What I’m Into :: August 2013

What have you been up to and into and standing in the blessed thick of this past month?  Always love this time, and always love linking up with Miss Leigh!

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This is the stack of books I entered vacation with …and amazingly, I ended up staying pretty close to it!

Finished reading: 

Seven Sacred Pauses (Wiederkehr) – I CANNOT recommend this book enough; although centered in the Christian tradition, Wiederkehr’s book is more spiritual in nature, and follows the daily Benedictine prayer rhythms.

French Women Don’t Get Fat (Guiliano) – Eh.  3/5 stars.  Voice is big to me, and Guiliano isn’t then my favorite to hear, although some of her ideas have stuck with me (and I really like the recipes to boot).

Me Before You (Moyes) – Ugh – in an are you kidding me, amazeballs sort of way.  Fabulous fiction read.   

I Suffer Not a Woman (Kroeger) – While this is one of the better books on an egalitarian viewpoint of the controversial “woman” scripture, it’s terribly boring.

Jesus Feminist (Bessey) – Friends, Sarah Bessey is an unapologetically, authentically heartfelt storyteller, so if you’re a fan of her writing, READ THIS when it comes out in November.

Bloodsucking Fiends (Moore) – Christopher Moore is to me in fabulously witty, fun fiction as to what John Green is to me in the realm of YA literature.  I love his writing.

Dark Places (Flynn) – It’s, well, dark.  I loved Gone Girl, and found myself liking (but definitely not loving) this previous book of hers.

The Happiness Project (Rubin) – read quasi-review here.

Why We Broke Up (Handler) – An ingenious YA book whose story was written after the accompanying pictures had been drawn.  Fabulous.

MFK Fisher, Julia Child and Alice Waters: Celebrating the Pleasures of the Table (Reardon) – Eh.  While I do love cooking biographies, my eyes glazed over like a crisped maple donut  sitting in the case, waiting for pick-up.  Lame pastry analogies aside, it too is terribly BORING.

Crazy Little Thing (Brogan) – 1 star.  I am not even going to type another sentence about this read.

Currently reading: Graceling; Les Miserables (56% of the way through, math majors), Raising an Emotionally Intelligent Child + a slew of books for preaching on Isaiah 25 next Sunday!

TV: Breakout Kings, Real Housewives of Orange County, Orange is the New Black and Hollywood Game Night.  

Movies: It’s a Disaster

In the blogosphere: I took most of the month off from le Internet, and didn’t therefore record any favorites.  What were some of your favorites?

On my blog: my post for Micha-friend’s “One Good Phrase” definitely yielded the highest number of hits.  Um, obviously.    

Pondering: What will this fall look like?  Although it will certainly look different than it did a year ago, how will it look different from the previous eight months?

Cooking: ya’ll, if you haven’t made these Pinterest Chik-Fil-A faux-nuggets yet, do yourself a favor and break out the canola oil now.  I’d forgotten about these until just last night, and HOLY MOLEY, I may need a support group for these puppies (and exercise accountability).

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K, ya’ll: in other news, I bought a bike.  It’s almost as good as a zoo.  And we’re putting the Little Bub’s seat on the back today.  But so far it is transforming our daily routine in good ol’ San Francisco, and freedom-freedom-freedom is pulsing through my veins every time I hop on its wide berth of a seat.  Get ready for more on that next week.

Love booky, bikey, bloggy be mama be.

hope found in the orange.

Photo cred: Femme and Fortune.

True confessions: I have a thing for prison dramas.  Can’t get enough of the stuff.

It’s your fault, Netflix.

I’m having a pure love relationship with old episodes of Breakout Kings, but especially the first two minutes and thirty one seconds of breaking-out-of-the-penintentiary bliss.  And the show doesn’t even get four full stars.

And Orange is the New Black?  Ugh.  Don’t get me started, don’t even get me started.  It pretty much consumed a good 52 minutes of every night of our road until we wept like little schoolgirls, realizing that we’d have to wait an entire 10 months to view season two.

