As Christians, we are called to mourn with those who mourn, and rejoice with those who rejoice.  But often times, it feels like the mourning part actually comes more easily; the whole rejoicing thing often strikes a very sensitive spot in our hearts, surfacing the ugly things that we don’t like to admit we struggle with, like jealousy, and bitterness, and loneliness, and disappointment.

I will be honest: these can be my ugly truths.  Not my ALWAYS truths, but my occasional old faithfuls.  They are comforting like bourbon, burning on the way down – but hot damn, it feels good.

I have been a bridesmaid more times than I can count.  In a few weeks, I will aisle-walk for the 4th time in just 9 months – not to mention the many, many times over the past 8 years.

And here is the very honest truth: sometimes, behind the hair and the smile and the makeup and the $80 shoes, it can sting.  Even in the midst of believing wholeheartedly in the couple, and seeing her girlfriend so deliriously happy it’s infectious, and wanting nothing less than the entire world for her friends, even the most confident and unhurried woman can question if it will ever happen for her.

By the way – and I’m pretty confident that every woman reading this could back me up – this is not “desperation.”  This is “design.”  So shush – I don’t want to hear it.

Yesterday, I stood in Seattle beside one of my very best friends, Miranda, as she married the man of her dreams, Will.  Their story is so outlandish, so romantic, so heart-stopping, it’s preposterous.  It’s the kind of story that has the potential to kill the hope in a single girl’s heart, because whoa – that is so not fair.

But standing as witness to their vows, I saw truth, and beauty, and intensity, and love.  I heard them make promises to each other that will not be easy to keep – but voiced my agreement that I will do everything in my power to encourage and uphold them.  And I found myself so moved by the event, by their pledges, by the small group of people who literally circled them in support and love, that hardened shell around my very sensitive heart cracked, and out flowed pure joy.

If the ability to simply rejoice isn’t a miracle, I don’t know what is.

Miranda and Will’s story reminds me to believe that impossible stuff can happen, that some things are worth holding out for, and most of all, that God is faithful.  It’s a story so important that it prompts me to write about it here, no matter how vulnerable it feels to admit “It’s hard to watch my friends get married” or “I struggle with hope.”

So what if I do.  So what if YOU do.

God’s faithfulness doesn’t change.

And the story that is being told through Miranda and Will, and me, and you, is better than any romantic comedy.

Congratulations, my sweet friends.  I am elated with you, and was so honored to be a part of your day.  I love you both!

Hearken back to Monday’s post.  What was meant to be a shoulder shrug, a lark, a lighthearted jab at my pal Andy, actually sparked quite the response.  While I got a lot of “You go, girl!” comments from women, I have been much more impacted by what I have heard from the men – whether in comment, email, or response via their own blog post.  And while there is no way that I will be able to say everything that there is to say today (yeah, or ever), here is what has been rattling around in my brain this week.

If there is anything that I want to be, it is humble – humble, and teachable.  So THANK YOU to the brave dudes (especially Joey – the catalyst for many of these thoughts today) who had the guts – spine – balls – to challenge my thinking.

Which brings me to my first point: it was wrong of me to emasculate men – denying them of the very thing that makes them male (um… balls… sheesh, I can’t wait to see what keywords bring people to this post) – for not being able to communicate in the way that most women would like them to.  I am not a man-hater – I LOVE men! – and in no way desire to make eunuchs out of a bunch of surely well-meaning guys.  I’m sorry for sounding – snip, snip – harsh and judgmental.

Here’s the deal: in an ideal world, men would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, women would communicate clearly.  In an ideal world, both sexes would have eyes to see and ears to hear the other person loud and clear.

That is obviously not the world that we live in – due to culture and socialization and upbringing and experiences.  So things get a little bit muddy, a little bit complicated, and sometimes, a little bit… hostile.  Men aren’t up front with their feelings.  Women send mixed signals – a “come hither” straight into a stiff arm.  One person doesn’t know who he is, the other doesn’t know what she wants – or vice versa.  Television only adds to the confusion, portraying men as bumbling idiots, and women as capable-yet-snarky ice queens (think “Everybody Loves Raymond,” or “Home Improvement”).

