I was awake from 2-5am for no real reason at all.  I just woke up out of a dead sleep, and my eyes stayed open for three hours.

I tried all sorts of things - reading, watching a movie, thinking about boring things, tossing and turning, changing the temperature, changing my blanket situation, moving out to the living room for awhile - but nothing worked.  Thoughts were racing through my head - stress, mostly, I think.

I had a lot of heavy things on my mind last night - Haiti being the biggest.  I’m a bit slow on the uptake, not having a TV; I knew that Haiti had been hit by an earthquake, but I had no idea the actual extent of the tragedy until I started reading articles and watching CNN.com videos last night.

If it hadn’t been for chemotherapy, my parents and my sister Sarah would have been in Haiti right now.

Sarah spent last summer working with Mission of Hope in Haiti, and fell in love with the people.  The plan had been to take my parents back with her in January - right now.  It’s a sweet mercy and a complete mystery why things happen the way they do.

These were the kids whose prayers were mine last night.  It’s important for me to see their faces.

After racing my dad to the top of Mt. Roberts in Juneau on Sunday, I spent some time walking around the town.  Which, of course, led to an interesting encounter – because do I ever elude the interesting encounters?

I met a greasy man on a street corner who took one look at me, and immediately, very excitedly – in one breath – said, “How long are you in town? Do you live here?  I’M A ROCK STAR!”

He proceeded to walk me back to the ship, and claim that he is not only a rock star, but a genius, a friend of the governor, and insane.  I believed him on one account.

After hearing that I live in Nashville, he informed me that he is moving to Nashville, and has a goal of getting a record deal by November 1 (“and by the way, do you think you could set me up with Michael W. Smith?”).  He gave me his phone number and his MySpace address, saying that I could spend “several months” on his MySpace page, there is so much to see.  He talked and talked and talked, spewing out eccentricities and grand statements about life, and without skipping a beat, ended with, “You know what?  Meeting me might be the highlight of your trip.”

I high-fived him, because maybe, dude.

But I’m leaning toward the night when the Parsons walked out onto the front deck of the ship while in open seas, thinking we could get some fun pictures, but not being prepared for the amount of SHEER TERROR the wind would bring, and after all of our dresses had blown up revealing whatever we had underneath, and hitting the deck to avoid being blown over the edge entirely, and Sarah’s driver’s license flying into the Pacific Ocean, and everyone holding hands for stability, and screaming our lungs out, and tears streaking our faces… realizing that the entire navigational crew was watching from their windows above.

No rock star, genius, insane man from Juneau can compete with the involuntary flashing of Polynesian men.

It’s amazing how quickly I, an alleged full-grown woman, can revert back to feeling like I did with other girls in elementary school: insecure, timid, and small.  Recently, a moment leapt out of nowhere and grabbed me by the throat, reducing me to those irrepressible tears that leave me shaky and sick to my stomach – because my feelings got hurt.

I am naturally a sensitive person, but I’m also fairly rational.  I don’t get my feelings hurt all that often – mainly because I am largely surrounded by pretty tremendous humans who rarely do or say mean-spirited things.

But when it does happen, it makes me feel so sad, and shocked, and ultimately, rejected.

How could I NOT cry?

But here is the difference between 9-year old Annie and today’s Annie: to forgive is to not let those feelings take root – even when they are justified.  To forgive is to deflect any feelings of insecurity catalyzed by those initial words.  To forgive is to let go of what is right, reasonable, and defensible – in favor of something entirely unsensible.

It’s hard work, forgiveness… but then again, isn’t it our very best option?  Isn’t it the easiest, most freeing thing we could possibly do – to simply let it go?

No one ever loses if no one is keeping score.

Sometimes, I need help.  But I don’t like to admit it.  And if there is anything that I hate, it is feeling indebted to those around me – or, worst of all, a burden.  I value independence and cleverness and resourcefulness.  I like being in everyone’s good graces, and will do anything to make sure that I’m not asking anyone to go out of their way for me.

