Why the Conversation Matters...

"For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others." -Nelson Mandela

When I was eighteen years old I got into a plane and flew across the world to South Africa. Before I got there I had a "briefing" about some of the country's history. I was given an overview of Apartheid and the effects that racism had on the country. Like the other members of my team I was horrified by the facts and stories we heard in that briefing and I just kept thinking to myself, "Thank God that's over." My white, middle-class, feminine self believed with her whole heart that because the law had changed, the country had changed- and then the plane landed.

What I found when I waded into African soil was that the effects of hatred are far-reaching. As I listened to stories and walked through townships I realized that the work was just beginning. I saw pain and poverty like I had never seen before. But what struck me the most was the distance in the conversations the country was having. There were some who would say, "South Africa has seen a dark time, but we've pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps and things are better now. We're working together and we've silenced the voice of hatred." The mouths that spoke those words were using white and well fed. The other story I would hear came from the black body, it was a body that was tired- tired of the fight, tired of the pain, tired of the humiliation. That body usually said something like, "We've come a long way. We've battled a long time and there is still much to do. Perhaps the voice of hatred isn't shouting anymore, but it's whispers are just as deadly."

I've spent this week thinking a lot about my time in Africa. The stories coming out of Ferguson remind me of the nights when I slept under African stars. And once again I see two very different stories being presented.

On the one hand there's a narrative that a black "man" robbed a store, assaulted a police officer, and was unfortunately shot in the course of trying to maintain peace and order. As a result of that event people have flocked to the streets and used violence and anger against a city and government that is simply trying to do their job.

The other story says that an African-American BOY was murdered, left bleeding on the street for hours, and dismissed. This atrocity devastated a community that had had enough and they raised their voices and at times their hands and demanded that something change.

Once again the conversations are far apart.

I don't know what happened in the last moments of Michael Brown's life. But I do know this. I know without any doubt that racism still exists in our world and it still exists in our communities. I know that when people are held down long enough, eventually they reach a breaking point and I believe the community of Ferguson (and perhaps the world that is watching) has reached that point. I know that when we look at our neighbor and see skin color or political ties instead of fellow people we are headed for an explosion. I know that my country is filled with people who look differently than I do and believe differently than I do, but those people were also knit together by the Lord Almighty. They are held together with the same muscles, blood, and nerves that I am. I know that we need to stop yelling our stories at each other, take a seat, and listen.

Our conversation is too far apart.

My whole self aches as I watch and read the news coming out of Ferguson. I ache for Michael's mother, who lost a son and in turn lost a piece of herself. I ache for our country- so busy with winning an argument that we've forgotten compassion and grace. But mostly I ache because we have stopped seeing each other. We have stopped seeing each other. We have stopped seeing each other. 

That is why we must talk about this and not just with the people who look like us and think like us. It is time to listen- listen to the hurting as they cry. Listen to the angry as they shout. Listen to the whispers and the warnings and the stories. Listen when it costs us something. Ferguson is not just a town in some part of the country that doesn't have anything to do with us. Ferguson is our town and our people and they are crying out. Will we hear them? Will we risk what is comfortable and listen to them? Will we attempt to hear the story that doesn't read like the one we've lived out and learn what is written on their pages? I hope so.

Perhaps in those moments our conversations will run together, bleeding both black and white.

Falcon Strong...

The past two days have been a whirlwind and at the same time it feels like the minutes have inched by. Is that possible? How does that happen? I've tried to form cohesive thoughts about the tragedy that my community has seen and I'm not sure I have any. But putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys as the case may be) helps me and so I'm going to try to make sense of my feelings and my thoughts, even though there may be no sense to hold onto.

On Thursday when I got the text that campus was in lockdown I was already in Bellevue. This quarter I've had a class off campus and I carpool there with three friends. We try to get there early to beat the traffic and that punctuality meant we weren't at SPU when the shooting began. The four of us sat in a Starbucks, huddled around a laptop that was streaming the news and texted with our friends. I felt this cold, biting fear as I waited to hear that the people I love were ok, I also wept as I thought about the friends who were never going to get the "I'm ok, I'm in lockdown and waiting for information" text. We waited in that Starbucks until we got a text that campus wasn't on lockdown anymore and then we got in the car and drove back. We just wanted to be with out friends, our teachers, and our school. At one point on the drive home I felt such sorrow because I realized even if we were all safe, we were never going to be ok.

