Where My Millennials At?

Where are all the nonfiction books geared to my fellow Millennials: the single, late 20s/early 30s, Christian, hipster women? Where are all those books? The ones that confront the tension that it is to be a dangerously close to 30, single, Christian, a woman, and longing for happiness, career fulfillment, and eventual marriage.

I read a lot of books so naturally I have stumbled upon a lot of “Christian” books. Over the last year I have read a lot of nonfiction books and each time I read anything by a female, Christian author I am told stories about their marriages, their children, their faith journeys, and how they cook their enchiladas. And while I can discern meaning from each of these stories, I am getting tired of reading the same thing. That being said, these women are stepping into a male dominated arena and I think it is important to acknowledge and celebrate that they are doing something great and perhaps even creating a shift in the Church, but I want to challenge it a bit. I do not want to discount their stories as impactful, but it is getting harder and harder to read and identify with a story about a mom who gets four hours to write each day and talks about running kids from soccer practice to violin lessons. 

Where are the Millennial, single, female writers? Where are those women? Oh right, they are working jobs they may not enjoy, exploring their passions on the weekends, trying to navigate the monster that is 21^st Century dating, volunteering at church, spending time with their friends, sitting in coffee shops working on their Linkedin profiles, and trying to squeeze in time at their mom’s house for dinner. These women, that I so badly would like to read a book by, are trying to live their lives, which I guess does not leave a lot of time for writing.

But even though they are living their lives, I want to read about them and how they are dealing with life. I want to read about how to live a graceful life as a single woman. I want to read about how female Christian Millennials are growing and challenged in their faith. I want to read about how dating Christian guys is a lot harder than one might think (e.g. dating apps). I want to read about how social issues impact women my age specifically. I want to read about how being financially responsible is imperative to single women my age. I want to read about how difficult it is to navigate relationships, romantic or otherwise. I want to read about how trends in art, music, beer, novels, coffee, shoes, etc. can reflect my faith and still be deemed “cool”. I want to read about how the job market is frustrating and redeeming at the same time. I want to read about how joy is achievable, albeit difficult at times, in the existence of a late 20s/early 30s life.

And yes, I subscribe to Relevant Magazine and I read various blogs regularly, but that is not enough. I want shelves of books written by women that are attempting to realistically figure out this existence. It is nice to get advice and seek wisdom from married, kid-toting female writers, but I would like to see how women similar to myself are learning, growing, and engaging in this often uncertain and confusing life. I realize that might be pigeonholing to only write for young(ish), single, Christian Millennials but I believe that is the point. I fit that criteria and I want someone who is like me speaking into my demographic. So I’ll keep searching on, scouring Amazon and Barnes and Noble, whilst I wait for a book to appear with which I connect. Also, I would prefer if the books were made of eco-friendly paper, but hey, beggars cannot be choosers.

Going to See Claybrook Will Be the Best Thing You Do All Week

My friend Stephen Claybrook started his band, under the same moniker, over a year ago. To read all about Claybrook and how the band came to fruition check out his website.

But I want to tell you why you need to go to their show tonight, Feb. 15, at The Pour House.

Claybrook will be singing his new song, “Dreams, Dear”, a song inspired by a musician Sam Baker. “I read an article on NPR last summer that told the story of this guy named Sam Baker. In '86 he was on a train in Peru when a bomb went off in the luggage rack above the head of the row in front of him. A mom, dad and 8-year-old boy all died. Sam suffered major injuries but his life was spared. After recovering, he started writing songs as a way to process the experience. He's now an award winning songwriter. This article highlighted a line that best encapsulates the lessons he's learned, ‘Everyone is at the mercy of another one's dream,’“ Claybrook said.

The idea that one’s dreaming is indebted to another is relatable to Claybrook. “This line has haunted me ever since. It works on every level, from nations and governments all the way down to individual relationships,” Claybrook said.

Through this story, pain and beauty are intertwined, resulting in art. Baker’s pain, anger, and frustration are captured in his own music. Art, to the detriment of the artist and the enjoyment of the recipient, is derived from one’s pain. Claybrook wanted to honor Baker’s story, but not get lost in the retelling of it. Baker’s experience led to incredible empathy as well as art, which then inspired the same in Claybrook, though mostly unconsciously.

