As a bridesmaid in San Diego this weekend, I was treated to a pre-wedding hair/makeup extravaganza. When first presented with the opportunity to have my hair and makeup done for me, I was hesitant – to say that Annie Parsons is a control freak is like saying that Courtney Love is a train wreck. I understand my hair and my face, thankyouverymuch – no need for any help.

Until I sat in the chair, and the stylist said, “Your hair teases like a champ.”

And I was like, “All of my dreams are coming true.”

Have I ever told you about my since-junior-high dream? My dream of looking like Faye in “That Thing You Do!”? I want to be alive in 1964. I love Liv Tyler so much. Someday, I hope to once again have a ponytail of her glory. And a boyfriend like Guy Patterson.

After my stint in the makeover chair, I was completely ritzy glitzy. My hair was big and bouffant. I had fake eyelashes – which, can I just say, are AMAZING. I was wearing a floor-length gown. Bibbity-bobbity-boo. For a girl who rarely feels pretty, it did my heart a world of good. Never again will I turn down a chance to be glamorous.

P is also for PS, which is for “Pretty in pink…” … which is the first line of my newest song! If you’re in need of some Monday morning sass, go check it out.

When your spirit feels stripped, when your foundation is rocked, when you watch your friend’s lives being torn in half like a giant bed sheet, you begin to wonder about this God – the one that you have never not known, the one that you have sung about since you can remember, the one that you have prayed to as naturally as breathing. And when the doubts and questions and anger start creeping in, it’s hard to think straight. It’s hard to remember what you know to be true. It’s hard to believe.

Over the past few days, I have seen everything – everything – through the lens of Ben Towne. Every conversation, every observation, every thought and attempt at prayer – everything has been colored by this bulldozer called cancer. How are we supposed to pray? What are we supposed to ask for? What is really true? What do I believe?

And in this dark and rocky time, I have fallen back on one prayer – the only prayer that I currently know to pray, the one that I’ve never had to memorize because I’ve always known it.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name.
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,
For Thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen.

Over and over, like a mantra, this prayer has been pumping through my veins. This is a prayer straight from Jesus’ lips – the way that he taught us to pray – and at this point, it’s the only thing I know. As my friends are living their absolute worst nightmare, I am offering this prayer with every breath.

Thy will be done. But also, deliver us from evil.

I am praying for both. And I don’t know what else to pray for – except for time. As much time as God will give them.

I believe that God is love. I believe that this world is broken. I believe that we were not made for pain and death – and that’s why it hurts so badly. I believe that there will come a day when creation is restored and renewed and redeemed. I believe that, in the grand scheme of eternity, our lives are a flash in the pan. I believe that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord. And I believe that God loves Ben, and God loves the Towne family, and that he sees them and has not abandoned them, and that none of this is a mystery to him. I have to believe that.

Last week, the stars aligned.

First, my friend Debbie dropped me an email, seemingly out of the blue, asking me if I read any Annie Dillard. My reaction: does Rick Astley shake his groove thang? Annie Dillard is breathtaking – one of my favorite writers. Her “Living Like Weasels” makes me want to throw a chair across the room, it’s so good. Debbie’s email reminded me to pick up my copy of “Teaching a Stone to Talk,” and ingest some meaty essays. I could feast on her words for days.

Then, my friend Handy Graham recommended the eastmountainsouth record. I already had one track from their 2003 (and only) album, but after Graham’s endorsement, was inspired to purchase the whole thing. It has not disappointed – this album has become the soundtrack to my world for the past couple of days.

A few days ago, the eastmountainsouth track “Still Running” popped up on my iPod, and I listened attentively to the words. The lyrics seemed familiar – balmy, true, trustworthy – and in a moment of synergy, I realized that it is based on an Annie Dillard essay, “God in the Doorway.”

This is as glowing a recommendation that I can give: get your hands on a copy of Dillard’s “God in the Doorway” and eastmountainsouth’s “Still Running.” Read the 3-page essay, and follow it immediately with the song. When I did, it was like chasing a cupcake with a glass of milk: good on their own, but together, divine.

(A word of caution:
Prepare yourself not for art, or beauty, or wisdom, or humor, or insight…
but simply for an explosion of my heart.)

Remember this mysterious, ambiguous entry?

I received an email this morning:

Annie,
Congratulations! You’ve passed our audition process…

And on June 21, 2009, I’ll be fulfilling one of my biggest dreams and playing at the Bluebird Café.

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!! YOU GUYS!!!!!!!!!!!

I am completely speechless.