Who are we?  Who should we be?  Men and women alike are confuzzled.

I so wish that was a real word.

When it comes to love, we’ve all been hurt.  We’ve all been disappointed.  We’ve all got skeletons in the closet, and wounds that haven’t quite healed.  And for as much as we want them, it’s easy to make the opposite sex into the “enemy.”  I have my own stories – things that have happened that have made me a bit gun-shy when it comes to putting myself out there – and when I think of these disgraces, even years later, I still want to bury my head in the sand.

I think it’s safe to say that on a very fundamental level, women want to feel “worth it” to a guy – worth the risk, worth whatever it takes.  But hello – this is 2009.  A man can’t exactly prove his devotion by riding into battle with her hanky in his pocket.  So some of us feel like the least he could do is say, “Hey, you seem great.  I’d love to take you out sometime?”

Then again, the feminist movement sort of threw a wrench in that plan.  We women-folk sure asserted our independence, didn’t we?  Dang it.  We’ve stabbed ourselves in the back.  But that’s another post entirely…

Bottom line: I am backing off from the stance I took on Monday, however playfully I meant it when I first wrote it.  I don’t expect for a guy to take the reins, run the show, ask me out, sweep me off my feet, order me the lamb chop at some swanky restaurant while I sit mute and adoring.  Can you imagine?  Me?  Being conquered?  I do hope for a partnership, with honest and frank communication, equal parts respect and affection – and prior to a relationship, I think that means that both parties are going to need to communicate our interest in whatever way makes sense.

Sigh.  This just zapped every ounce of brain power I possess.

We all just want to matter to someone.

I wish it was easy.  And I hope that one day, it will be.

Here in America, we are taught that all men are created equal.

So no one should be “out of one’s league,” right?

We try to pretend that everyone deserves a fair shot – that there are no “leagues” – but when it comes to love, we employ our own silent caste system. We say that attraction is not the most important thing, but our relationships (and sometimes lack of relationships) tell a different story. We agree with John Lennon and sing, “All you need is love” – yeah, that… and a job, and a hot body, and chemistry, and a quick wit, and these days, a blood test.

I don’t know how anyone ever gets married.

Don’t get me wrong – these are not the rantings of a bitter and cynical woman. I WANT to fall in love – those of you who know me know that my heart is still soft. I hope that it happens for me someday. But I’m perplexed. I don’t understand how it ever happens – how the stars align, bringing the right people together at the right time. I don’t want to settle – but as Andy Merrick recently wrote:

“We’re acting like a contestant on Deal Or No Deal. We’re making this a game. We KNOW you’re interested in us. We have you. Maybe you’re the $500,000 case. But we’re greedy. We think there’s a $1,000,000 case out there. We don’t know for sure, but we’re hoping.”

Are we being ridiculous? Are we hoping for something that just does not exist? It’s like we’re designing our own paint-by-number mates, and unless everything fits just perfectly – the exact perfect color within the exact perfect lines – then we hold out for something (and someone) “better.”

Sheesh. I wish it was easy – easy like Sunday morning.

But never fear! Contrary to what many men assume about single women, I am not going to spend Valentine’s Day crying in my pajamas, eating peanut butter off of a spoon and cursing the boy who broke my heart in high school. Sometimes, I’ll admit, I get a little bit sad about being single, but it seems to me that I’m in good company. And this year, my holiday weekend is full of so many delightful things, it’s insane.

My favorite little wood sprite (and the closest thing I have to a soul-mate), Greta Girl, is flying in tonight.

Seriously, could I HAVE a cuter friend?

A group of us are spending Valentine’s Day at the Bluebird Café to hear Josh and Meg play – Lovebirds at the Bluebird (awwww!).