Fast-forward a few months. Claybrook was writing a song for his wife, C.C.

“I was in the middle of writing a song for C.C., reflecting on all the times that her dreams have been squeezed out by mine, when that line almost word for word came out. I immediately recognized it. Kept it in as a place marker, at first with the intention of writing something new that got at the sentiment. But after sitting with it for a couple days, I couldn't imagine saying it any better way,” Claybrook said.

The biggest concern for a musician is not to copy or emulate another musician, see the present day conflict between Sam Smith and Tom Petty or to date back a few years, the Vanilla Ice/David Bowie and Queen scandal. Claybrook’s concern was not wanting to lift a lyric from another musician and claim it as his own. “I contacted Sam, explaining the story and offering to rewrite a new lyric, credit him as cowriter, or some other arrangement. He sent back a simple response thanking me for contacting him and giving me his blessing to use the line without asking anything in return, and wishing me ‘all the best in life and music,’” Claybrook said.

In “Dreams, Dear” Claybrook pays homage to Baker, “Here's the thing, every dreamer is at the mercy of another one's dream, that's you, that's me.” And even though Baker is directly referencing the Peruvian bombing, Claybrook is able to take that line and make the listener reflect on one’s own life. Perhaps life is all a series of dreams, some coming to fruition while others fade away. Perhaps one’s dreams can be put on hold for another’s. And because one’s dreams are placed on hold, does the dream die out, or morph over time becoming a new dream? Claybrook’s music is meant to explore and delve into those parts of us, to examine ourselves, our dreams, and our relationships.

So join us tonight as we engage in music that forces us to look at ourselves and perhaps challenges us to walk away reflecting a little bit more.

A Little Knee Update

I went for an MRI this week. I’ve heard a lot of rumors about getting an MRI: loud noises and a confined space. Throw in some beer and we’ve got a concert. But this was not a concert. The nurse and I walked outside to a double wide trailer to get to the MRI machine. I was worried I was being catfished, but then I saw the technician inside and I figured that this might be ok. Once adjusted on the weird surfboard they call a bed I was slowly raised into the MRI machine.

Nurse (thick Southern accent): “Now it’s going to get real loud so if you try to talk to us or need help we won’t hear you. If you need something just press this button.”

Uhhh. What’s happening?

Nurse: “What kind of music do you want to listen to?”

Me: “Not country.”

Nurse: “Oh gosh. I love a good country song. Ok, so Mix 101.5.”

Me: “Oh, umm, ok. I guess Kelly Clarkson is fine.”

She puts on my headphones and walks out. I have no idea what’s happening.

Then, it sounds as if I am inside a foghorn. Like on a riverboat on the Mississippi River. The music, One Direction, is just faintly playing as the foghorn continues to scream on. 

The foghorn, as offensive as it was, reminded me of my trip to St. Louis and my ride on a riverboat on the Mississippi. I remember trying to teach my yearbook students that Mark Twain worked on boats similar to the one we were on at that moment. They did not care at all. They wanted to meet some cute guy on a boat. Then I made a joke about Huck Finn and they did not laugh.

Oh, a new sound now. Remember that scene in Armageddon when Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck are drilling into the meteor that is about to hit Earth? Yeah, that same drilling sound was now happening. I felt like I was inside the meteor. What the heck do these sounds have to do with an MRI? And Armageddon is one of the worst movies. Yes, Michael Buble´ is sure to cancel out this sound.

Wow. I did not think the sounds could get any worse. Up next, a train. But this time it sounds as if the train is coming from all different directions, towards me, and I cannot move. As Michael Buble´ faded and, I kid you not, Kelly Clarkson came on the radio, I wondered if I could take the train this year. I would love to hop on a train, ride to some wonderful place, take a tour of the city, have lunch at a quaint bistro, then hop back on the train and come home.

So after 20 minutes and now a headache from the mixture of music and loudest sounds on Earth I still did not get any results. I have to wait and go back, in two weeks, to figure out if I just have a torn MCL or if my meniscus is damaged as well.