Now I’ll admit part of the problem is this: I live in San Francisco.  I know, that’s like blaming Netflix for my own love of life in The Farm, when via live streaming, I’m willingly clicking “play.”  First-world problems.  But hear me out: when you choose to reside in the City by the Bay, you’re subconsciously choosing the Giants over any other form of so-called “baseball” in the state of California.  You’re choosing organic meats and free-range chicken eggs, and with giddy delight, you’re picking up your CSA box every Thursday from the Outer Sunset.  You’re biking and walking and taking public transportation as much as humanly possible, and you’ve always got a library book or your Kindle tucked into your bag for reading on the go.  Because you are an educated, literate individual, and a conversation about such literary pursuits is always on the portals of your mind.

You just don’t watch TV, and you certainly don’t admit it as such on the Internet.

But I just did.

Is there a support meeting I can go to for this?

A couple weeks’ ago, Rachel Held Evans wrote a featured piece for the CNN Belief Blog on Breaking Bad, and while I don’t know if these meth-savvy stars eventually land themselves in Sing Sing, I appreciated her admission of loving the show.  [Following RHE’s post, we too watched two episodes, but couldn’t continue with it: although, as she writes, the show puts us in touch with our own dark, sin-filled humanity, it was just a little too dark for our taste.]

So while Breaking Bad wasn’t my cup o’ tea, Orange is the New Black captured my heart,  boomeranging it back to me again.  And again and again.  Certainly, themes of darkness pervade this show as well: violence and death and prison bitches; sex, drugs and, well actually, but for the Hallejujah-filled Christmas show at the end of season one, there’s not a whole lot of rock-n-roll.

But there is HOPE – and as some of you know, Hope is one of my very favorites.  Hope is all that remains at the end of the day, after all the bad news has set in, and you’re not sure how you can make it another day.  Hope is the grace note that keeps one going.  Hope is that tiny little spark that lights the darkness, reminding all that light can invade the dreariest of situations.

So I suppose that’s why I made the very best of efforts to prioritize streaming Netflix over vacation: in a crazy sort of way, the show reminded me to hope and of hope, through the grimiest of landscapes.  It’s a theme that pervades the landscape of plot and characters, and our leading lady, “Piper Chapman,” realizes that she’s no better than the women around her.  Her experience transforms her, and our hearts are in her own soul’s greatest adventure of discovering true self.  At the end of her orange-uniformed day, hope is all that remains for her and the show’s other characters: hope that she’ll be her authentic, true self, hope that she’ll find love, hope that she’ll empower others to do the same.

I’m in need of hope, in a clingy, desperate sort of way – and I’m betting you are as well.

So Hope, I leave room for you.  I’ll look for you in the everyday, and I’ll lean into You, my Hope of Glory.  I’ll find you in the little things, and when the good-hard comes, I’ll cling to you, for at the end of the day, you’re all I have left.

And don’t you worry, I’ll continue to click “play” on my prison dramas.

 

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What about you?  What gives you hope?  Where do you find HOPE in the most unlikely of places?  

 

you got this (One Good Phrase).

Ya’ll: I’m stoked to be writing for my friend, Micha, today; click HERE for the full post and kind, kind words, or get your scroll on below.  xo.  

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Photo cred: Mary Costa Photography.

I shouted it out the window this morning, seconds after the husband bounded out of the car, renewed bounce in his steps.  Amid the bustling of people and the honks and revving of engines, he turned around and winked, ushering forth that perfect, heart-wrenching smile.  Today, this first day of his new job, was his.

I yelled it in the face of my baby a couple weeks ago, at that moment when his little legs began waddling and toddling three, then four, then five steps from Mama to Dada.  My excitement was far from a gentle coo of a voice, soon crumpling his excited smile into a scared and worried frown, but still, the miracle of those eight seconds hung in the air, permeating and delighting and stilling our hearts.

I suppose all good phrases from somewhere, from some memory or instance or place.

I remember Claudia and I were sitting in her living room, its comfy, displaced southern charm a reminder of this Georgia Peach’s uprooting to the West Coast.  She was Eve, body an invitation to life, belly full and beautiful, hope radiating.

“I’m gonna do this without any drugs,” she drawled, eyes twinkling with possibility.  “And when my husband sees me in pain and wants to help, he knows that the best thing he can do is utter my mantra: You got this.  You got this.

“Because…” and she paused, “I got this.”  

Birthing analogies aside, that is where the stolen phrase began – and where it now squeezes its way into my life, its exhortation incited out car windows and onto round, toddling faces, over text and e-mail and in conversation to friends and family and my own heart alike.

But its truth is simple and far from the self-reliant connotations I initially assumed it to mean.

