I am blogging to say that I cannot blog today. I am too busy dead-bolting the office doors to keep the press away, abandoning my front-lines lobby perch, and hunkering down in the back at a desk with a spectacular view.

Yes, seriously. It’s been very exciting – in an “I might vomit” kind of way.

That is all I can say at the moment.

I do not have the vocabulary to understand what is going on, but all I can say is that the mood in my financial office today is “terrified” and “frantic.” It is times like this that make me glad that I have no money to speak of, because money makes certain people greedy and fearful.

And when those people screw up, it leaves a lot of honest, hard-working, generous individuals screwed over. My heart hurts for my co-workers.

Vicious? from Annie Parsons on Vimeo.

And this is AFTER we’ve become “friends.”

I won’t lie: this is a little bit frightening. But I’m a PARSONS, damn it. I’m from a long line of dog wranglers, and I’m going to make good Christians out of these German Shepherds if it’s the last thing I do.

But it very well might be the last thing I do.

Have you ever been really afraid of something? Totally terrified that this thing, this event, would be awful and painful and you just didn’t want to experience it… only to find that, when it happened, it wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it would be?

When I was a nanny, I took the boys to the doctor for their yearly check-up. This particular year, the older boy was due for shots. At 6-years old, the prospect of having a needle shoved into your arm is about as appealing as driving a nail straight into your forehead – and so, understandably, this boy was upset.

Understatement.

This boy was inconsolable. Thrashing with terror. Not screaming, not wailing – but shrieking out of absolute anxiety and alarm. No amount of words, wit, or bribery could calm him.

But he needed the shot. And the doctor was busy. So I had no choice but to wrap my entire body around this flailing little boy, and, gripping hard, to restrain him. Despite his maniacal shriek straight into my ear, the needle was in and out of his arm before he even knew it had happened.

And when we told him that it was over, his face relaxed, he stood up, and nonchalantly said, “That didn’t even hurt. Can we go get ice cream?”

A few months ago, I was really, really afraid of something. It stole my sleep, and caused a lot of tears, and kept me constantly on edge. I remember telling my mom, “I wish that it would just happen – that way, I wouldn’t need to be afraid of it anymore.”

Finally, it happened. And it was hard – for about a second. But then, the strangest thing occurred in my heart: I felt so much better, and moved forward. The thing that I was so afraid of was an obstacle, a hurdle, a hiccup in my journey. But once I was over it, the road became open and wide. And little by little, in the strangest ways, my prayer gets answered.

I think this calls for ice cream.

I worry. I worry about my bank account and my weight and my future. I worry that I am on the wrong track. I worry about gas prices and war and skin cancer. I worry about my lack of health insurance. I worry that I am never going to have the opportunities that I hope for. I worry about the fact that I am building nary a family nor a resume nor a nest egg.

But then I remember that everyone in my family is safe and healthy. I have been given the opportunity to chase a dream – something that not everyone has. I spend my free time going on walks with two working legs, and cooking delicious food, and thinking big, luxurious thoughts. Somehow, every month, I am able to pay my bills (almost) on time. I have a lot of shoes and a lot of clothes and a whole lot of washcloths. And I have a hope and a future.

So guess what, Tuesday? You can’t get me down.

I am back from illustrious Overland Park, KS, where I spent Memorial Day weekend. Currently, there is a lot to worry about. And there is a lot to be thankful for.

I checked in with my “agent” today – you know, the guy who is supposedly in charge of getting me jobs. I could call him a pimp, but I’m already calling myself the Temptress, and I’m pretty sure that all of that could add up to one hot mess. You can now probably Google “Annie Parsons hot temptress pimp mess,” and I’m sure that this will pop up.

I thanked this man for lining up this fabulous temp job for this week, and that I’m grateful for the opportunity and the income, and yes, I am dressing in “business professional” rather than “business casual” so don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing. Then, I got to my real questions: What about next week? Do you have a job for me for next week? I mean, I know I’m working here through Friday, but what about Monday? Am I going to be taken care of? Are you going to forget about me and give the job to someone else? Pay attention to me! What am I doing next week?

Have I mentioned that I am the kind of girl who likes things to be lined up, for sure, scheduled, signed sealed delivered? My life isn’t looking that way right now. And it’s hard. There is no way of knowing where – or if – I will be working next week.

But then, I remember the Israelites wandering in the desert. God always provided manna, but only enough for one day. When the people tried to stockpile and gather so much that they would have the assurance of having enough for tomorrow, it rotted before they were able to eat it.

So I am choosing to be grateful for today’s income, and for today’s needs being met. And I am trusting that the same will be true of tomorrow, the next day, and the 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.

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.