December Days

December favorite is my favorite month.

I love how this month is filled with a new kind of wonderment. The Christmas spirit is alive! People are excited to be giving gifts and time to the ones they love. December is different. It smells better, it tastes sweeter, and it calls for sweaters and mittens.

In high school, I promised myself that I would never let a day in December unnoticed. I wouldn't try to simply "get through the week" like I usually would during any other month, I would savor each and every hour of December because it is just so special. I wanted to give a gift everyday, to extend cheer and graciousness to people I never had before. December made me a love-struck, googly-eyed teenager, and I was in love with life.

There is almost a sacredness to life that I re-discover every December; a sacredness that I don't necessarily feel every other day of the year. Why is it that December was (and sometimes, still is) a more important time of the year than any other day? Why is my life worth more in these 31 days? Why can't this joy I feel in December, the joy of giving and serving, spill over into the other months? One of my life verses, Ephesians 5:15-17, talks directly to the issue of valuing time: "Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord’s will is."  Paul understood that time is fleeting and that no day should go un-lived. I reminded of this verse in the times where I am going through the motions just to get to the weekend, when I am defaulting to my routine rather than praising My God in the beautiful fact that I'm alive, that He chose to wake me up today. 

Today, I am alive. And so are you! God is not finished with us-- He has work for us that we have yet to complete. That staggering truth kicks me right out of the silly mindset that one month or one season is more special than any other. The richness and beauty of life does not live within the confines of a fuzzy feeling or a gift exchange, it is the mechanism that allows for these things to happen.

Yes, December still smells and tastes better; and I must remember this wonderful feeling during January, February, and the others. God is present and engaged in every moment. That, my friends, is timeless.

Joy, Uncompromising

I find myself in the midst of a rough transition. Me, standing in the middle of a place that I do not know. Doubt, confusion, and regret beg for my allegiance, telling me I'd be better off playing in their games. 

In times like this, I tend to pray. A lot. My prayers are repetitive and desperate and usually soaked in tears. I pray the moment I open my eyes in the morning, I pray as I get ready, throughout my day...

I pray that God would heal a broken situation, a broken heart. That He would make something beautiful out of something so messy. I pray He takes feelings off my heart that aren't meant to be, and that He may re-focus my attention onto His glory and His Kingdom. 

I pray He makes me better. That He would make me worth loving.

Through these moments of prayer, I encounter the living God. I see Him answering prayer, responding to my defeat by lacing His hands into mine and whispering, "your story is not over yet." In my heart, I hear the voice of my Savior, calling me to trust His goodness. 

It is not because if anything I am or have done that makes me worth loving, worth cherishing, but the light of the Lord within me. And honestly, I've only just recently realized this defining truth. I constantly reprimand myself, thinking, "what's wrong with me," "get ahold of yourself, Becker", and sometimes even worse: "you aren't worth it." I am quickly reminded of these falsehoods through the words and company of family and good friends. They see my crumbling confidence and speak truth into my life. I am eternally grateful for them.

I still don't feel great about where I am. There are days of great progress followed by days of sleeping and Hägen-Daas. And while my mind may understand that everything will be alright, my heart still attempts to make the same connection. Happiness comes in bursts, and through those sparks, I become hopeful. Still, despite the compromised "happiness", I still live in a constant state of joy: Joy that I know my God, joy that I am still alive and living in grace, Joy that He loves me. 

That joy is uncompromisable, ineffable. 

"Those who look to Him for help will be radiant with joy; no shadow of shame will darken their faces. In my desperation I prayed, and the Lord listened; He saved me from all my troubles." -Psalm 34:5-6 

Profound

I think the reason that I haven't written a blog post in several weeks is because I know I don't have the time to sit down and write something profound. I can't write something impactful and convicting in the 15 minutes of "me time" before going to bed. So I don't write.

What I've since discovered is this: my writing is not necessarily profound because of the content of my stories, it is profound at the grace of the fact that I write at all. The ability to express, the therapy of getting my thoughts on paper, the fellowship of hearing that someone else feels the way I do: how incredible are these things!

I haven't done anything "astounding" today. I just had Mexican food for lunch and I am about to work on a project for my education class. I haven't saved a life or made anyone think.

Yet there's hope in the mundane. I am not a masterpiece due to my own personality, but because God inhabits me.