Aren’t they the best? I want them to adopt me. They kind of already have. I’m practically their love child.

We’re attending Charlie Hardin’s CD release at the Rutledge on Monday night.

Charlie is one of my favorite musical discoveries here in Nashville – amazing songs, and an astounding voice. If you live here, you should come to this show. His EP is called “Hollywood Be Thy Name” – how could it NOT be good?

Also, I plan on exercising my love languages several times this weekend.

Because after all, all you need is love… and in my case, some beautiful friends and a glass of Syrah.

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?

It’s hard to believe – impossible to believe – but one year ago today I moved away from Seattle. I just went back and re-read the entry I wrote that day, and it remains one of the most honest things I have ever written; it hits at a deep place, even 365 days later… excuse me – 366. It was a Leap Year.

When I left, I didn’t have a real sense of how long I would be gone, but at my core, I hoped that it would be less than a year. You know: go find myself, get it over with already, and then quickly head home – preferably to get married and buy a house and have babies. The past year has exposed the extent to which I have desired the American Dream – I didn’t realize how much I wanted it until I willingly chose such a solo and unstable lifestyle. In my discomfort, I have longed for comfort. In my confusion, I have longed for clarity. In my chaos, I have longed for calm.

In my anonymity, I have longed to be known.

Moving is, if nothing else, very lonely.

But the past year has also taught me that life is not a checklist; it cannot be a checklist. I cannot look at my circumstances and think, “Once I get this-and-that,” or “When I achieve such-and-so,” I will be one step closer to success, wholeness, and legitimacy. I cannot expect that the American Dream is going to make me happy, because honestly, I am watching it fall flat for people all around me. A home does not equal stability. Money does not equal contentment. And most tragically, love does not necessarily equal forever.

I still hope for these things. In my most honest moments, I have a deep desire for a good and honorable man to share my life with – one whom I will love wholeheartedly and unequivocally. I want babies of my own. I want family vacations and birthday parties and a Bernese Mountain Dog and all of the wonderful goods damnably reserved for wedding registrations. I want a car with keyless entry and a house with a walk-in closet.

Maybe these things are in the cards for me. Maybe not.

But more than anything, I want to walk the road intended for me. And right now, that road continues here in Nashville. It’s all that I have, and it’s all that I am, and despite all feelings to the contrary, I am never alone.

Lately, I have been made acutely aware of a certain discord in romantic relationships between people of my generation. Now, I am not currently dating anyone. However, these observations have come from my own experiences as well as those around me – I’m not pointing the finger at any one person, or any one gender, for that matter. I’m just going to share my thoughts, simple as they may be.

If you’re feeling particularly sensitive today, maybe you should take some deep breaths before reading this. Are you ready? Consider yourself warned.

I have noticed that most humans are looking for fulfillment. In my experience, women generally look for that fulfillment in the context of relationship, while men generally look for that fulfillment in the context of autonomy.

I said generally. Stop bristling.

So when men and women interact, and coexist, and begin to let their guard down with each other, generally a conflict rises out of the tension between what they are each looking toward for fulfillment: the woman tends to look to the man, while the man tends to look away. The woman asks, “Do you love me? Do you think I’m beautiful? Am I worth it to you?” And the man says, “I can’t be responsible for you. I’m not ready to commit. I need to be free.”

The man sees the woman as needy. The woman sees the man as an asshole.

I propose that we need to stop looking toward the wrong things for fulfillment in the context of romantic relationships. Women need to stop expecting the man to fulfill her. Men need to stop looking toward independence to fulfill him.

Again. GENERALLY.

Women, we need to stop asking the hubba-hubba man to dictate our worth. If the God of the universe created us, and knows us inside and out, and calls us worthy and beautiful and captivating, then honestly, what else do we need? A man is just a man. He’s never going to be enough to fulfill us – it’s unfair to expect that of him. And a man’s opinion of us – favorable or otherwise – happens to have absolutely no bearing on our worth. So maybe we should just start trusting that our worth is already determined, and nothing can ever change that. Let’s rest in the fact that we are LOVED, and move forward into our relationships with confidence. We’ve been watching too much of “The Notebook.”