You see, for years, I lived my life in fear, scared to step out of the chalk-drawn boundaries of my driveway’s own hopscotch game.  At its deepest root, I feared failing, so I only pursued that which I knew would elicit success.

In high school, I secretly harbored a desire to be a cheerleader, peppy pompoms and short skirts and haunting rhymes included.  But, quite frankly, I hadn’t taken dance lessons since I was five, and whenever the flexibility test came around in P.E., I came dangerously close to flunking.  So, white girl rhythm and general lack of bendiness aside, I didn’t even try out.

You got this was far from my periphery. 

The process of storytelling – of writing and creating and breathing soul to paper – has always given me life, so in college, I decided to give the weekly paper a try. Granted, I’d never written an article in my life, and the piece was rejected for “lack of journalistic understanding.”  But for the academic research papers that followed, I stopped writing altogether.

I could have used a punch in the arm with accompanying reminder: you got this.  

Finally, as a young adult in the fields of education and then ministry, I spent so much head-time worrying about whether or not I was where I was supposed to be vocationally – if I was where God most wanted and desired me – that I neglected being present to the moment, to the now, and even to not knowing.

I neglected to rest in you got this for a good while there.

Because now whenever the phrase is uttered, there is a reminder of the elimination of fear, although not an elimination of God.  For if perfect love casts out all fear, then who am I to continue in such fright-filled paralysis?  If, in my heart of hearts I believe that this Hope of Glory in you and in me, has captured and conquered the greatest of all fears, then isn’t His present love and truth and beauty enough for me to live and lean into today?

I’m trusting it is.

So, go.  Go, knowing that you got this.  Breathe into that fear, knowing that Christ is beside you and behind you, beneath you and above you, invading every inch around you.  You are not alone.  You got this.  

As do I – but I’m still not going to try out for the cheerleading squad.

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K.  Now seriously: have you said hello to Miss Micha yet?  It’s a must.  Otherwise, how can I say YOU GOT THIS to you?  Where do you need a little bit of encouragement?  

burlingame coat factory & superhero capes.

My friend, Angela, sent me this clip a couple weeks ago, with the disclaimer, I don’t know why it makes me think of you, but it does… – which to me is one of the best things ever.

It’s like getting a surprise gift in the mail or a bouquet of flowers at the end of a long day; it’s Kindness in Action, it’s taking 16 seconds out of your day to let another know that you’re thinking of them.

And it’s kind of my favorite.

Her observations couldn’t have been closer to the truth.

I think about where I was a year ago: Cancan was less than two months’ old, and I was preparing to return to work full-time and finish one of two classes left for my graduate degree.  I was a non-profit director – and apparently also a wife and a new mama and a friend (when and if there was ever time), along with all of the other labels I proudly, hurriedly affixed to myself.

As fall swung into full gear, it became obvious that what had been a good fit was not a great fit anymore.  But I’m a pretty stubborn kid, who also has a tendency to believe that she’s part Superwoman, part Wonder Woman, so with superhero cape tangled under my arms and caught in my legs and covering my eyes, I was finally rendered useless to fly.

And, as you know, flying is an essential quality of a superhero.

Instead, I crashed and burned and skidded and scraped, and through tears – many, many tears – finally realized that it was time to put the cape to rest.

So I quit.

Eventually.  

And as I wrote last week, it’s been a good-hard eight months, but in all, like the young girl in the clip, I do feel like my Oh, hey guys… is slowly but surely turning into a whaaat uuuup. 

Because I’m stepping more and more into who I am and what I was created to be, even if I’m not all the way “there” yet – even if I still haven’t gotten a paycheck for writing or actually made it in the industry.  But I’m content; I know that I’m where I’m supposed to be, and that starting over and being me and entering into the here and now of this still-new season takes time.  As Jeannie-friend commented last week, if you haven’t been yourself in the past, it’s time to define you. 

I couldn’t agree more.

So, who are you?  Who were YOU created to be?  And how’s it going trying to sport that superhero cape?

We all have a different level of what we can – and can’t handle, but if what you need is permission to wriggle out of the cape you’ve placed on your shoulders, I give that to you.

Hugs and kisses, although I-still-really-really-want-to-fly,

cara.

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Your thoughts?  Is there a clip or an article that reached into your heart and grabbed your soul?  Share it here!

my forever and ever, amen.

