yes, he is the God of the future. He is omnipresent; we can look to the past and recognize his faithfulness, and look to the future with faith. But the only place that we can truly experience him is right now. So I am dwelling in that truth, and just being. I am existing with this weird contentment, anticipation, and excitement.

Today is a big day. Something is unfolding right now – something that I didn’t plan for or dream up. It’s crazy and insane and bizarre and exciting. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime. But until then, I need to go pack a bag and head out of town. Something is happening.