And men, maybe it’s time that you stop looking toward experiences and autonomy and wild adventures to fulfill that hole inside. Being in a healthy relationship with a good woman will not be an emasculating thing – in fact, some of the most honorable men I know have told me that their marriages have been the biggest and best adventure that one could possibly embark on. That restless ache inside of you is not going to be fulfilled by freedom or the mountains or the ability to sow your oats or a lack of responsibility. That hole is only filled when we ask God, “Who do you say I am?” I have watched too many men turn their back on good, substantial women, for fear of being “tied down.”

What do I know? Am I hypocritical? I’m just a 25-year old single girl who, trust me, does NOT believe these things easily. I want a man to come and sweep me off my feet and tell me that I am beautiful and that he will never, ever leave me. I really want that – and I have asked for it and expected it. But as a result, I have been severely disappointed and deeply hurt by numerous guys. It has felt unfair. It has left me tempted to launch into bitter diatribes at weddings, and bridal showers, and every time I get another freaking Save-the-Date card in the mail. I am definitely a person in process.

But I invite you to be a person in process alongside me. Because the way that it’s going isn’t working.

Yesterday, I spent upwards of 5 hours shredding documents at my work. I filled 6 Hefty bags full of confetti, and succeeded without getting a single paper cut. I only jammed the shredder once, and wound up completely sweaty from the heat of the hulking machine. At financial companies, they don’t mess around with their shredders – they invest in high-powered, serious beasts.

And so, feeling incredibly satisfied from my completion of the monumental shredding task, I was reminded that I had a stack of papers at home that I have been meaning to shred. I brought them in today, ready to feed them to the grating teeth of the destroyer. Some old bank statements, credit card applications, and…

Some letters. Letters from ex-boyfriends.

I’ve had this stack of letters for a while. While dating each of these guys, I saved cards and notes, and printed out certain emails, positive that these words were going to be important memories to share with our hypothetical-someday-grandchildren.

I don’t know a girl who doesn’t, on some level, think this way.

When I moved out of my apartment in Seattle last summer, I purged myself of so many unnecessary things. But for some reason, I bundled up these letters. I couldn’t get rid of them. They reminded me of the existence of love – and that maybe it could happen for me again.

Recently, I started feeling like maybe these letters – filled with once-meaningful, but what I now see as cheap words and empty promises – were weighing me down. Why was I holding on to them?

I mean, really: these are the same guys that propelled me to write a song that ends, “I don’t have much heart left to break.” Why keep any – any – remembrance of them? Good riddance, right?

So I brought them to work today. To shred the hell out of them.

But before I did, I took one last read-through.

And call me crazy, but I cannot destroy these letters.

Some of the kindest words ever bestowed on me are in these letters. I had to re-read certain paragraphs, baffled by the pure goodness and generosity and love that had, at one point, been poured out onto me. I had forgotten how these words felt. These words bring life. And though I am not expecting a resurrection of romance with any of these guys, these letters make my heart believe in the connection between two humans. They remind me that I actually do have a lot of heart left to break.

And that’s a good thing.

Maybe someday, I will shred, burn, bury these letters. But not today. I can’t do it today.

I’m no poet.

In the past, I have fretted over the fact that I am not a poet. How can someone who loves words and beauty and communication and emotions so much not have a poetic soul – a deep spring of sparkling and devastating words, words that cause others to pause and reflect and absorb? How will I ever write a good song if I am not a poet? For the life of me, I cannot write eloquently or metaphorically or artistically. I can only write simple, tongue-in-cheek, authentic accounts of what I know to be true – which, I suppose, can work in country music and, well, blogging.

But I appreciate when other people craft their words in a way that makes me stop and think, and to emerge on the other side with a certain familiarity with myself that I didn’t have before.