Needless to say I am frustrated. Frustrated I cannot walk up and down stairs normally. Frustrated I have to continue wearing this horrid brace. Frustrated I cannot run the Duke trail, let alone walk the trail. Frustrated it takes me an extra 15 minutes to get ready in the morning since my body is telling me to move at a glacial place. Frustrated that it still hurts to stand. Frustrated at the possibility of surgery. Frustrated I have to have physical therapy.

I know there are things in my life that I cannot control. I mean, I had a plan for 2015, a goal. And now that has all been derailed due to my knee. I guess I would like to believe that God has taken over my plan. That He is saying, “Aw, your plan was cute, but I’ve got something else in store for you.” And I am hoping that, in the end, His plan is good.

So as I sit here and whine about my frustrations, leg elevated of course, I am also wondering what the good is in all of this? Can I discern anything positive? My coworkers and students have been encouraging, thoughtful, and (somewhat) kind. My friends have bent over backwards to ensure I am ok and taken care of at every moment. My family has listened to me cry, cleaned my apartment, and cooked me several meals. I can now bend my knee a bit. I have become more authoritative when stating that I cannot do something due to my knee instead of attempting to please the masses all the time. This injury has not kept me from spending meaningful time with students, friends, and family.

My world has not come crashing down. In the grand scheme of things, this is not a serious injury. I still have two legs, a house to live in, and food on the table. I have enough money to pay my bills. In the end, yes, there are some positives about this. And perspective is important too. I can choose to be frustrated but there are other emotions that are more vital and more worthy of my time than frustration. 

However, if I hear Kelly Clarkson or a fog horn again, then I will just have to figure out how to destroy every MRI machine in America.

I Tore My MCL And You Can Too!

I was leaving swim practice Monday night. I have to leave a little early on Mondays so that I can get to the wonderful Kris Stoner’s house for a bit of community. I was walking through the locker room at the pool and the janitor was mopping. I said aloud to the janitor, “Wow. It’s wet. I should be careful.”

Famous last words. I slipped, heard my knee pop in the air, and then landed on my knees and hands.

An hour later, after a lot of tears and irrelevant X-rays and one sadistic, knee prodding doctor, I was told I tore my MCL. Tearing an ACL ends one’s professional football career. Tearing an MCL puts one in a lot of pain, but one can “easily” recover. So my recovery plan: wear a metal knee brace for six to eight weeks, take codeine, do not stand, elevate knee at all times, and ice every chance I get.

Tuesday I went to school and tried my best to elevate, not stand, and ice. Being a teacher is hard. Being a teacher and then being told not to stand is almost impossible. And I have really great classes this semester. But I made it through the day, went back to swim practice (I know, I know) and then cried in pain that night. Then we were on Thanksgiving break, the perfect time to rest. Well, I did not rest. I cannot rest. I ran errands on Wednesday, went and hung out with friends, and elevated when I could. Thanksgiving I sat and iced. Then Friday, I went to the ER.

They thought I had a blood clot in my leg. Turns out I did not, but talk about some of the scariest hours of my life. As I was waiting for the ultrasound results my mom turned to me and reminded me of the woman I was afraid to make angry when I was in middle school. “Mira. Listen to me, I am the mom, you are the daughter. I am telling you, you must rest. You must let me help you. And you have to relax.” Now, that does not sound scary, but if you know Sebrena, then you know it was terrifying.

I am so grateful for the community I have. From family, to coworkers, to fellow Crosspointe members, I have a wealth of people to help me. I have friends who are willing to drive me anywhere, to cook food, and to clean my apartment. But I rarely ask for help. I am prideful. I have a hard time accepting help. I want to prove that I am not an invalid. I can clean my apartment, wash clothes, cook dinner, and grocery shop. But then I earn a spot in the waiting room at the ER. I have to learn to accept help. I have to trust that people are being earnest in their offers to assist me. I have to acknowledge that people want to be helpful. I would bend over backwards (which with my current situation makes me sick to think about) to help anyone that was in my situation.