Photo cred: Curious Presbyterian.

I grew up in a small Baptist church, where learning to recite “The Lord’s Prayer” was an expected and celebrated rite of passage in and of itself.  I’d whisper Jesus’ words alongside Mom and Dad, and when it was Communion Sunday and the hallowed prayer was set to song, I’d quietly hum along, eyebrows raised triumphantly with the exultant “…Ever!” high note at the chorus’ end.

So, truth be told, when I first looked at this passage, my mind automatically went to the natural conclusion of the repetitious prayer: “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil” (Matthew 6:13).  But in the text, instead of proclaiming the powerful and strong, glory-induced Kingdom of God as I expected to read, in Matthew 6, Jesus launches into further dialogue – to us and on behalf of the Father – about forgiveness and confession.

Where’s my forever and ever, Amen? 

Instead, Jesus states this: “For if you forgive other people when they sin against you, your heavenly Father will also forgive you; but if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins” (Matthew 6:14-15).  Could there be a connection between the heart’s temptations and the evil one’s influence on my soul because of my own forgiveness – or lack there of?

It’s a bone-chilling thought.

In Theology for the Community of God, author Stanley J. Grenz states that our experience of prayer as God’s people is intimately tied to “…the intercession of our advocate,” and it is in and through this direct imitation of Jesus that “…our prayer becomes the extension of his presence as our advocate with his Father” (355).  Because of Christ’s work on the cross, and through our Intercessory Advocate, we have access to our perfect, holy, awesome Abba.  Who then are we to deny, by conceitedly maintaining an unforgiving heart, God’s own forgiveness and spiritual provision?

I appreciate how Eugene Petersen paraphrases it in The Message: “In prayer, there is a connection between what God does and what you do.  You can’t get forgiveness from God, for instance, without also forgiving others.  If you refuse to do your part, you cut yourself off from God’s part.”

Perhaps that is the root of it all: I want this connective, cyclical relationship with God, joining in with what He does, as I do what I do, back and forth, back and forth.  And then, as I continue to grow in Him and with Him, whether I’m repeating the prayer I’ve breathed since childhood, or getting to know the Father through scripture, might my heart continually desire deep reconciliation and absolute forgiveness because of what Christ first did for me.

For that, I think, is my forever and ever, Amen. 

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Today’s post originally appeared on the DPC Prayer Connections blog; click here for further prayer suggestions that go along with the original text.  

Otherwise, what are your thoughts?  What is forgiveness to you?  

letting sunshine in.

Cancan shows off the “new” chairs.

Four coats of muted yellow paint took to two of our dark, drab wooden pub chairs, and now reside smack dab in the middle of the living room.  The HBH took one look at them, and with raised eyebrows responded, “Well, those are …bright.”

Yes, they are.

DIY aside (because, honestly, a little bit of color can create quite the low-cost transformation), ever since reading the book, The Happiness Project, I’ve been chewing on this whole idea of happiness: can we actually create happiness in our lives?  Can happiness be a by-product of the environment around us?  What, then, does it mean to be happy?  

Now here’s the deal: the book wasn’t my favorite, mostly because I’m not the biggest fan of (author) Gretchen Rubin’s voice.  While happiness, to me, does not involve a check-off list of items to do in order that an ultimate sunny, cheerful end goal might be achieved, there’s no doubt that the book’s overall theme has stayed with me, making me think and wonder and ponder happiness in our little corner of the world.

Because, let me be honest: this past year has been good-hard.  It’s been good in every sense of the way: welcoming a growing Cancan into this world, passing on the baton in Young Life, and pursuing my writing passion.  But it’s also been hard.  Staying at home with a little one can be lonely, as well as the solitary occupation of writing in general; parenthood is not for the faint at heart, and the HBH and I have had our share of growing pains along the way.  And, there’s been a whole lot of starting over and reinvesting in relationships, as we settle into life in San Francisco, away from the Peninsula, where the crux of ministry and life used to reside.

Life can be hard.  But it’s also so, so good.

It’s brutiful – brutal and beautiful, all at the same time – as author Glennon Melton Doyle would say.

So, here, I suppose, is the crux of it all: if I believe that life is good-hard, and that the concept of happiness is either there or it’s not there, then surely regardless of what we do, of the check-off lists we seek to check off in order to attain rainbows and lollipops and sunshine, I can at least take a look at my own attitude, which lies at the root of it all.  