The smallest actions of mine (and yours) are, in themselves, profound. We wait and wait for the "next big opportunity", the "big promotion" and "the one", but everything leading up to those moments are God-given, life-changing instances. I have become less and less sensitive to this beautiful truth since being in college, forcing myself to go from A to B, from beginning to finish. I have not savored the moments of passing, the casual conversations, the silence of my day's end.

The living, all-mighty God exists in all those moments. In my choosing of either Tamales or Enchiladas and in the baptisms of this Sunday morning. Because He loves us. He doesn't wait on the other side of our messy lives, coaxing us over to Him. He sticks by us, shoulder-to-shoulder, and whispers into our ear, "I'm here, let's get through this".

I sit at my desk, waiting another 6 minutes before I must dash off once again. And I anticipate the moment where I might be given something incredible to say. Yet there it is-- the willingness to wait, to be expendable for the Lord's Will: that is incredible. That is profound.

Our soul waits for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. 

For our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. 

Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.

 -Psalm 22:20-22 (ESV)

DIY Map Nameplates

DIY Map Nameplates

You will need:

-Template of your desired shape

-Map of desired state

-Paper cutter

-Adhesive scrap-booking dots

-Scissors

-Runner tape

-Black, thick poster board

1. Print out a template of whatever symbol you'd like (I used this shape for my all-girl hall).

2. To emphasize my travel/journey theme for my hall, I used map as the material for the doll. (Triple A members get maps for free, so we just went to our local store and asked for 5 maps!)

 3. I tried to choose maps with the most space/coolest designs (states with water, mountains, etc.)

4. Cut out your material by tracing your symbol directly onto the map (for these, the heads are separate little circles.)

 5. Use fairly thick black poster board as the backing so that the doll/shape isn't flimsy. I chose black so that the doll would stand out and not look washed out. (Use runner tape for the most accurate, most unnoticeable adhesion).

6. Cut a little thicker than her shape so she stands out.

 7. Repeat the process for the head.

 8. Find scrapbook paper that matches your theme. We found a set with great colors for maps (neutrals, grays, metalics, tans, etc.) Use a paper cutter so that your halves are exactly straight and beautiful!

 9. For a slightly 3D affect, use adhesive scrap-booking dots so that she looks a little raised. It really adds to the overall piece!

10. To continue with my travel/journey theme, I found these adorable ticket stubs just big enough to write my girls' names on them. So unique and so perfect for my theme!

Overall, I made 40 of these name plates and 

only spent about 30$ on all the supplies.

They are very unique, and I hope that my girls feel special with 

their own personalized nameplate!

                                   

This Is Your Life: an Encounter with Switchfoot

My hands were shaking. No delicate butterflies flew around in my stomach: more like bats wreaking havoc! Drew Shirley noticed me smiling at him and grinned right back at me as he tuned his guitar. "Holy sh.." I said out loud. 

"If you'd like to meet the band Switchfoot, please form a line at the t-shirt booth."

If only I ran this fast in 8th grade track.

Luckily, I had already bought my t-shirt: a cotton tank with the band members silhouettes staring off into a pink and orange sunset. Classic Switch, of course they would do something hipster.

I bounced my knees anxiously as the band members each got closer to me, making their way through the line. My favorite band of all time, walking right towards me. Suddenly I was conscious of my hair, my red face. The two girls in front of me looked quizzical: "which band is this again? One Republic?" Here I am dying of anticipation and over-active bladder while the two girls in front of me have no idea who Switchfoot is. I want to say to them, "excuse me, but this band changed my life. Please leave." But I don't-- I'm too focused on what I will say to the band. Will I chatter? Will I be speechless? 

Drew, the one who smiled at me just minutes before, approached me first. Then Jerome, Chad, and Tim. Finally, Jon Foreman approached me, shaking my hand firmly and asking for my name. His bodyguard takes our picture. I look into his squinted eyes, looking for some truth, the thing that makes him special to me. I asked him to sign my t-shirt, next to the 4 other signatures. I decided to open my mouth. Somehow, the words came out as if I was a good friend of his.

"Jon, I just have to tell you... I'm a songwriter. And your lyrics have set the standard for me. I want to write music the way you do. Music that impacts people, lyrics that say something."

He shook my hand a second time, humbled. 

"Thank you for saying that, Megan. It really means so much. Good luck on your songwriting. Don't give up on it!"

"Thanks, that's really encouraging!"

