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.

This whole “chase your dreams” thing is scary business. In the span of one week, I don’t know that I have ever felt so uncomfortable, uncertain, afraid, lonely, or self-doubting. I am one who loves structure, and for things to be “set.” I want to know where the money is going to come from. I want to know what I’m doing tomorrow. I want to know how to get to Target.

And none of those things are true for me right now.

But when we’re isolated and scared and insecure, we have a choice: to fall apart, or to lean all of our weight on Jesus. This week, I have started praying a new prayer: that God would feed my faith and starve my fear.

Today, I passed on a great apartment in East Nashville – a big, comfortable abode that would have been a great place to live, but would have required me making a certain amount of money. I could make that money, too – but it might require me taking a job that would suck the life out of me.

I came to Nashville for a specific purpose: to sing harmonies and improve my writing. If those are the things that I want to do, then those are the things that I need to be pursuing… NOT a full-time corporate job that’s going to pay me the most money. Money would be nice. But it’s not why I’m here. And for me, to take a job simply because it pays well would be acting out of fear. Fear of not having enough, fear of insecurity, fear of everything falling apart. I do not want my life to be dictated by fear.

And so I wait, and I pray. I pray that I would not make decisions out of fear of insecurity, but that I would wait patiently for what is right. It’s so uncomfortable. But I trust that there is a life for me here, and that every detail will make itself clear in time.

My dad and I are flying to Richland, WA, today to say our goodbyes to my grandpa. We bought last-minute tickets, and needless to say, the past 24 hours have been chaotic.

One of the tasks I had last night was to find something appropriate to wear to a memorial service. Now, given the circumstances, perhaps this should have been the last thing on my mind. Maybe this was a vain endeavor. But when it comes down to it, I simply do not own anything appropriate to wear to a funeral. Period. The only black dress that I own is a saucy little number that someone once called my “sex on a stick” dress. And can you imagine? The blatant impropriety? It would be the horrifying equivalent of wearing white to someone else’s wedding, or saying “bomb” on a plane.

And yes, even if I wore a shawl.

Earlier yesterday, at Dooce’s recommendation, I went out and bought these shoes – and on a terrific sale, I might add. So last night, I was searching for something that would complement my new wedges. Perhaps I was working backwards?

Here’s the problem with shopping for a funeral dress during the holidays: nothing is basic. Everything is flashy. Everything is jewel-toned and sparkly and velvet and see-through. Rule of thumb: funeral attire should not be capable of doubling as your New Years’ get-up. In fact, if you can even refer to something as “get-up,” then it should get the proverbial trap door.

In a brief hour and a half period, I searched high and low: Nordstrom, Macy’s, Dillard’s, Banana Republic, Ann Taylor, Target, even Kohl’s (gasp) and Wal-Mart (scandal!). I ventured into stores playing music featuring backup singers who were panting. I saw sheaths that appeared to be shredded, but were, in fact, “meant to look that way.” What ever happened to a basic, affordable, modest-yet-well-cut dress? That I could possibly wear again?

I returned home defeated, empty-handed, with a blister from my new shoes. And I went up to my room, opened some boxes, and searched until I found a black skirt and top. That’ll do.

Perhaps my urgency in insisting that I find a new dress was in order to distract my mind from the fact that I am about to see death up close – something that has never happened before. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bit scared.

And yet, selfishly, I pray that we arrive in time. I hope we’re not too late.

This weekend, I talked to a 7-year old girl who had recently lost her first tooth. A gap in her grin, Claire told me that no, it didn’t hurt when the tooth fell out. Something about the momentous occasion that losing your first tooth ever is took me back to my own experience of the occasion.

I remember having that tiny bottom baby tooth, no bigger than a Tic-Tac, wiggling back and forth, back and forth. My tongue would push it around each day, loosening its bond with the gum, fretfully anticipating the day when it would finally fall out. My older brother Jeremy had already lost several teeth, and he assured me that it was a crazy experience – painful and traumatic – a right of passage that he had survived, and valiantly, but not without agony. He encouraged me to tie a piece of dental floss around the tooth, and attach it to a door, which he offered to slam; this would be a far less torturous experience than the slow, natural process.

I was terrified.

