Tag Archives: stories

Conquering the Closet

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The largest Spring Cleaning task looming over my head this week was the inevitable purge and reassembly of our bedroom closet.   After 10 months of living here, I am almost to the point now where I feel like our apartment is fully organized, whew! 

So last night while Jon was at class and then at cell group, I rolled up my sleeves, cleared my throat and marched right up to that rebellious bunch of cotton and polyester punks and said, “Excuse me, I will be in charge from now on.”  What followed was a violent, dog-eat-dog street fight over who would win this turf war and be crowned King of the Closet.  I will spare you the details and the profanity. 

These pictures were taken right before the fight broke out and all those unkempt t-shirts jumped out of the drawers and tackled me.  

Before:

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Below is Jon’s “Junk Bucket.”  He says that every man he needs to have one place that his wife does not organize or seek to understand.  Most of it ends up being a collection of loose change and receipts, but he says it’s important.  So I will respect his request and the Junk Bucket.

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However, I did not take it so easily on this pile of shoes…

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The biggest surprise I found during this whole ordeal was the overwhelming amount of sweatshirts I owned.  The stack seemed quite large and unnecessary considering I live in a place that is 70-something almost year round.  But hey, I’m a Washington girl and I’m still deathly afraid of getting stuck somewhere in the cold without the proper attire. 

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In order to organize everything I had to literally take everything out of the closet before I could begin the reconstructive process.  I also used Ginger Ale to replenish my body and the Katie Perry Pandora station to keep the party pumping as I wrestled extra plastic hangers to the ground and into a storage bag. 

And then, finally, the dust settled, and the champion emerged….

You may notice that the pictures below have a bit of a different “glow” to them.  That is because when I started it was still light outside and when I finished it most certainly was not. 

 

After:

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I ended up taking out the wire shoe rack and replaced it with this cascading bookshelf that I got at a yard sale a while back. 

I did not end up color-coordinating the closet but rather hung everything in categories: skirts, tanks, t-shirts, sweaters, button downs, sweatshirts, jackets.  My clothes are on the right and Jon’s are on the left. 

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Also, I didn’t have enough white-only hangers to use in the whole closet, but I made sure to move the multi-colored ones to the sides of the closet for the coats and sweatshirts that I don’t use as often and kept the pretty white ones near the center. 

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When it was all said and done we had one bag of throw-aways and three bags to donate.  And of course a lovely, organized closet!  Swell! 

And, like I promised, I didn’t mess with my man’s Junk Bucket.

The Art of Story Telling

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This afternoon was peaceful and sunny and I got to spend thirty minutes of it driving down the 101 to Santa Maria to attend a seminar for my job.  About twenty of us gathered in the Radisson Hotel’s small conference room to attend a seminar called StorySelling for Non Profits. 

I was instantly jealous of the man who lead the seminar.  His job is to help businesses and people learn how to tell a story in a way that can produce a desired outcome.  He talked about what kind of stories to use and then broke it down even further describing what kinds of things are important when telling a story.  So his job title literally is “Master Storyteller.”  Again, I’m very jealous.  So as you can imagine, the seminar was highly entertaining as he, of course, constantly used stories to help teach us and relay his message.   

It made me think a lot about what I love to do.  I love to write.  To communicate things.  I’d like to be better at standing up in front of an audience and speaking, but I’ll admit that I’m much more comfortable communicating from behind a computer screen.  I have a lot in my head and sometimes it doesn’t all come out right when I don’t have the grace to type a sentence over three times before it sounds right. 

But today also made me think a lot about the Gospel Story.  Sometimes I’ve heard it referred to as the gospel, and other times it’s called the gospel story.  But after experiencing this seminar today, I think that “gospel story” makes more sense because when we as Christians simply state facts about what happened: 

  • Jesus came to the earth for us, he died for our sins, he rose again and now we can believe in Him and live our lives for him…

I think a lot of times we lose our audience just after we say “Jesus.”  Not that anything I stated above is false.  It’s just that no matter what the topic is, listing off facts or information about something isn’t very interesting.  Facts allow your mind wander and by the time you’re done telling someone about how the Son of God died for them they are already thinking about what flavor of smoothie they are going to order on their lunch break.

But on the other hand stories captivate an audience.  They pull you in.  They tug on your heart strings and leave you bubbling with emotion by creating a metaphor in which the listener can see himself within the story. 

So what does this mean in terms of how I present the gospel?  I don’t really know yet.  I need a lot more time to think about it than the thirty minutes I had driving home from Santa Maria.  But I do know that I don’t ever want to talk about my Lord and Savior in a way that’s boring.  Because the gospel story is riveting!  It’s dramatic and like we as Christians know, it illicits an immediate response.  However I think sometimes we tell it, I tell it, in the same fashion that we would use to talk about what we ate for lunch yesterday; it’s not very exciting. 