I wish I could say that I rocked my audition, but… I didn’t. No, really – I DIDN’T. I was certain – sure – POSITIVE – that I wasn’t going to make it. I have never felt nerves like I felt that day; I could barely play my guitar, which is bad since I can barely play my guitar ANYWAY. I messed up the words to my song. I was freezing cold. I was shaking so badly that I couldn’t think straight. I have been nervous before, but have always been able to reason myself out of it. This time, I was completely out of control – no amount of self-talk or deep breathing or sheer force of will could calm me down.

I never in a million years expected to have made the cut. To some one else, this might not feel like a big deal. To me, it’s an answer. It’s confirmation. It’s hope. It’s the entire world.

I cannot believe it.

Dream your dreams, kids.

“How are you doing, Annie?”

A simple question – it could be passed off as small talk if it hadn’t been so intentional, so perceptive. And immediately, a few of the tears that had been hanging in the corners of my eyes for weeks just… let go.

She knew – she had sensed it. And the fact that she was able to read between the lines, and dig a little deeper, and ask the real questions, caused me to drop my suit of armor. She didn’t settle for the stories (Twin old ladies! Tour buses! Type from home scams!), the humorous and perky front that I so often put up, because she knew that she had permission to ask for the truth.

As some silent tears spilled, so did reality: deep wounds, and true fears, and the loss of hope, and the abandonment of some important dreams. The quiet death – the death that happens behind a smile. She was sensitive and responsive, intuitive and caring. I talked for a long time, and she listened. At the end, I apologized: “I’m sorry, I just spilled a TON.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “I wanted the long answer.”

To have a friend who wants the long answer is sometimes the most meaningful, humbling thing in the world. Thank you, Greta, for being the very best friend I could ever hope for.

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By the way, L is also for LABOR: between stripping/painting/refinishing my bedroom furniture, multiple runs to the hardware store, spray-painting some bulletin boards, rearranging my bedroom, baking cookies, hanging out at a bonfire, hiking 7 miles, grocery shopping, discovering Leiper’s Fork, showering and doing my hair (trust me: NOT an every day occurrence), going to church, attending a wine & cheese party, and catching up with Julie, I would say that I accomplished much this weekend. I even ran a 5K with this Annie – but that is the short answer.

Here is the long answer.

We come into this world vessels of beauty, pre-packed with purpose and potential. We are full of hope, full of possibility. But eventually, the various shapes and colors inside of us begin to shake around like a jigsaw puzzle, rattling our brains, and we long to make sense of the chaos. So we begin to unpack the contents of our hearts.

A green triangle. A red square. A yellow diamond.

We spread them out on the kitchen table, and attempt to arrange a mosaic that makes sense – pairing pieces together, turning them this way and that, feeling frustration at the bits that just don’t seem to fit. We focus on individual colors, scrutinizing and criticizing them for being purple, for being orange – for being exactly what they were meant to be. We want the shapes to combine and form a flower, a mountain, a rainbow – but no matter how hard we try, we cannot arrange them into something lovely. Our attempts yield us with nothing but a dull and flat sprawl of plastic chips and pebbles. And so we hang our heads.

We are disappointed and disheartened. Our high hopes have crashed. We believe that we will never achieve anything worth noticing. We have tried, but cannot come up with a lovely or worthwhile picture.

So we scoop up the pieces, and pour them back into the can.

But sometimes, our resignation is the opportunity for someone else to get a hold of us. Someone who made all of the colors, and the vessel that holds them. Someone who knows that the value is not in the doing, but in the simplicity of being. Someone who understood that life would be ever-shifting, but, wonder of wonders, designed us for beauty even when turned upside down – tumbling masterpieces.

All I must do is hold my face to the light, and turn.

Sometimes, my heart needs them.

Sometimes, my mind needs them.

Sometimes, my will needs them.

Sometimes, my faith needs them.

Thank goodness for my mom.

Who serves as the jumper cables to YOUR soul?

My weekend was packed with sundry events of note. For starters, on Friday afternoon at work, I took the elevator and made small talk with the other passenger – a complete stranger. He told me that he was throwing a party that night. I told him to have fun.

That night, I donned a red dress and met up with my friends Joy Beth and Julie to go to a cocktail party that Joy Beth had heard about. We arrived, and the guy from the elevator was hosting it. Imagine that.

My friend Kristen flew in from Seattle, and we drove down to Chattanooga on Saturday for a bridal shower. As we drove over the mountains, we talked about what it might be like if the brakes on my 18-year old Honda were to fail. We searched for runaway truck ramps, and pictured ourselves actually utilizing one. I am the queen of hypothetical situations – blame it on the fact that I am a planner and, generally, a pessimistic projector, always imagining the worst-case-scenario, no matter how outrageous – and so now I know where to find every runaway truck ramp on Lookout Mountain. Just in case – imagine that.