In my limited knowledge, I believed my brother. My fear forced me into trusting that his experience would be mine, too – that this was going to be the most harrowing event of my young life. And there was no escaping it. Unquestionably, the tooth was going to fall out, like it or not – and I would probably lose a lethal amount of blood in the process.

How often do we take someone else’s word for it? I know that I regularly listen to other people’s accounts of their exploits, good or bad, and assume that if I tried the same thing, my experience would be identical. My fear keeps me firmly imprisoned in settling for the truth that others have experienced, and not challenging myself to test the waters on my own.

But I am relishing my new-found callously courageous existence. I am learning to trust my gut, and make bold moves simply because what if it works? I am finding the balance between listening to the advice of those trusted friends who have earned the right to speak into my life, and letting go of the inessential pointers from the peanut gallery.

I think this is what “growing up” feels like.

When my first tooth finally fell out, it was painless. I felt around with my tongue, detecting the vacant hole where the tooth had once stood, and thinking that the gap that was left felt impossibly large. I lived. And the next time, I wasn’t so afraid.

Some days are very normal, basic, routine. Today was not one of those days. And actually, it deserves a long, thorough blog. We’re pretty good friends by now – I hope you’ll read until the end.

This morning at 5am, my dad, our dear friend Dan Clader, and I left for Mt. Sneffels (elevation 14,150 feet) in the San Juan mountain range of Colorado. Our mission? To walk/climb/scramble our way to the very top.

Now, I consider myself as being in good shape. I exercise daily, eat the right sorts of things, and when it comes to cardio activity, can keep up with most anyone. However, Dan and Dad are not just “anyone.” These men are mountaineers, highly experienced climbers, who have climbed every one of the 54 peaks over 14,000′ in Colorado. Still, they were excited to have me along as such an eager participant – especially since I spent the majority of my childhood as lazy, sluggish, and apathetic toward the outdoors. It’s a new era. I am Active Woman. I walk, run, hike, lift, and yes, sweat my brains out in hot yoga.

Still, Colorado mountain climbing is a whole different animal than hiking the smooth trail on Mt. Si in the Washington Cascades. The Rockies are rough, rugged, and demanding. I have spent the past 7 years at glorious sea level, breathing loads of delicious oxygen. Could I really keep up on an expedition beginning above tree line?

I’m so glad that you asked. My friends, do read on.


For the first 2 hours, I proved myself to be a worthy climber. Quick and strong, with plenty of endurance, I raced up switchbacks, scrambled through rock fields, and maneuvered up and over huge boulders. I continually scraped my hands on sharp rocks, and the blood soon crusted into my the creases of my knuckles. The terrain was complicated, and our big dog Rowdy was having a rough go at times; Dan and Dad fashioned a harness for him, and together they lifted/pulled/heaved his poor, terrified bulk through the cliffs and crags. Nevertheless, all in all, we were making good time.

But then, everything changed. Suddenly, the ground rose rapidly, and my feet were no longer a reliable source of balance; my body was forced to double over at the waist to grab hold of the rocks. The scramble turned into a full-on rock climb, sans ropes, ascending stone walls with open air all around us. Dan led the way, and coached me on where to put my right hand, right foot, left hand, left foot. This worked for awhile, but ultimately, his help and encouragement could not stop my inextinguishable fear of heights. “Uncomfortable” turned to “frustrated,” and then, without warning, “frustrated” turned to “terrified.”

And in an instant, I felt as though a huge piece of soggy bread was stuck in my throat. “I can’t breathe,” I gasped, and hugged the side of the cliff. In the same way that the wind was whipping over the mountain face, I sucked for breath, air over gravel. Dad and Dan spoke calming words, that I could do it, that I couldn’t stop here – but alas, the panic had set in, and refused to give up its foothold. The tears welled in my eyes, and when I squeezed them shut, huge droplets appeared on my cheeks. I clasped the precipice, face to the rock, and willed myself to flee the situation I was in.

