I was late and nobody died.

I hate being late. Hate it. Hate. It. I have a weekly business meeting every Tuesday, and at least 50 percent of the time, I'm the first person to arrive. Sometimes, when I drive up and there are no other cars in the lot, I think to myself "Is the meeting cancelled?" And then I remember that I'm always awkwardly early and everyone else just arrives at the correct time.

Twice a month, I appear on a local television station to talk about entertaining, cooking, and other blog-related projects. My live segment is always around 8:45 a.m. Most of the time, I am in the TV station parking lot by 7:55. Nearly one hour early. And I only live 10 minutes away.

I guess you could say I have a phobia about being late. To me, time is one of the most valuable things I have. So I want other people to honor my limited and precious time. And I want to offer them the same courtesy.

I blame my schema. Wait, say what?

In the realm of psychology, there's a whole school of thought that centers around mental schemas. I'm no expert, but from what little I've read, they are also known as lifetraps. Basically, the idea is that because of different things that happen to us in our childhoods and early lives, we develop certain negative mindsets or ways of viewing the world.

Apparently one of mine is Unrelenting Standards. This came as no surprise to my husband, who for years has teased me that on my tombstone will be written these words: She liked things to be a certain way.

This is expressed differently for different people. For me, it has to do with efficiency and productivity. Like wanting to do things as efficiently as possible. Needing to use all time productively. And being anxious if things don't go just as they are 'supposed to' without flaws and mistakes.

It boils down to this....how good is 'good enough?' For someone like me who has the Unrelenting Standards schema, anything less than a sort of degree of perfect can feel like a disaster.

I'm sure this plays a role in my wanting to be on time, all the time.

And it rears its ugly head in other areas too. But of course hardly anything I ever do is perfect. And therein lies the struggle....being forced to live in that spot between what you expect from yourself, and what you actually get.

If you know me in real life (or even if you don't), it's easy to see that I am far from perfect. I say and do the wrong thing. I put my foot in my mouth. I hurt people's feelings (not usually on purpose, but still).

But there are certain things that I can control, and punctuality is usually one of them. Until the other day.

I was invited to attend a gathering of bloggers at Dollywood’s DreamMore Resort®. I'll definitely share more about that cool experience in future posts, but the part I want to share now is that I was late. To our first day of events.

The event organizers had put together an incredible itinerary, but it was jam-packed with things to do and places to go. For our first day, we were supposed to meet in the resort lobby at 7:30 a.m.

The night before, I set the alarm on my phone for 6:15 a.m. AND got a 6 a.m. wake-up call from the concierge. I faintly remember hearing my room phone ring and thought to myself, "Okay, fifteen more minutes to snooze before my phone alarm goes off." Except it didn't go off. I don't know what happened, but the next sound I heard was the phone ringing at 7:47 a.m. I had overslept and the entire group was waiting for me in the lobby.

For those of you who think schedules are just a suggestion and time doesn't really apply to you, this probably doesn't seem like anything at all. For someone like me, with the Unrelenting Standards schema who freaks out over the tiniest hiccup, it felt like a monumental fail. Every negative thought was running through my head....I was rushing around trying to hurry, feeling totally mortified and just plain ol' starting the day on the wrong foot.

But then a thought occurred to me. I was late. Nobody died. The thing I had tried so hard to avoid had happened and the world didn't stop.

If you don't struggle with this issue, you're probably rolling your eyes at me right about now. "Good grief," you're probably thinking. "There are starving children in the world. There's war and plague and other terrible things. Being late isn't that big of a deal. Get over yourself." 

Trust me, I'm working on it. But I wanted to share this because I know there's someone else out there, maybe you, who feels like you have to keep this false facade of perfection going. Even if its only in one area of your life. I promise you that you can lay that crap down. You don't have to carry it anymore. And neither do I.