When I was an old schoolmarm, my students would crank out whines like this: Whyyyyyy-eeeee do we have to write this 500 word essay?  

In all my wisdom and dignity, I’d respond, “Oh, you mean why do you get to write this 500 word essay?” and launch into all the paper’s advantages.

So, for me, this whole idea of happiness resides in the same boat: I get to stay home with this little Cancan-man, one blessed, good-hard minute at a time.  I get to pursue writing, one finicky finger tap at a time.  And I get to further step into the skin and bones of who I was destined to be, by the One who made and created me.

And that, I suppose, is why I painted my chairs yellow: to further remind me of my own attitude’s choice in the matter.  Because when I catch a glimpse of sunshine popping out from the other side of the room, I’m reminded to let go.  To not take myself so damn seriously.  To lighten up and smile and giggle and play with the Little Man, to choose an attitude of airiness, remembering that even if life is hard, it’s still good.

I’m letting a little sunshine in.

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What about you?  Is happiness a choice?  How do you let sunshine into your life?

3.

Photo cred: Peter Thomsen Photography.

We made it.  Another three years under our belt.

As I type that out, I think to myself, it’s only been three years?  But a million memories later, clutching the hope of seconds and minutes and hours and days to come, I celebrate three years of marriage with the best man I know.

There’s no one else I’d rather be tired with in life than you, Love!  

I love the text we got from our friend, Juvy, this morning: “Happy anniversary, you two love birds.  It was just like yesterday when me and Cara were on our way to Mexico for a missions’ trip and she FIRST referred to you as her boyfriend – and turned bright red when she realized it…”

Ain’t that the truth.

The HBH and I had only been dating for a month or or so at that point; I was just beginning to accept the fact that he liked me – this Hot Black Man actually thought I was the bee’s knee’s – and that he didn’t have a hopper full of ladies he was seeing in those rare moments we weren’t spending every waking moment together.  

And that trip – away from him, away from life on the Peninsula, away from friends and family and technology and the daily, delight-filled grind of ministry, showed me how much my heart was in.  

But I was so scared of love, so fearful of loving and not being loved in return – of a rejection of the heart – that I kept him at arm’s length for as long as was humanly possible (which, according to Juvy’s reminder text this morning, was a grand total of about five weeks).

I sure am glad I took the risk.

So, cheers: here’s to love and to loving and to being loved in return.  

May you love well whomever is in your path today: your spouse, your child, your parent; your friend, your co-worker, the stranger you walk past on the street.

And may fear – fear of the unknown, fear of rejection, fear of loss of control, fear of what others think of you – not stand in the way of the path that the Beloved has already laid out for you.

xo, c.

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What about you?  What do you celebrate today? 

hopeless renderings.

We found ourselves piled on the couch again last night.

It’s become a before-bedtime ritual for the Little Man, and I think for Mama and Daddy as well.  The clock strikes 6:52, and Baby starts to rub his eyes, so we push our dinner plates to the side, popping salted lime chunks of avocado in our mouths in a to-go effort.  We let the taco dishes be, because, well, there will always be more dishes for washing, but there won’t always be an eager mine before us.

I take one end of the couch, my legs like bowling bumpers hanging over the edge; hoisting Cancan over his lap, the HBH takes the other end, our feet kissing in the middle.  And then we just let Baby choose his own adventure.  

He’s like this hyper-energetic, miniature version of a WWF wrestler, racing on all fours from  one end of the couch to the other, and then standing up all-wobbling legged, rocking and walking and grinning that slaying smile, denting the cushions.  He sees the sunny Palermo and Capri pictures hanging beyond the cushions, just within reach, and he lunges for them.

Of course he lunges for the Cost Plus World Market beauties.

And, of course, I let out this elongated “…no-o-oooooooo, Cancan,” because Mama and Daddy are still figuring out what it means to set boundaries and discipline a 13-month old.

I try to put on my stern face, for just 2.5 seconds, catching his eyes, letting him know that I’m serious, I mean business – but it’s no use.  His cuteness overwhelms me, and he knows that he’s captured my heart, so he joins in the rousing chorus of “…no-o-oooooooo” by moving his head horizontally from side to side, smile growing with each shake.

I’m slain.  I’m toast.  I’m a crispy egg fried on the sidewalk in 100 degree temperatures.