I am extra sensitive in this area because one time, several years ago, I took some friends up on something that they originally offered.  But something went wrong in the process, and I wound up being an inconvenience.  And rather than responding from a place of grace, they took a rather shame-based approach – pointing out each mistake on my part, blaming me for the disturbance, and even requesting me to write an essay about what I had learned from the experience.  They called it an “exercise.”

I still have those email exchanges, saved in a folder called “Hard Words,” to remind me to try to be gracious with those around me.  Words like that last for a long, long time.  (Incidentally, I also have a substantially larger folder called “Good Words,” so don’t cry for me, Argentina.)

Tomorrow night, I am heading to Seattle for a very, very quick trip.  Trips like this, where I want to pack in as much as I can without skimping on the people who are important to me, can be really stressful.  I want everyone to be happy.  I don’t want to spend 48-hours inconveniencing the people that I love.  I don’t want to leave, and arrive back in Nashville to an email that says, “Thanks for coming – YOU SUCK.”

But I should know this by now: my Seattle family welcomes me with open arms.  While many of my relationships have changed due to distance, it is silly for me to assume that my closest friends wouldn’t go out of their way to give me rides and host me and help me out; they would give me a kidney if I needed it.  Why is my natural assumption that I’m all alone in this world?

I’m not.  And I am grateful.

Seattle, I can’t wait to see you for a second.

This is what happens when an international financial firm goes down in flames:

The CPA with two small children and a blue-collar husband rushes out of the office, not returning for a half an hour. She wears sunglasses to hide the red eyes and the fear.

The executive assistants commiserate as the systems get shut down one by one. “We have no access to our accounts.” “I can’t get into my email.” “Why won’t this program open up?”

The unflappable, jovial advisor with the infectious laugh and generous spirit has a vacant look behind his eyes. He smiles, but only out of defeat.

When the temp-receptionist asks what she can do to help, she is met with a silent motion from her co-worker: pray.

All employees suddenly become equals. There are no titles – only the shared experience of crumbling stability.

The boss nervously jokes that he has dibs on the artwork on the walls. No one laughs.

All workers are warned to not answer the phones, and, under no circumstances, speak to the press. This is difficult when reporters plant themselves outside the office doors.

The partner from Memphis who frequents the office gives the temp-receptionist his business card, telling her that if they don’t see each other again, to please keep in touch.

No one is given any information. No one knows what is going on. No one has any idea what to expect, and wonders when the SEC will show up.

It feels like the Titanic sinking, and the members of the string quartet shaking hands and exchanging their final words before getting back to business, playing their songs until they are swallowed by the ocean and silenced.

Every morning at work, I park the old Honda in a garage, and then walk down 3 flights of stairs, across a little driveway, between some dumpsters, and then let myself in the back door by the loading dock using my key card. It’s not glamorous – especially when someone consistently leaves his or her fast-food trash in the stairwell.

This happens frequently – I will find a Wendy’s bag and a jumbo cup sitting in the middle of a stair. Just sitting. It almost looks like someone left it there for later, except… ewww. Apparently there is no janitorial service in the stairwells of the parking garage, because the same Wendy’s bag will sit there for days, and days, and days – hundreds of business people stepping over it every hour.

Last night after work, I saw the same trash I had seen in the morning. Except now, there was a Post-It note on the cup that said, “Whoever the slob is that left this, pick it up and throw it away.”

This morning, it’s still there.

I don’t know whether to be annoyed at the slob, or at the passive-aggressive note-leaver. Currently, I am equal parts both.

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This morning, I received an email from a friend. My inbox view gives me a little preview line of the message, and this is what the preview read:

“Oh yeah, I decided you should be a columnist for a music magazine. You already have a killer body”

I did a triple-take.

And then I opened up the actual message, and finished the sentence: “… of work.” Dang it.

- - - - - - - -

I ran 7 miles on Sunday. I’m having lunch with this Annie today. Jeremy and Ashley come tomorrow. Sarah gets married on Saturday. Megan’s playing the Bluebird on Sunday. I’m recording with Josh next week. Greta just bought a ticket to come in 2 ½ weeks (squeeeeeeeee!!). I have my favorite plan ever for Valentine’s Day. I love my friends. I love my roommates. My car keeps starting. My coffee pot percolates every morning. I had delicious soup last night. I bought new fuchsia sheets for $12 at Target. In the midst of a lot of uncertainty, I am choosing to be grateful for all the good things – and there are many.