Here's what I know to be true:

1. You are not defined by your biggest failure.
2. You are not defined by your most celebrated achievement.
3. You are not defined by how early you arrive or how late you stay.
4. You are not defined by how often you say just the right thing to just the right person in the perfect moment, to achieve the desired results.
5. You are not defined by how neatly ironed your clothes are when you arrive or whether you have a stain on your shirt.
6. You are not defined by the person who hates your guts or the one who wants to throw you a parade.
7. You are not defined by the meanest thing anyone's ever said to you.
8. You are not defined by the most glowing compliment you've received.
9. You are not defined by the person who quit loving you even though they were supposed to continue forever.
10. You are not defined by how awesome your boss thinks you are or if you just got fired.

Your value is inherent because you are a child of God. Whether you believe in Him or not. Whether you love Him or not, He loves you. Who you are is defined by that. Nothing else.

Now I'm certainly not saying to eschew kindness and consideration. I'll continue to arrive at meetings awkwardly early and sit in my car killing time. But maybe I'll remember that time I was late, and nobody died.

Church - Who Needs It

For my husband and I, Sundays are usually pretty laid back. We wake up leisurely and have coffee, then breakfast. Sometimes we watch CBS Sunday Morning like I did with my grandparents on weekends spent with them during my childhood (of course, it's not the same without Charles Kuralt). Occasionally, I use Sundays to get caught up on work or other projects.

When we moved into our house, we were blessed with some free furniture that exceeded our living room's capacity, so we've turned our small one-car garage into a sitting room of sorts. I sit out there from time to time with the garage door open, working on the computer or reading a good book.

I was doing just that Sunday morning. My husband had poured me a fresh cup of coffee and I had settled in for some leisurely Pinterest browsing while he ran an errand. Imagine my surprise when a member of the church across the street came up the driveway with an invitation to their monthly potluck lunch. He said his church holds a potluck one Sunday each month and today was it. Would we like to come and eat with them?

We've been invited to eat with them before, when we first moved into our house. We were still unpacking and had plans later that day so we politely declined. Today though, I couldn't think of any excuse not to go. I was wearing sweats and my hair was in a ponytail, so I quickly ran into the house to change and freshen up.

The church is one I consider to be a more traditional denomination and I figured the ladies probably wore skirts. I didn't want to make a bad first impression, especially when I was only showing up to eat. So I threw on a maxi dress and pulled my hair into a bun.

Walking across the street toward the church, I thought to myself "What am I doing?" It's a little nerve-wracking to visit a new church for the first time, especially a small congregation where you can't really get lost in the crowd. Will they think I'm weird? Will they think I'm only here for the free food? Will they wonder why we haven't visited before now? All these questions were running through my head.

Both my husband and I grew up attending church regularly. My family was Baptist and his, Methodist. The Sundays of my childhood were mostly the same...early mornings, getting dressed up in our finest and heading to the big Baptist church downtown. First, there would be Sunday school, taught by older folks who had memorized the scriptures frontwards and backwards. We'd read from our lessons and put our offering nickels and pennies into the small envelope for Lottie Moon and Annie Armstrong.

Then we'd head to big church, with the adults. I'd sit quietly, drawing pictures on the back of the bulletin as long as my dad couldn't see. After my younger brother had aged out of the church nursery, he came to big church too. My mom placated him with plastic baggies filled with snacks. I always felt so jealous of the snacks but I was older and could be expected to sit quietly through the service, even if I didn't understand most of what it was about.

After church, my parents, brother and I would head to my great-grandparents' house out in the country for a big meal with the rest of our family. The kids would change into our play clothes and spend the afternoon running around the yard, while the adults napped or gossiped, catching up on what was going in each other's lives.

Since my husband and I have been married, we've never attended church together other than when we visit my parents and go with them. We've talked about visiting various churches in town, and yet somehow Sunday rolls around and we never do. I guess I figured when the time was right, it would happen. We believe in God and talk freely about our faith. But I've never really thought that being in a church building was completely necessary.