We aren't ok. I'm not ok. My heart is broken. A man walked into one of our halls and opened fire and everything changed. We want answers and there just aren't any. A life was taken and others were severely injured (both physically and emotionally) and that can't ever be erased. I'm angry and devastated. I'm broken and fearful. SPU is now part of those lists: Sandy Hook, UCSB, Virginia Tech, SPU. I hate that list. I don't want to be on it. I don't want it to exist at all. But here we are. We can't go back to before June 5th. Our identity carries this now.

But we aren't simply this event. There's a reason that Seattle Pacific University is a special place.

Do you know what happened immediately after this event? My school's leadership team planned a prayer service. A few hours after lockdown was lifted we poured into that church. People were sitting on the floor, standing in the aisles, piled onto the stage, and still we didn't all fit. Teacher, student, administrator- we were all there. We held each other and cried and sang and prayed. Our amazing Dr. Spina spoke words of truth over us. Words we needed to hold onto so desperately. We recognized that this event wouldn't rip us from each other. This event wouldn't steal our community.

Do you know what happened that night? Students took it upon themselves to form a candlelight vigil. They gathered and cried and held tightly to the truth that we aren't alone in this tragedy. Our God laments as well and we walk with each other.

Here's what has knocked me over: my teachers. My wise, sensitive, amazing teachers have cared for us even when I know they themselves need to be cared for. I got emails from all of them on Thursday night, saying that they would be on campus Friday and that if any of us needed to process we should feel free to come by. These men and women were huddled in classrooms during lockdown too, but they wouldn't let the fear win. They are teachers and leaders and so they teach and they lead. They teach me that love and compassion win over bullets. They lead me towards the throne room of the King and I am proud to follow them.

Yes, we are broken. We aren't ok and I think it will be a very long time till we are. In fact I think all of us will carry June 5th on our backs for the rest of our lives. It will always be part of our story. Yet, I don't think I'll ever be able to think of that horrific day without also thinking of the way my friend Anh grabbed my hand in Starbucks, reminding me I wasn't alone or the sound of voices singing praise to our Lord in that packed prayer service. I'll never be able to remember June 5th without getting choked up at the image of Dr. Watson waiting in his office to pray and process with his students or the pastoral staff of countless churches offering their ears and arms to those of us who needed it.

Yes, we are broken but that isn't all we are.

Shannon...

It is with a heavy heart that I find myself typing another blog about the death of a loved one. It seems like we were just beginning to find a way to put one foot in front of the other with the loss of Mary and now here we are, mourning Shannon. I don't have words for the heaviness of this grief. I just don't. And I'd decided that I wasn't going to write a blog about Shannon because it just seemed like too much- too much hurt, too much sorrow, way too much loss. But I can't sleep tonight because of these words I have within me and so here I am, spilling them onto the screen...

I imagine over the next few weeks Facebook will be overloaded with stories of who Shannon was, in fact the stories are coming already and it hasn't even been 24 hours since she died. There will be stories of her strength and courage, stories of how she cared for her family, stories of her commitment to the Watt's Powerhouse food bank, and stories of her faith. There will be the "big" Shannon stories, like how she bravely worked at LAX during those first days of 9/11 (Special Agent Kitten through and through), stories of her time in Hawaii with Erin, stories of how much she loved walking on the beach, or the marathons she ran. I've tried to figure out what my "big" Shannon story is and I find that I don't have a "big" story- just a quiet one. A simple memory that I will wrap carefully and place in my heart. A small story that will give me the courage to live a life as bravely as Shannon did.

Many, many moons ago I was working as the high school intern at St. Andrews. As part of my job I planned a "girl's retreat" weekend with my co-leader, Chelsea Hellinga. We planned a fun overnight at a fancy hotel and we were excited to spend some time with our small group girls, lounging by the pool and staying up late. One of the lovely ladies that went on the trip was Colleen Hamilton. We had a wonderful weekend and I didn't think much more of it until the next week.