So why can I not acknowledge and receive these helpful offers? I feel weak when I receive assistance and I do not want to admit that I am weak. I have been taught to be a strong woman: that I should be independent, thoughtful, and brave. So I try to do that in everything I do. Including tearing my MCL and trying to live a “normal” life. Now, I am not blaming how I was raised. This independent spirit is something that I have procured over the years and is something I am proud of. But I feel that if I do not learn to accept help now, then I am only further hindering my recovery plan.

The song “With A Little Help From My Friends” by The Beatles popped into my head when I began writing this. I need to lean on my friends, for they are there when I am alone, sad, and need help. And for me, the hard part to comprehend is that they want to be there, just how I want to be there for them. So after a not so restful Thanksgiving break and foreseeing plenty more frustrating moments over the next eight weeks, I have decided to ask for help, to humble myself, and welcome aid. So my friends: please keep offering to grab papers for me, to take books across the room for me, and to carry my bags to the car. I want to get by with a little help from my friends.

My new recovery plan: wear a metal knee brace for six to eight weeks, take codeine, do not stand, elevate knee at all times, ice every chance I get, and accept assistance. All of these things will make me stronger. I am sure of it.

Worry and Control and Fear. Oh My.

Worrying has become my default emotion lately. Worry consumes my mind and attempts to coexist with my otherwise positive thoughts. Then Worry gets stronger and bigger and threatens to beat up the positive thoughts. Worry eventually fights Positive, beating him senseless, proving once and for all that Worry is the victor. And this internal warfare just continues each and every day.

Since I was a kid I have been told that I am a "worrywart" by my entire family. I use to blame that on being the oldest and having to assume some type of leadership role in my family, and as any dutiful leader, I must be worried about the people. (Evidently, I also believe I am some sort of princess or queen?) I firmly believe that whatever you (parents) call your children influences them later in life. I am definitely not blaming my family for my present day worrying, but I do think that worrying whilst a child has led to my current misgivings.

I am anxiety-laden concerning a myriad of things each day. And yes, I always overthink everything I say, think, or do. (See here for more of that.)
Will I get all my work done during my planning period? (The answer is always no.)
What does that email really mean? (Typically, it means what it says.)
I have a headache, is this a brain tumor? (No.)
Am I a good enough teacher? (Who knows the answer to this one?)
What is the right answer? (Nobody really knows.)
Does my hair still look ok? (There is a lot of hair spray up there, so it should be fine.)
How disappointed is God because I keep avoiding quiet time? (From what I have been told, he is not disappointed in me.)
What if they find out I am a fraud? (It is ok. They are frauds too.)
Did I respond to that parent in the appropriate way? (Yes.)
When that student said I was unclear, then I went back and clarified, did she really understand or was she just saying she did? (If she did not, she will come back and let me know.)
I am having heart palpitations, this has to be a heart attack, right? (No.)
Why is that guy following me on the Duke trail? (Because he is running too.)

And that is just a snapshot of how my brain works throughout the day. I worry about meaningful choices and decisions I make, but then I feel uneasy about normal, mundane events. I recognize my apprehension, but then I cannot escape those thoughts. This post makes me sound totally crazy, but I know that verbalizing fear can reduce the fear itself. If you know me in any capacity, then you know that I am 95% cheerful and optimistic. I have pretty much been that way my entire life, but worry makes up the remaining five percent and it is something worth talking about.

This weekend, I was fortunate to hear my friend Steve speak about worry, fear, and our attempts to control the outcomes of the monster our fears create. I feel that my fear and worry derive from my desire to control what happens. I am a control freak. There, I said it. I love being in control. And I guess worry consumes me when I know I cannot control the outcome. I do not know how that parent will react. I do not know if people will judge me for saying the wrong answer; that is why I hate riddles and Calculus.

There is a freedom in saying or doing something and then releasing it into the world and then being content in whatever the response is. I am not like that. I release words or actions and then I marinate on them, turning over power to the fear of "what if". In my lack of control, the apprehension and second guessing maturate, resulting in my inability to be content.

So where do I go from here? Do I seek a higher power to guide me and pull me out of this downward spiral? Of course I do. And I want to be able to rest in my relationship with God in all things that I do. But is that a reality? I am not sure. If I am aware of what I am doing and am actively choosing to change my thought process, does that count as making strides to improve myself? Do I need to pray about it? See, even in this, I worry what the correct response is. Overall, it seems as if I cannot escape worry. Perhaps one day I can turn my worry into contentment, slowly relinquishing fear. 