Sunday, visiting the small church across the road, I got a taste of what we've been missing. It wasn't a fancy lunch served on fine china. But I filled up my Styrofoam plate more than once. The congregation was small, with probably not more than 25 or 30 people in attendance. When I arrived, the women were in the church's galley kitchen preparing the food, and they genuinely welcomed me, asking questions and making introductions to make me feel like I was part of the group.

When the last covered dish atop the long plastic folding table had been uncovered, the members gathered to form a line. One began to sing and everyone joined in, a song of blessing over the food and the fellowship.

Praise God, from whom all blessings flow;
Praise him, all creatures here below;
Praise him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen.


Growing up, I always loved singing the Doxology at our big Baptist church. All those voices joined together, reverberating off the walls in the massive, soaring sanctuary...it was like I knew God could really hear us.

But Sunday, in that small room with those kind, unassuming faces smiling at me, I felt community. My eyes teared up, and I thought to myself "This is what belonging feels like."

The conversation over lunch wasn't about doctrine or church politics, but instead turned to things like how one church member had taken up bike riding as a way to get rid of his knee pain. We covered the gamut from troubled kids (a couple members were teachers and shared some war stories of their experiences) as well as how many of the ladies of the church are apparently smitten with Korean dramas, including a show called Coffee Prince (which I was told might be too much for me to start my K drama education).

Church is not about committees or whether you have a rock and roll band or just an out-of-tune piano. It's not about whether you have the Ten Commandments painted on the wall, or if you worship in a grand sanctuary where the light streams in through brilliant stained glass windows.

It's about people. And coming together. Finding a connection that trumps all our differences and disagreements. Sometimes the ones who feel like they don't need church can benefit from it most. That was me Sunday.

Back at home, my once hot cup of coffee was right where I left it, although it was cold. But I didn't care. My heart was full.

Why I'd Make a Terrible Baptist Missionary

I ran across these vintage postcards on a website I like to visit and they took me back to my childhood growing up in a big baptist church in Tennessee. Each Sunday, my family would deck out in our finest and go to our respective classes for Sunday School before the main church service. 

I loved Sunday School because it was a lot of like regular school and I was kind of a nerd who loved that sort of thing. Since our church was pretty big, there were enough kids to divide us up into all-girls, all-boys and co-ed classes for each age group. 

I usually preferred the all girls class and was often the teacher's pet. One of my favorite Sunday School teachers was an elderly man named Mr. Dunn who let me read the lesson and each accompanying scripture verse every week. He said I had a nice, clear reading voice and I'm sure the rest of the kids in the class gave a collective groan even though I ate it up. 

Down the hall from my Sunday School class was a big supply closet where all the teachers' books and curriculum materials were kept. In that closet were stacks and stacks of postcards with little messages and cute images on them. These cards were meant to be sent to other kids that we might know to invite them to come to church. 

I guess you could say that a regular part of my Sunday School experience was outreach. Baptists are all about going out into the world and preaching the gospel to all people, and I guess that included the people in our community who might want to receive weekly post cards inviting them to church.

My Sunday School teacher had a big list that contained names and addresses of kids who had visited our church up to that point and each week, we'd spend some time dividing up the list and sending each person a card. Which I guess is a nice thing to do. Our teacher would give us each a stamp for our assigned card and when they were ready to mail, I'd take them down the stairs and outside to the big blue mailbox in the parking lot of the post office next door (I told you I was the teacher's pet).

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

Except I knew most of the kids on the list from school. And many of them had only visited one time because they spent the night with another kid from my church or some other situation like that. I knew in my heart that they probably weren't going to visit again with any intentions of joining our church. So in many ways, I felt like sending these cards was a big waste of a stamp.

Then I got the bright idea that I could make this whole situation work for me. 

You see, my grandparents lived in Knoxville which was about a hundred miles away. 

And back then (before cell phones and computers), calling long distance was a big deal. And even though I liked writing them letters, we never seemed to have stamps at our house. So often, I'd write more letters than I could ever send. 