He touched my shoulder, the way my best friend might after giving me advice. "It was so good talking with you, Megan."

The members of Switchfoot looked like normal people up close. They sounded like guys I might have met in college, just passing by. Since I started listening to them in 2007, they always seemed so far away. They seemed too incredible for me to ever know. Yet there I was today, shaking hands with Jon Foreman as he gave me advice about songwriting. But these were normal guys, in the end. We were on the same level in that moment, both sweaty and excited for a great show. Americans celebrating the 4th.

For the concert, I got as close to the stage as I could, standing at the fence that separated us by only three feet or so. Jon came right in front of me, got up on the sub, and gave me a smile. He looked right into my camera and sang, "this is your life--are you who you wanna be?" I'm not sure if he remembered me when he looked at me. I'm sure after meeting millions of fans, they all start to look the same. I'll hold onto the small glimmer of hope that he meant to look at me while singing those words.

Am I who I want to be? Is simply writing songs that no one will ever hear what I want to do? Is teaching and teaching alone all I want to do with music? What's holding me back from performing? I want to impact people, and I have so much to give through music. 

Maybe it's time for me to listen to Jon and not give up on this big dream of mine. This dream that I could make music that changes peoples lives. 

Abba, Father: create in me what only You can create, something no person or band could make manifest. Show me what you made me for. Know that whether I sing for thousands or only for myself, I sing to You. Thank you for this miracle we call music. Amen.

"This is your life; is it everything you dreamed it would be when the world was younger, and you had everything to lose."

In-Between Time

There is an endless display of possibility— beautiful possibility— sitting here before me. A meticulous pattern of black and white, begging to be explored.  My fingers fit perfectly between each nook. My ear does not know what it wants to hear, it simply desires to be satisfied. I wait a few seconds, my soul prepares for that heaven-bound transfer.

One of my favorite moments of life, hanging in the air of this in-between time. I press downward on the keys.

Music. It is no longer right before me, it is all around me. It heals my past and excites my present; the sound of the piano keys in harmony even creates a sort of foreshadowing to my future. I am in love with every bit of it: the gentle slide of my fingertips on the ivory, the reverberation of the strings inside when the sustain pedal is applied, even the silence of the room after a piece has been played.

For years, I have been taught what sounds correct in music. I am required to reproduce classic arias and minuets because of their “theoretically perfect” composition. “When the bass line goes down, the upper voices ascend, creating contrast and space in the counterpoint.” In Theory I, I learned that part clashing was “unpleasant to the ear”. Still, an intentional, thoughtful clash of parts always sounded quite lovely to me. My final composition sounded ethereal, full of tight, unknown spaces between each part.

I got a C on that composition. Underneath one of my ball-point clash markings was the word “Wrong” written in a judgmental shade of red.

When I think about the way music should sound, I am often deemed “wrong”. What I hear is complete, it is healing. Sometimes, my education teaches me to “take the safe route” because getting too creative could result in an unsatisfactory grade. In this process of thinking rather than learning, I feel something much more personal than the safe, bland counterpoints in my theory books. When I think about that perfect moment between setting my fingers on the keys and playing them, I am free from the standardization of the triad, the arpeggio, and the consonant intervals.

Specifically in the realm of choral music, composers are really thinking. I am delighted to hear pieces that are messier, more dissonant, for they are filled with more authenticity and risk. In the pieces, there is something worth listening to, something worth being vulnerable for.

Following the standard of what is being recycled through the education system does not holistically impact a person. It surely teaches them the basics, what they need to know in order to begin creating; but no class can teach me what that feeling is called when I hear a hundred people come together and sing one solitary pitch— that feeling of wonder, of being totally impressed. Great composers think in that “unique perspective” in order to draw people closer into that feeling of wonder. Hearing the same tune, the same chord structure, over and over only moves listeners into a place of complacency and away from the path of thinking for themselves.

I do not intend to create anything that is not impacting people.

So I live in that in-between time of silence and sound. It is where I think best.

Blooming Innocence

            Vincent twiddles his thumbs politely, as if to imitate our father’s habit. My little brother crosses and uncrosses his legs every minute or so—he is unsure how much time should pass before nonchalantly tossing the other leg on top. “Do boys cross their legs,” I hear him thinking to himself, “or is that just for girls?” Stumped, he leaves his legs to hang, adjusts his seatbelt, and peers out the window. “Meggie Pie, where are we going?”