Why I Hate The Holidays

Thinking about the holidays really stresses me out. The commercialization, the forced family time, and the obsessive fixation on Christmas music cause me to despise the holiday season. I use to hate the holidays even more than I do now, but I have relaxed a bit in my old age.

However, in all my Grinch-ness, there is one holiday that may turn this entire thing around. Thanksgiving has always been a low impact kind of holiday. As a child I got to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, stay in my pajamas all day, hear my mom complain about cooking a ton of food, eating the amazing traditional Thanksgiving dinner, watch some movies, and then go to bed. As I became a teenager, I took a more active role in the holiday. I would offer to help cook and my mom would give me some menial task like sautéing onions or peeling potatoes. It’s probably in those moments in that kitchen in North Durham with the dark brown, stained cabinets and beige countertops that I began to like cooking. I wanted to slice, chop, and stir all the time.

When I went to college I liked the break from school that was always associated with Thanksgiving. Don’t get me wrong, I loved getting a break from school my whole life. But there is something about coming home from college and walking into your childhood home and seeing all the fall decorations and the various pots and pans already being set out in preparation of the upcoming feast. During college, Thanksgiving meant I had someone else to cook for me and I did not have to get up early and run off to class. I still had plenty of reading to do for my classes, but the workload somehow felt less intense. 

In the last few years my parents' divorce has definitely added to the list of reasons why I dislike the holidays. They separated before Thanksgiving two years ago and I remember that specific Thanksgiving being a strange, awkward, and horrid event.

Last year was the first Thanksgiving in my mom's new townhouse. There are already so many emotions swirling around this topic and now facing a major holiday in this new home could result in a major emotional breakdown. Since Thanksgiving is my mom's favorite holiday my brother, sister, and I decided we were going to make it special for her. I came over early and cooked breakfast, we watched the parade, and helped my mom cook dinner. And while we shared what we were thankful for, waxed poetic about the past, and began to get comfortable on the couch I realized that I actually really loved the day. I loved spending time with my mom, I loved starting the tradition of cooking breakfast for everyone that morning, I loved getting to watch the parade, and I loved Thanksgiving. And even though the holidays usually solicit pain for a myriad of reasons, this holiday was actually really great. So great that my heart grew three sizes that day. 

Do I still dislike the holiday season? Yes. But I think I am warming up to it. 

Coach Rahili

Here are all the reasons why I should not be the assistant swim team coach:

1. I do not know how to swim.

2. I do not know how to coach.

3. I can only attend two practices a week.

4. I do not know CPR.

5. I do not own a whistle.

I am confident I had a choice in this matter. I could have said no. But I did not. I really need the extra money, I do not mind hanging out with my friend Emma for a few hours, and I can get some cool coach nicknames. So I agreed. Also, the kids seem pretty cool. And really, how much can they annoy me? I mean, they are all under water.

So I have started compiling all the phrases I can shout at the swimmers.

“You come up for air when I tell you to come up for air!”

“Do what coach says.”

“You need to put on a swim cap.”

“Kick your legs!”

“You must wear a bathing suit.”

“Don’t embarrass me.”

“Swim faster.”

“Hold your breath.”

Suggestions are welcome.

There are several endeavors I have encountered in my life that I have been terrified of: teaching, tech at Crosspointe, leading a LifeGroup, going to dinner by myself, and a number of other things. However, I have managed to face them head on, stumble along the way, and eventually come out unscathed on the other side.

But this. Being a swim coach. I do not think I will be as successful.  I do not think I will learn anything. I do not think I will be helpful in any way when it comes to anything related to swim technique (if there even is such a thing). I can only swim enough to stay alive but I can name two actual swim strokes (breast and back, thank you very much).

Perhaps I can keep track of times? I am diligent with a notebook and a pen. I like charts. Perhaps that is my calling? All of this to say I am nervous, unprepared, and definitely out of my element.

I just hope I do not end up in the water.