But slowly, slowly, he moves his hands from the print, reaching toward me.  And then, his professional wrestler-self back in the arena, he dive-bombs towards me, laughing the most perfect, incandescent mini-man giggle you’ve ever heard.

We are all now dying.  We’re soaking up the perfection of this moment, and we’re entering into its glory, to the little miracle of life that our son is.

And then we’re realizing that we’re hopeless – absolutely hopeless – when it comes to setting boundaries and disciplining and “not letting the couch be a play arena,” because he keeps going back to the Palermo picture, hands reaching upward, waiting for my “…no-o-oooooooo” before lunging head-first again.

And again and again and again.

I guess that’s what being a parent is: it’s about entering into the moment, and laughing and giggling in marveling wonder, while rendering your heart hopeless to this little creature that is yours.  

This little mine.  

Thanks be to God.

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What about you?  How have you entered into that perfection-filled moment?  How has your heart been captured?

becoming fresh & unadulterated & free.

Hello friends!  We’re back from our little road trip (more details to come!), and am more than ever rip-roaring ready & eager & excited to sit down at the computer, fast-moving fingers an extension of the soul.  But first, here’s an article of mine that was published at Prodigal Magazine a couple weeks ago, about a life-changing experience Jeannie-friend and I had in Thailand a number of years ago.  Enjoy!

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Photo cred: Prodigal Magazine.

The trip to Thailand had begun innocently enough.

Our eclectic group of three women and three men spread across the center row of the plane en route from San Francisco to Bangkok.

We had asked ourselves a simple question, a what if?, during one Tuesday night community group together, and shortly thereafter accepted the invitation to depart on an adventure.

At first our escapade involved not much more than visiting the aqua-colored waters where Leonardo Di Caprio filmed The Beach and eating as much coconut sticky rice as possible.

But then my friend and I decided to embark on an excursion of our own: while the rest of the group hopped on a plane to Cambodia, we’d stay in Bangkok, volunteering with a ministry working with women and girls in the commercial sex trade.

I found out very quickly that it can be easy to take on a holier-than-thou attitude when working with women in prostitution.  

Click here to read the rest…

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Your thoughts?  xoxo, c.

a little rest time.

Last Wednesday, car packed to the gills, Cancan and I picked up a hitchhiking HBH down the street from his office in the Financial District.  Within Baby’s reach were books and toys and food – lots of 1-year-old friendly-food, because I hear you’re supposed to pack twice as much grub as you think you need, and half as many clothes.  We alternated, nodding our heads to Wayman Tisdale and then thinking and feeling and laughing with “This American Life” podcasts; I finished reading a Julia Child-Alice Waters biography, and vowed to feel and breathe deeply in the kitchen, knife in hand, olive oil to my side.

We kept driving, past Sacramento and Redding, into the most magical of Disney adventures: your very own, drive-able roller coaster right through the middle of an aqua-green, tree-filled Lake Shasta.  We crashed at a hotel in Klamath Falls, just over the Oregon border, and then the next morning we drove two more hours north to Central Oregon’s epicenter, Bend, and then to our destination for the week, Sunriver.

And friends, there are so, so many adventures to tell you: about riding bikes and feeling muscles you’d forgotten you have, and feeling sun, and the quiet perfection of pine trees and crickets chirping and even a mama raccoon and her babies dancing on the roof.  I’d make your mouth water at the perfect, simple food we ate, and deliciously close my eyes, remembering the most Italian, American limoncello my sister swears she’s ever had on this side of the Atlantic (or is it the Pacific?).  I’d tell you about eating dinner with our childhood pastor and his lovely wife, and about playing Phase 10 till we had to prop our eyeballs open with our fingers, and about how Heaven must involve a Grammie and a Papa for every child there.

But the point of today’s writing is also to say that we’re – me, myself and I – taking a break for the next week or two while we continue to hole up with friends and family, away from San Francisco.  I need the time and space to be and rest and think and love, so that I can better approach writing about hope and beauty and love when I return.  And – of course, of course, of course – I know I do this best when I turn off from the Internet.  [Do it.  I double dog dare you.]

So friends, I am grateful for this community that is ever-growing and ever-encouraging and ever causing me to enter into who I really am.  But …good-bye.  I’ve got some reading and some eating and some biking and some being to do.

xoxo, c.