            Knowing well my inability to make up stories, my older sister pipes up from the passenger’s seat: “We are going to a special place, Vincent. When we get there, we’re going to need your help, honey.” Kristin and I simultaneously unbuckle our seatbelts as the ignition dies. Vincent (whose arms are now long enough to unbuckle his own belt from beneath his car seat) rushes out of the car and onto the sidewalk, hopping about with uncontrollable elation. “A new place,” I hear him thinking again as his eyes excitedly survey the area, “and with my big sisters!” The joy is written on his face.  He takes my hand and gives it a pleasant little kiss. My heart dissolves into my chest every time he does this, and because of him, I am somehow made more innocent, more pure.

            A strident ring pierces the lobby of the flower shop as we enter through the glass door (which Vincent, of course, has offered to hold open for Kristin and me). My nostrils are bewildered by the multitude of floral scents— tulips, daisies, the crisp hint of lilac. At the sight of all the elaborate arrangements, Vincent stretches out his gangly arms perpendicular to the floor and spins, resembling an overjoyed Broadway character. “Flowers!” He exclaims, “who are they for?” Without waiting for an answer, he begins tap-tap-tapping the glass of each refrigerator door, admiring the opulence of it all. “Vince, we are getting flowers for Mommy. We need you to help us decide which ones to buy!” He accepts the challenge by hunching his back and bringing his arms into his chest—like one of his T-Rex figurines— and shuffles across the carpeted floor. The blue-haired clerk glances over at my brother and tries to contain her amusement. Realizing she had spent too much time watching this child, she shakes her head in disapproval at his unsophisticated manner and returns to curling balloon ribbons. Noticing her reaction, I lightly tug on the back of his shirt and ask him to “please stop” while my sister and I peruse the special order books. After a few minutes, I am unnerved that the only sounds in the room are the flipping pages of the book and the tearing noise of the freshly-curled ribbons. I look over my shoulder and see my precious little man staring, with all the tranquility in the world, at one particular arrangement. He speaks without knowing I am watching him. “I want THIS one. THIS one for Mommy.”

            The arrangement he points to was not the seventy dollar collection of lilies in an elegant cube-shaped vase. It was not the hundred dollar arrangement of delicate carnations begetting more carnations. To my deepest chagrin, he points to the most heinous, hideous cluster of five-day-old, yellow and white daisies. An obnoxious yellow smiley face coffee mug served as the vase. Vincent strokes the frosty glass of the refrigerator door and beams with self-assurance— obviously the arrangement with the giant, obtrusive smiley face is the perfect pick to cheer up Mommy.  Kristin and I exchange looks of uneasiness, as if to say, “are YOU going to be the one who tells him ‘no’?”

              I tell him what I can without crushing his giving, thoughtful spirit. I take a knee so that my eyes can meet his on the same level. “Baby, I just don’t know about that one… it’s just, well, maybe Kristin and I better pick out the flowers for Mommy since, um, we’re girls and we, uh, we know what’s nicest for Mommy.” Vincent’s face falls from confused to distraught in a matter of seconds. “So, you’re saying that… that I don’t pick out nice things?” He starts to sniffle as tears begin to collect in the corners of his eyes. My once-dissolved heart now turns to an anchor, sinking to the bottom of my Toms. Vincent covers his blotchy face with his petite hands and Kristin smacks me appropriately in the back of the head, a stinging sensation overpowered only by the weight of my cast-iron heart.  I take him in my arms and kiss his peach fuzz cheek, tasting his salty, teary sorrow. I immediately refute my comment. He nods when I apologize and is just as suddenly filled with the same spinning, shuffling passion as before my careless comment. After putting up a decent fight for the smiley-face arrangement, he eventually gives in to what Kristin and I prefer. As we leave the store with our desired bouquet, he gives my hand another one of his treasured kisses. Finally, my heart can dissolve once more into his childhood.

            Vincent is so quick to forgive in these dissipating moments of childhood. Yet someday, when my Vincent becomes a man, he may even look at his children with impatience, or even embarrassment, when they shuffle about with their arms like dinosaurs, when they insist on the most revolting item in the shop. But for now, he is a child. He knows more of forgiveness and unconditional love than I do. Part of me wishes I had bought the smiley-face arrangement, if only to keep his innocence intact for another day. Still, Vincent blooms with innocence as the rest of my world merely survives— wilting like the flowers in the shop.