So maybe in the coming days I will craft a story that tells the gospel in a way that when I am talking with someone and the Lord gives me an opportunity, instead of saying “Have you heard about how Jesus did this for you…?”  I will pause and say, “If you have a moment, I would love to tell you the most amazing story you have every heard.” 

In the meantime, I thought I’d share a section of my notes from the seminar today.

5 Secrets To Becoming A Master Story Teller

1.      Listen Before You Speak

  •         Know who you’re talking to and what they care about

2.      Tell What’s True In You

  • people see through smoke screens.  Tell a true story.  People can feel when they’re being lied to.

3.      A Hero With A Problem

  • Make sure you have a problem or conflict point in the story.  There must be an “overcoming point” or conflict resolution in each good story

4.      Get Hooked On A Feeling

  • People are more motivated by how they feel about something than the logic behind it
  • So use details
  • Pause and see it (aka: act it out in your facial expressions and body language)
  • Feel it (you must “feel your story” as you tell it.  Otherwise people will see that you don’t really believe it yourself)

5.      And Your Point Is…?

  • Know your point in advance.  What do you want your listeners to do after hearing your story?
  • Throw out what doesn’t contribute to your overall point
  • Keep it short and sweet

Diary Of A Runaway

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I’ve always had dirty shoes.  Dust-covered, worn in, high mileage shoes.  Well, at least figuratively speaking.  I like adventure.  I like new beginnings.  But I’m not as naturally inclined to stick around, stick it out, and finish what I started.  I’m the “ping” and I tend to leave the “pong” for someone else.

My life could easily be charted out in a series of from-here-to-there moves.  From mom’s house to dad’s.  Then back to mom’s.  Then repeat a thousand  times.  From one friend to the next.   One dorm room to another.  One mistake in a series of more.  One shallow relationship in the whole string of them.   From one summer job to the next summer trip.  Then finally came “The Big Move” to California.  And that’s the segment of the chart I’m still wrestling through because for once in my life I am attempting to stick something out till the end, or at least until God changes my course for me, versus pulling the plug prematurely.

I looked in the mirror today and was practically shocked by my appearance.  My once shimmering blonde hair is now a color the bottle called Dark Auburn which is brownish but gleams red in the sunlight.  My short summer bob has grown out to where it falls nicely just below my shoulders.  My jeans are skinnier.  And black.  I own a leather (well, pleather) jacket.  I have strange shoes on my feet made out of a single piece of cloth.  My clothes range from exciting browns and grays to the occasional burst of color or blue.  Not like anyone cares, but to me its representative.  I’m a firm believer fashion is representative of a person, at least to a certain degree.  It speaks of who you are, what you care about, how you view yourself.  Well lately as I’ve been attempting to mature, to find a more solid grounding in my life, and to grow into these skinnier pants of mine I think subconsciously I’ve traded in my rebellious and spontaneous strappy tank tops for more of an artistic view of things.  I know I’m weird, but this kind of stuff matters to me.  I actually do think like this.

So as my fashion displays, I’m in a bit of a dark period.  Not in a depressing, cry-my-eyes-out kind of way.  But in my mind, my heart, and my life in general I’m transitioning, yet again.  Call it a voyage, a walk in the night, or a dark night of the soul even.  And I’m attempting to go against the strong undertow of the current and break through some of the rather tall dam walls that are standing in my way.  I’m attempting to stay put, and hardest of all to be happy about it.  And not just happy, really I’m shooting for ecstatic.

I rounded a corner yesterday as I finally let forgiveness flood my heart, looked my demons in the eye and told them so long and farewell.  So today is feeling different.  Lighter.  More free.  It feels really good.  I sang a Chris Tomlin song at the top of my lungs on the freeway today… “Like a rolling stone, like a runaway train, no more turning back, no more yesterdays, my heart is free no chains on me, God you raise me up, up from the grave, the cross before me I’m on my way, my heart is free, no chains on me.” I decided that if I can program my internal stereo to constantly sing Chris Tomlin songs I would inevitably have good days more often than not.

I also drove by the teeny tiny San Luis Obispo airport.  I’m extremely sentimental and for some reason this airport feels special to me.  Maybe because when I landed here it was the first place I saw so internally I feel the need to return to the Mother Ship every now and then just to say hi.  But it’s like my reminder.  My physical representation of God’s grace and the free-will He gives.  Because God will not hold me here.  He granted me the grace to come here on a one-way ticket and if I choose to remove myself all I have to do is buy another one-way (and convince my husband to join me I suppose).  Kind of like an alcoholic who passes by the liquor store just to remember how things used to be; knowing he could go in but doesn’t dare to.  It’s like that I suppose.  A reminder that my life here was, and still is, a gift.  So I passed it by, drove slow enough and just long enough to scoff at the idea of actually leaving it all behind.  And with that I cranked the stereo back up.