I just looked back on the entry I wrote one year ago today, when I had finished my 4 month road-trip, was less than a month into my life in Nashville, didn’t really know anyone here, and had just returned from a weekend visit to Seattle. And I am happy to say that, even through the hard times and anxiety and fear, yes, it’s good.

Internet, have you met my brother Jeremy?

One half of The Parsons Photographers (along with his super-fly wife Ashley – or Ashlug, as we call her, since initiation into the Parsons family includes receiving a name that sounds like a flesh wound), dad to the Sparking Wonder Boys Micah and Tyler, recent half-marathon runner, awesome musician, lover of “Arrested Development” and “Flight of the Conchords,” creator of Photoshop majesties like this:

Here’s the thing (okay, “the things”) about Jeremy. He’s 2 ½ years older than me, and when we were little, living in San Jose, CA, we shared a room. He had the top bunk, I had the bottom. One night, he tied a string around his ankle and dangled the end down to my bed; “If you get scared in the middle of the night, just pull on this and I’ll wake up,” he said.

He was always so much nicer than me. I recall biting him one time. And shoving my sister Becca up against a wall. And locking baby Sarah in the minivan in the summer heat. I was slammed doors, screamed threats, dramatic tears, rolled eyes. He was kind words, genuine laughs, rides to school even when I made him 20 minutes late, shuffling out to the truck in a blaze of hormonal glory. As we’ve grown into adults (at least – I have), he has been the phone call when my heart has been smashed by another boy, or the YouTube video link when I need to laugh, or the guitar player when I couldn’t do it myself.

He is unflappable – so laid back, he’s horizontal – and tirelessly committed to his wife and boys.

He’s also a kickass photographer.

Jeremy is currently traveling the Southwest in a “party like a rock star” tour bus along with 11 other professional photographers as a part of the Mammoth Men. You should check out their antics, and their amazing photos.

Here are Jeremy’s images from the trip. I’m blown away. And lucky to have such an amazing big brother.

I go on walks – long walks – pretty much every day, sometimes multiple times a day, sometimes alone late at night. (I know. Just… I know. I shouldn’t do it. I know.) Recently on these walks, I have seen:

Twin Old Ladies

Y’all. I’m not EVEN kidding. There they were, up ahead of me, in… can it be?… matching plaid shirts? Matching shorts? Identical shoes and ankle socks? Synchronized strides with their EXACT SAME little calves? When I caught up with them, I asked them if they were twins. They turned their faces to me, and IT WAS THE SAME WOMAN, DUPLICATED. Indistinguishable. They told me – in very sweet Southern accents, no less – that they live together, and work together, and have done everything side-by-side their entire lives. It was cute.

Also, weird.

But really, cute. Endearing. Unexpected.

However, maybe not as unexpected as…

A coyote

I know. You want to tell me, “Annie, it was just a dog.”

But I’m sorry. What kind of house-pup looks like this?

This was no little desert coyote, either. It was a very large, muscular, FOREST coyote, emerging at dusk from the dark bushes and freezing at the sight of Julie and me. We just kept walking, and it ran in the other direction. But honestly. Cockroaches? Possums? COYOTES? My urban oasis is being overrun with life-threatening disturbances.

Keep an eye on your ferrets, Nashville.

“Rule #1: when all else fails, follow instructions. And Rule #2: don’t be an asshole.” (Anne Lamott, Plan B)
“It’s not a crime to be an asshole, but it’s very counter-productive.” (Hancock)

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I thrive on words. I read novels slowly and carefully, savoring the phrases, and underlining sentences that resonate with me. Usually, these lines are not flashy or life-altering – but something small will stand out to me, or tug at a long-buried emotion.

A sampling of such lines from the book I am currently reading, Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale:
“He has a French face, lean, whimsical, all planes and angles, with creases around the mouth where he smiles.”
“We have learned to see the world in gasps.”
“Without a word she swivels, as if she’s voice-activated, as if she’s on little oiled wheels, as if she’s on top of a music box.”