What can I say....I saw my opportunity and I seized it. I began sending my Sunday School outreach postcards to them. Every week, I'd write as small as humanly possible to fit as much about the latest and greatest happenings in my life on that little card. Then I'd stick my free stamp on it and send it off to my grandparents. 

My teacher never knew (or at least I don't think he did). And honestly, I didn't even feel bad about it. I figured it was better to send card to someone who actually wanted to get it than to someone who was just going to throw it away. I wonder if my grandparents ever thought it was odd that I invited them to Sunday School about 20 some odd times.

And that is why I'd be a terrible Baptist missionary. 

Resident Birds

Each year, when winter winds begin to blow, I like to feed the birds. I always intend to put out birdseed for wild birds every month of the year, but you know what they say about the road to Hell being paved with the best of intentions. However, when it's really cold out, I know that food is scarce and I try to keep my feeder filled.

It's a way I honor the memory of my great grandmother, who also enjoyed feeding birds off her back porch. Her name was Aline (pronounced al-een), but I called her 'Great.'

She was a short, stocky woman with spindly legs and she always wore those little housecoats that zipped up the front, knee-highs that drooped around her ankles, and vinyl house shoes that were meant to look like leather. A native Texan, she was dealt a tough hand in life, but always persevered. Early on, she worked as a cook on the railroad before moving her family to Oak Ridge, Tennessee where my great-grandpa could find work. At that time, Oak Ridge had really just been established and for folks like my great grandparents (both sets on my dad's side), it was the land of Milk and Honey.

As long as I knew my Great, she scrimped and pinched pennies to make ends meet. She was a coupon clipper and a fan of cheap foods like Vienna (Vy-eenie) Sausages. But she always put aside a little extra money to buy me bubble bath from the Avon lady and she always made sure to have money set aside for birdseed. I think of her every time I see a Chickadee because those were her favorites, even though she said they sassed her when she talked to them.

My beau and I enjoy watching our birds gather around our patio to chow down on the food we provide all through the winter. I'm definitely no ornithologist, but I can identify most basic birds (which seems to impress him). We talk about the different species and what they are doing, imagining where they might live and who their bird families are.

A few weeks ago, he asked me about why some birds stick around during the winter while others migrate to warmer climates. I had never really thought about it before, but a few days later, I ran across a magazine article that explained this phenomenon.

Again, I'm no scientist, but I managed to glean this...Some birds are migratory and move to a different location during months of the year when the weather turns cold and food is scarce. Other birds are called resident birds and stick around the same area all year long.

It got me to thinking about how different challenges we face cause us to react. Sometimes things happen that cause circumstances where we just need to walk away for a moment. You've probably experienced that. I certainly have. With wedding planning in high gear, plus life's daily stresses, my beau and I have had to take a couple of time-outs lately to cool down and work out some issues. Eventually, we come back together and talk it out...trying to see where the other is coming from and ultimately remaining committed to one another and the life we are trying to create.

And sometimes, there are challenges in life that cause us to pick up and move. Just like my Great did all those years ago when she wanted a better life for her family. I don't know what their lives might have been like had they stayed in Texas, but I know her son (my grandpa) had a most wonderful experience as a kid and then teenager growing up in Oak Ridge. He was a star football player, had the opportunity to go to college on a scholarship and most importantly of all, it's where he met the love of his life, my grandma.

But what about those times when we need to stay and stick it out. This winter, as I watch those resident birds gather around the feeder on my porch hoping to get a little bit of food, I think about how they are determined to make it another day.

I read where the Cornell Lab of Ornithology has been tracking changes in bird migration behaviors and that more and more birds are opting not to migrate at all. Experts aren't sure if this is because of climate issues or the increase of folks who supply birdseed in feeders. I like to think that the birds are getting tougher.

Seasons come and go, we are faced with difficult situations at every turn. Friends and loved ones get sick and pass away, jobs are won and lost, it's so easy to lose sight of our purpose. It's not a matter of if hard times are going to come, but when. And they will. But I want to be one of those resident birds who stick it out through thick and thin. That's the kind of friend I want to be, the kind of wife, the kind of sister and daughter...I don't want to be someone who flies the coop when the going gets tough.