In a world where homes aren’t really homes and where families break up, I’m setting my sights extremely high.  It will be a miracle if I make it.  Which is why I’m expectant because I happen to know someone who loves to do a good miracle.

For once in my life I’m not going to run.

A Drive Through Spokane

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The grayish-blue winter sky faded into the gray cityscape built of weathered buildings and road-side slush residue.  We were driving across town, yet again.  It was February.  And there was a great need for the north-south freeway to be finished.

A few new things had popped up around town, but for the most part things looked the same.  A little worse actually, as the harsh winters had continued to take a toll on all the new and old structures and created increasingly speckled pothole roads.   The People’s Gallery art wall on the Maple Street Bridge appeared mostly faded, resembling a sidewalk chalk mural the morning after a light rain.  And a couple of my favorite local shops were now closed.      

Sweatpants ran rampant throughout the city.  At least that’s what Jon said.  As an outsider of the Pacific Northwest that was his main observation.   As a California native he explained to me that Californians only wear sweats if they are sick or if it’s past 11pm in a grocery store.  I explained to him that in the Pacific Northwest sweats are a way of life, and on many occasions they are considered fashionable.  He didn’t believe me until he kept seeing various demographics of people wearing sweats around town.  He still thought it was weird. 

After maneuvering through strange road layouts and pinning down frustrations about abnormally slow speed limits we finally made it to church where there was a fresh pot of coffee waiting for us just inside the double doors.  Quite possibly the most endearing thing about the Pacific Northwest is the free coffee before, during and after church services.  I miss that.  And with the long, harsh winters I think the people need it.  My friend who regularly attends there says that each week a few homeless people come in and sit on the floor in the back of the church just to drink the coffee.  I think that’s really cool.

The Great Weekend Adventure

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The Great Weekend Adventure

Last weekend Jon and I embarked on a very intense, very exhilarating adventure.  After a few days of planning out our route and mentally preparing for all the unknowns and unexpected challenges we decided we were ready.  We awoke Saturday morning and fueled our bodies with a few cups of rich Hawaiian coffee and some classy cinnamon/sugar toast along with some vitamin supplements.  Jon shaved his neck and I pinned my hair into place, not knowing the next time we would be able to enjoy these kinds of luxuries.    We didn’t carry much with us, only a water bottle, knowing that any extras would likely weigh us down and could be easily lost if it fell into any large cracks or crevasses. 

The day was sunny and the bright rays helped make us hopeful as we set out together, just me and Jon, and Jon and me.  As we approached the starting point for our destination he told me that he wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.  So I smiled and kissed his cheek lightly.  He grabbed my hand and with that, we were off.

As in anything, starting strong was a breeze because of our enthusiasm and caffeine-enhanced adrenaline.  My heart raced as found myself climbing over obstacles, leaping across dangerous ditches, and shimmying through tight spaces, all while continually contemplating my next move of attack. 

Jon was a good sport, seeing as this was mainly my hobby and passion, not his.  But like in any good marriage, he sought to find as much enjoyment in the experience as he could for compromise’s sake.  He said that simply watching me enjoy myself so much made it all worth it for him.  I knew I couldn’t do this alone, so I was thankful for his friendship and presence.  I knew that he would be my backbone during the next few days.

As the day wore on, Jon’s humor and playfulness helped keep our spirits light as we realized the daunting possibility that we may not reach our resting place by nightfall.  Despite all our thoughtful and strategic preparation, we had overestimated our ability to conquer so much in just one day.  I began to worry, so Jon began to sing.  We hummed a familiar tune as we continued on and Jon recalled a few sentimental stories from his younger years. 

While the longing to reach our destination loomed in the back of my mind, we did happen to come across all sorts of interesting discoveries along the way.  Some were familiar and others made me realize how easy it is to go through life without ever appreciating what’s around me.  Many things triggered all sorts of emotions and I wished that I could just bottle up the beauty of these discoveries to store away for a later day and time.

As the sun disappeared behind the ends of the earth, my heart sank.  I’ve never been good with disappointments.  And although we had made it so far, it was hard not to feel like we had failed.  But we did have a source of light with us, and so because Jon hates to see me disappointed, he said we could probably keep going for a few more hours before we’d have to retire for the night somewhere along the path.  My eyes flashed brightly as I sprang forward into the cooler, crisper night air. 

But alas, midnight came creeping around and we both decided to submit to nature’s clock.  It had been quite a day and at least we were in this together.  I slipped into bed and pulled the covers up to my nose before kissing Jon goodnight.  The spare bedroom would be clean and organized one day, but today was just not that day.