See? There is nothing universe-tilting about these lines. But something about each of them meant something to me, and called my name like an unfamiliar but comforting friend.

I am becoming more and more confident attributing the title of “writer” to myself. No, I am not an author. I have never been published. I didn’t study journalism, and Lord knows that I don’t write poetry. I’m just Annie: I blog, and write songs when I feel like it. But between those two things, I am stepping more and more into the role of “writer.” I am using words in new ways, and paying attention more, and feeling the need to spend time every single day articulating something, anything, through words.

But as a result – as an outcome of my posting my words “out there” for people to see – I am inevitably opening myself up to feedback. As my sphere of readership is expanded, so grows the chance that someone might take issue with my words. In the past two weeks, I have had numerous negative responses to things that I have written – not necessarily harsh words, but definitely challenging.

While my initial reaction to opposing reactions is to feel gutted like a trout, I am learning that if I am going to be bold and intrepid with my words, I need to also have a steely resilience in place. Or, if I must be sensitive, I need to use much more discretion and rein in my words. And in the end, I suppose a giant dose of humility is never a bad thing.

When I look back on my life, I can see the weight of words. I can tell you the words that have built me up, and the words that have left me feeling like trampled trash. I can see the ways that words have shaped my outlook, my confidence, my faith, and my subsequent actions. Words, like music, are invisible and intangible – one might think that they exist only in time, and disappear as soon as they are spoken. However, fleeting as they are, words are heavy, and lasting, and of real consequence.

I want to use words to feed and grow the good in the people around me. And when I fail, as I’m sure I will continue to do, I want to have the grace and humility to admit that I’ve been an asshole.

I have recently acquired a new neighbor. What kind of neighbor, you ask? One of the homeless, street evangelist persuasion. How do I know? Because last week, he spent 15 minutes trying to convert me to Christianity. I played the devil’s advocate, thinking that he knew that I was just playfully testing his witnessing skills; however, he actually believed me to be a lost soul.

You can imagine how awkward it was when I had to come clean: “Um, I actually DO believe in Jesus. I’m even a pastor’s daughter. I’ve gone to church practically every Sunday for 25 years now. I own a copy of the NIV, the NLT, and the Message. I can recite the books of the New Testament in order. I know about “Psalty” and “McGee and Me” and “Superbook.” I am well-versed in Charles Wesley and Fanny Crosby and Oswald Chambers and Rick Warren and Rob Bell and the awful 700 Club. May the Lord bless you and keep you, may the Lord make his face to shine upon you and be gracious unto you, may the Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace. Amen.”

It was a very uncomfortable moment.

This man has taken up residence on my neighbor’s couch – the nice boy across the courtyard offered him his couch until he finds a place of his own. He came to Nashville from a sinful city in the west in order to win souls to Christ. I have run into him several times, and each time I have felt more and more uneasy. He is pushy, and invades my personal space, and consistently requests that he be included in whatever I am on my way to do: go downtown (“Can I come with you?”), pick up friends at the airport (“Maybe I can ride along?”), or last night, go to the gym (“I’ve been wanting to work out – I’ll go change.”).

Typically, I have a clear head and a quick mind. But for some reason, this man totally rattles my brain, and I have had a hard time coming up with appropriate ways to decline his company. I’m freaked out. I don’t think that he’s dangerous, but I do think that he is abnormally assertive and socially inappropriate. Last night, when he wanted to come to the gym with me and presumptively went inside to change…

Y’all. I ran and got in my car and left without him.

I DITCHED him. With no explanation.

I am a terrible, awful person.

So I am wondering: what would Jesus do with awkward people? People that just bug the bajeebis out of you, and can’t take a hint, and stare you unwaveringly in the eye? People who invite themselves on your errands? People who encroach on your personal time, and push back when you say no?

Because I’m pretty sure that Jesus wouldn’t run in the other direction.

Then again, Jesus wasn’t a young, single girl living alone in a city full of potentially dangerous people.

Then again again, Jesus was willingly crucified.

Today, it is abundantly clear to me that although I know my “church stuff,” that doesn’t necessarily mean that I know anything.