I come from people who faced adversity and lived to tell the tales. My people didn't pack it up and pack it in unless it was really necessary, and then they made the best of all things. If it means doing the hard stuff day after day, hoping for something better, so be it. Eventually the reward will come. When the days are long and the weather warms, all those resident birds will sing a triumphant song...we made it! Another winter and we lived to tell of it. And we'll be there too. Singing along.

How to Pray Correctly

A few weeks ago, I was house-sitting for some friends in a different city and ended up at a bookstore where Max Lucado was giving a talk. There was a time when he was quite an influence in my life. I grew up reading his devotional books and I even had a Max Lucado study bible. Needless to say when I stumbled upon him in the flesh at Barnes and Noble, I stopped to listen.

He spoke about his latest book, Before Amen and how he views himself as a 'recovering prayer wimp.' I enjoyed hearing him share for a few minutes, but I found myself looking around and what struck me is how many other people had stopped to listen too. I watched them hang on his every word, most looking very attentive.

For people who believe in God and seek any kind of connection with Him, I guess we're all somewhere along the journey of finding the answer to the question: how to pray. 

I was taught to pray at a young age. First by the example of my family members, and then by Sunday School teachers at my church. I was told to bow my head and close my eyes. Bedtime prayers were learned. We prayed before meals too.

One well-meaning church teacher made a big poster and hung it in our Sunday School class as a reminder of the order of things when it came to praying.

Down the left side of the poster were the letters P,R,A, and Y. Each letter stood for a word that took us through the prayer process.

P-Praise
R-Repent
A-Ask
Y-Yield

As an oldest child with a strong desire to please, I thought this was great! Steps to follow for correct prayer? Yes, please. I would strive to get the order right each time. Start out by praising God. Then, time to ask for His forgiveness. Next, and only after those first two crucial steps could I make my requests known. Finally, yield....one I never really understood in the context, but still attempted each time I prayed.

But then as I got older, I started to question things.

How much praise is enough before I can move on to repenting? 
What if I forget to repent for something before I ask? 
Will my requests be answered if and only if I find the perfect combination of praise and repentance? 
What if I think of something else to repent about while I'm yielding? Do I have to start the entire process over again? 

I worried that I wasn't praying the right way. Then I got stressed out about it. I'd end up not wanting to pray at all for fear of the damage it might cause in not doing it correctly.

Then I went through a whole phase where I thought God was probably mad at me because I hadn't prayed in a long time. So I went even longer without talking to God.

Can you relate?

I don't know what changed exactly or what I learned, but one day I realized it didn't have to be that way anymore. I felt in my heart that the "God stuff" is more about the relationship we have than me getting anything right.

So, in essence, even asking the question "how to pray correctly" is unnecessary.

Think about it like this. Have you ever thought about the correct way to talk to your best friend?

Do you have protocol for when they answer your telephone call? Of course not. You probably don't say "hi, this is so-and-so speaking."

When I call my best friend, sometimes I say "hey, it's me." Or sometimes I start off the conversation by saying "OMG you will not believe this!" Sometimes I don't even call...I just send a quick text. And I don't start it out by saying "Oh my most precious dear friend so-and-so, please allow me to share my feelings about the day."

When you have a closeness with somebody, none of that stuff is required.

Sometimes the only communication between friends is a shared BuzzFeed quiz on Facebook that you know he will think is hilarious. And that's all he needed to know exactly what the message was meant to be.

And this is exactly how it can be with God. A prayer can be a long beautiful love letter written in your best handwriting. Or it can be a single word yelled in anger. We don't have to hold anything back from God. He can take it.

Sometimes a prayer is nothing more or less than a breath.

There's no correct way to pray. As long as what you're saying or feeling is true.

There's a lot I don't understand. But I know God wants to hear from us. Don't get hung up on whether you're doing it right. Just do it. You won't be sorry.