I left Kristen in the ‘Noog, and on my way back to Nashville on Sunday, I stopped to hike a portion of the Fiery Gizzard trail. It felt like Church in the Woods; I walked and climbed and prayed and sang and listened. I also imagined myself slipping off the trail and careening down an embankment to the creek below, breaking both ankles and having to crawl back to civilization, stopping only to check for non-existent cell phone service. It didn’t happen. But WHAT IF IT DID? It’s good to think through one’s options and wilderness survival plan, so imagine that. Not that I have any survival skills. I don’t even have a Swiss Army Knife.

The weekend wrapped up with some late-night laundry at Josh’s house, while watching “Young at Heart” with him and Meg. If you haven’t seen this movie, do. Just do. It will make your spirit glad – you will laugh, and cry, and grin unreservedly. In a culture that so emphasizes youth and beauty and glamour, to have old people singing and dancing their way straight into your heart… imagine that.

Confession: I haven’t felt like going to church lately.

Blame it on the fact that this is the first time in my life when I haven’t HAD to go to church. As a pastor’s daughter, and then a student at a Christian university, and then a worship leader and church employee, it’s easy to think that I’ve banked enough Sundays in a pew to be able to coast for a good long while. Here in Nashville, if I didn’t show up, no one would notice. No one would fire me. No one is forcing me to go.

Yesterday, I didn’t want to go to church. I spent all day fighting my own justifications, and trying to find a worthy reason not to go. I want to watch my Netflix? I want to go on a long walk? I don’t want to have to talk to anyone? I haven’t Swiffered my floors in awhile? I need to organize my closets? I need to touch up my pedicure? And I’ll read my bible at my kitchen table, I promise! These were my very serious attempts at “good reasons.”

But if there’s anything that I’ve been learning in the past year, it is the importance of showing up. How can we expect God to move in our lives if we don’t show up? If we don’t put ourselves out there? If we don’t take some tiny step of action? The whole “God can’t steer a parked car” idea.

So at 5pm, I went. I showed up – begrudgingly, at first. But I sang the songs, including a hymn that proclaims that “Jesus is a rock in a weary land, a shelter in the time of storm.”

My life has felt stormy lately, as have many of yours. For me, it hasn’t been a hurricane – just the occasional sprinkle of tears and the winds of loneliness, accompanied by the heavy and ever-present haze of self-doubt and insecurity. And my meager efforts at self-protection and security are as flimsy as a plastic umbrella. From Wal-Mart.

But Jesus provides a safe haven, and one of the means he uses is the Church. Say what you want to say about nasty church politics, and the hypocrites within its walls – which, sadly, can be very true realities – but even still, God moves in and through his people when they gather together.

We live in a culture of “What’s in it for me?” and we choose churches based on how they make us FEEL. Is the worship awesome? Do I leave feeling totally joyful? Are there cool people there? Is the service 60 minutes or less, because I’m really busy, you know. Get in, get out – and if you don’t leave feeling completely satisfied, then go some place where you will. I know that I’m guilty of these thoughts.

But I owe everything that I have and everything that I am to Jesus. On my own, I am nothing – he is the one who gives beauty for my ashes, strength for my fear, and peace for my despair. And despite the way that I FEEL, he is worthy of my devotion and worship – which is reason enough to show up at church, even if I don’t have to. He meets me wherever I am. He is a shelter in a time of storm. Amen.

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As a kind-of-related aside, I adore hymns. I love hymns the same way that I, like Greta, love “The Sound of Music” soundtrack – songs that I don’t remember ever learning, but have simply always known. Hymns use fantastic words like “betide” and “sustaineth” and “whereby,” and speak the truth in a way that undoes me. In my mind, they are the meatiest form of art that there is.

G is a very nice letter, don’t you think? Not as nice as A – A is just so sturdy and stable. It would be hard to knock over an A, what with its solid base and symmetrical shape. A is the best letter. But G is nice, too. It might roll around a little bit and flounder, but it is more than just a C, because it has a kickstand to steady itself during the times when it really counts.

G is a worthwhile letter because without it, we would never hear giggling or gurgling. Girls would not gaggle. There would be no giraffes or grapes or gouda or gifts or Greta. Gallantry would not exist, and neither would gentlemen in general. I would never feel glad or giddy or glamorous.

True, there would also be no gauntlet, guillotine, or gut-wound. No guns, no grief. No germs. No goodbyes.

But all in all, G is good. Without it, this blog is just a blo.