Today, I got an email from my friend Miranda. Miranda occasionally offers these zingers of sentences – words that stick to my ribs and cause me to return to the idea again and again.

This is what she said:
“When part of what is in your deepest fabric is silently remembered by what is in another’s deepest fabric, you are so much more at rest.”

What a beautiful idea: silent remembrance.

That is love.

There’s this fantastic thing that happens whenever I fly into Seattle at night.

The approach is always from the southeast, and I start watching for the city about 25 minutes before landing, as soon as the captain announces “our initial descent.” Pretty soon, the orange lights begin to twinkle in the distance. We fly over the mountains and the rivers and the black, lightless voids that are the big lakes, until finally, the city is below. I find Wallingford. I find my old college. I find Lake Union and the 520 bridge and the big orange cranes by the piers, and the black, spindly Columbia Tower in miniature.

And my heart sings. I love Seattle.
When I landed, I had no less than SIX messages from my Seattle family, wondering if I was here yet. You know that feeling of being wanted? Being known? Being loved? While I have always known that I am loved by my friends and family, I have spent the past 4 months in relative anonymity, moving every couple of days, never staying in one place for too long. So to have SIX messages from those who love me was extra, extra special.

I have never been one to love a big gaggle of girls. I was not in a sorority, I’ve never lived “in community” with a bunch of other women – and thank God, really. Who wants to synchronize menstrual cycles?

However, I have always had some close, amazing, individual girl friends. Last night, I found myself in a room with four of my best.

And I realized: I am a member of a gaggle of girls.

The fabulous Ms. Mary Hiemstra (my style and etiquette guru) and me:

Me, Ms. Greta Weisman (life support in adorable gift wrap), and Ms. Meridith Dandridge (my favorite sassy/hysterical/badass Alabaman):

Me, and the life partner (hotness personified) Ms. Miranda Drost:

I felt loved and happy. Seattle does that to me.

Dear Men of Seattle,

I have spent 7 years in our fair city, and I am the first to admit that throughout this time, I have had high hopes that one of you might wind up being “The One.” When I am honest with myself, what I really, ultimately dream of in life is to marry a good man and have a family and LOVE. I have “dated” a few of you, and “spent time” with many, always with an observant eye. I hoped that a couple of you might take; however, over time, every last one of you has, for one reason or another, been ripped away like a giant cosmic Band-Aid.

It’s okay. I have learned valuable lessons from you. For example:

* A man who makes good guacamole is hard to find.
* The speed limit on Lake Union is 7 knots. And the boat police are vigilant.
* The most unromantic birthday gift in the universe is an iron and a tube of wood glue.
* Whiskey can lead to regrettable text messages.
* Nachos and beer can be just as good as lobster and wine, depending on the company.
* Following a first kiss, the suitable response is never, “Well, I can check that off my to-do list.”
* After a Seahawks loss, the minimum recovery time is 36 hours.
* Insecurity results in crazy, inexcusable behavior (this one is directed solely at myself).
* It is possible to be truly, genuinely excited for a newly affianced ex-boyfriend.
* The unexpected resurfacing of a hometown boy can do a heart much good.
* Dramamine: better safe than sorry.
* Ex-boyfriends always get new girlfriends.
* Sometimes, a kiss is the best option. And sometimes… it’s not.
* Sometimes, honesty is the best policy. And sometimes… it isn’t.
* Sometimes, I can be friends with an ex. And sometimes… I can’t.
* I am not always right.
* But I usually am.

And most importantly, I have learned:

* I am capable of great big love.

I’ll admit it: I am a romantic. And even though I have not found the right one yet, I am hopeful you are out there somewhere. But for now, as of Monday, I am leaving this city that I have come to call “home” in order to do something else for awhile.

Perhaps we will meet in Seattle again. Until then, all the best to you. Thanks for the good times and for the bad, for I am grateful for anything that helps my spirit grow.

Peace out,
Annie