- – – – – – – -

It is the summer before 4th grade, and I stand atop a bluff, my back to the drop-off. My camp counselor assures me that I am harnessed in, that I cannot fall, that I am safe. But it cannot be true – I cannot possibly stand with my heels hanging over the edge, trust the rope, and lean backwards. I cannot rappel to the flat ground below. Tears overflow, I cannot breathe. I will not make it off this cliff alive. But, wonder of wonders, I lean back, and find myself staring straight up at the blue sky, suspended with my feet against the rock wall by nothing but a rope and a belay. I rappel. And I survive.

I am 14, and clinging to the top of the “Power Pole,” part of the ropes’ course on a group retreat. Hand over hand, I have climbed the 23 feet to the top – now, all that I need to do is to place my feet on the tiny surface on top of the pillar, raise myself to an upright position, balance with nothing to hold onto, rotate 180 degrees, and then leap to a trapeze suspended 8 feet away. That’s all. Instead, I wrap my arms and legs around the pole and cry. I cannot breathe. I cannot possibly do what is required of me. But, wonder of wonders, I tentatively place one foot, then both feet, on top of the wooden post, swiftly push my body up, swivel to face the trapeze, and jump. And I live.

- – – – – – – -

I open my eyes. I have been clinging to the cliff face for 20 seconds. I blink rapidly – once, twice, three times – willing myself to see clearly again. I take a few deep, calming breaths, and remind myself that I have felt this way before, and I have lived to tell the tale. I envision myself gathering my courage, cupping my hands and drawing every ounce of available gallantry to myself. And wonder of wonders, I move my hand, move my foot. I continue with the climb.

We summitted at 10am, and each of us had tears – this time, from the sheer thrill of success, of victory, of the triumph over fear. We stayed on the freezing crown of Sneffels for about 12 minutes before the weather started to roll in, then it was time to scramble down the mountain. With lightning illuminating the sky all around us and corn snow pelting us in the faces, we ran for the last 1/2 mile to the car, and collapsed into the Durango exhausted and wet, weary and elated. We were victors, surviving grueling physical exertion, emotional trauma, and extreme weather.

Then I came home and ate a hamburger and watched “Blades of Glory.”

I have lived alone for the past 2 years, and to be honest, there are very few times that I wish for a roommate. I love to have my space, and to know that if I clean up, the house stays clean. Or if I leave a mess, I’m the only one who has to deal with it. Silence is a beautiful thing, as is my iTunes on shuffle – and it’s wonderful to have the freedom to choose which to exercise on any given night.

That said, there are a few times when I wish that there was somebody else around:
1) When I am dying my hair.
2) When I have nightmares (happening all-too-often these days).
3) When I find a Huge-Ass Bug (HAB).

Number 3 happened this morning.

I awoke to my alarm, and, channeling the magnificent Dolly Parton, I “tumbled out of bed and stumbled to the kitchen, poured myself a cup of ambition.” There I sat, peacefully enjoying my coffee and egg-on-toast, catching up on the news through Good Morning America – a very typical morning for me. I opened the blinds to look up at the sky, attempting to decipher what the weather might do today, and deemed it a good morning for a long walk. Time to change my clothes.

I turned and walked back down the hall (and by “down the hall,” I mean 2.8 feet) to the bedroom. I make it just inside the doorway when I see it. IT. The worst HAB of them all: a tarantula. On my ceiling. Which, if you’ve seen my apartment, translates to “3 inches above my head, ready to drop and lay its eggs in my flowing locks.”

[Pause] Right. So. I don’t know if it was actually a tarantula, but it was by far the biggest spider I have ever seen – the type that you know that if you crush it, you will hear its very bones snap. And I am not joking – I would not joke about this. HAB’s are no laughing matter – they are of grave consequence.

[Unpause] Where were we? Ah yes, the HAB and I in a face-off, its legs creeping out toward me and venom dripping from its fangs. I saw my own reflection repeated over and over in its multi-faceted eyeballs. Man against beast, I knew that this apartment was not big enough for the both of us. And I knew what I had to do.

I slowly backed out of the bedroom, violently shaking both hands, my face twisted into a permanent expression of horror, and mumbling pitiful words like, “No, no, not me, NOT ME, ewww, no no no, why, God, why?” And then, in what can only be described as an out-of-body experience, I grabbed the closest magazine that I could find. And charged the bedroom William Wallace style.

Let this be a lesson to arachnids everywhere. I take no prisoners, and leave nothing but awe in my wake.