The next week I was at the Hamilton's for dinner, they hosted us college kids weekly, feeding us and entertaining us with their banter. Shannon pulled me aside and said she wanted to thank me. I asked her what for and she said that Colleen had so much fun at the retreat and she was so glad. I told her she was more than welcome, and I figured that this was just another parent thanking her kid's youth leader for getting her out of the house and bringing her home in one piece. But Shannon grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes and said, "No, thank you. Colleen has been feeling out of place at church. I feel like she's been drifting a bit and she needed this. I've been praying that Colleen would feel connected again." Then she gave me a big hug and sent me on my way.

Here's why that moment has always stuck with me. Shannon taught me something really important about being a parent that night. First, she taught me to know your kid. I was so shocked that Shannon was that tuned to what her daughter was feeling. She knew Colleen. She knew what her child needed. Shannon loved her children fiercely but beyond loving them, she KNEW them. She was committed to understanding who her children were and this small moment taught me how important that is. Finally, I'll never forget the fervor with which she spoke about praying for Colleen. It was clear that this wasn't some half-hearted prayer. These were "knock on the gates of heaven" prayers. Shannon was constantly lifting her family to the Lord, trusting him to cover what she couldn't.

Maybe tomorrow I'll think of a funnier Shannon story or a Shannon story that has some deep insight, but tonight I'm happy with my simple tale. I feel so honored that I got that five minute conversation with Shannon because it planted some very important seeds deep within me. I know that Shannon's legacy lives on in her children and her husband and even Rudy. But Shannon's legacy will also live on in me as I strive to listen and learn who the people around me are and as I do my own pounding on heaven's doors.

Peggy Olson...

Seven years ago I started watching Mad Men. On that first episode I was introduced to Peggy Olson. I didn't know it at the time, but Peggy was going to be one of those characters that settled into my very bones- Peggy was going to teach me something vital about myself. Tonight, seven years later, I watched the mid-season finale for the very last season of Mad Men and I couldn't take my eyes off Peggy.

See, I think most people assume Mad Men is about Don Draper. And of course we think that, because Don saunters into a room- shoulders back, whiskey in hand, suit- impeccable. Don owns the room- hell, Don is the room. And while we're all busy watching Don use that silver tongue of his to win clients and lie to his wife, we haven't noticed that Peggy walked into the room too. Peggy was just this girl who typed Don's schedule and made sure the bar in his office was stocked. She didn't know who she was or what she wanted. The words that were used to give value to women didn't apply to her: "beautiful," "mother," "sexy," "wife" and so Peggy spent a couple seasons trying to figure out what words did apply to her.

Over the years I've watched this girl stumble around like a newborn giraffe and the more she walked, the surer of herself she became. Each season Peggy stood a little taller, walked with a little more confidence and tonight she owned the room. As I listened to her pitch to a client I kept thinking about what she'd had to fight to get into that room. I thought about all the battles she'd been in just to earn a seat at the table and I was so proud of this fictitious character that my heart about burst.

It was smack in that moment of pride that I realized the imprint Peggy leaves on me because like Peggy, it took me a while to find my voice. Like Peggy the words society wants to use to add value to women don't necessarily apply to me, like Peggy I chose a profession that is largely dominated by men, and like Peggy it has taken quite a few stumbles before I figured out how to walk. I spent seven years watching Peggy succeed and fail, try and fall, and learn who she is. I hope someday I will look back on my own life and discover that my own stumbles helped wear a trail for those who will come after me.

Mary…

I have written and rewritten this blog a hundred times already. I'm not even completely sure that this version is going to make it out onto the ether. I have had this heavy load of emotions and thoughts and I've been wanting to set it down and try to make some sense of it. This particular weight has been hard to process. It's really hard to think about exposing these feelings. But here I am anyway, typing and exposing, hoping that the process of writing itself will help heal me.

This weekend I flew back home to California so that I could attend the funeral of a dear friend, Mary Cox. Mary is a main character in the story of my life. My family moved to Redondo Beach about twenty-five years ago so that my dad could be the senior pastor of St. Andrews. Mary, her husband Tom, and their four kids (Amy, Katie, Emily, and Kevin) were very involved members. Our families connected right away and became fast friends.

Amy was my regular baby-sitter, she let my brother and I jump on our parents' bed while we watched Newsies and there was literally no one in the world I thought was cooler than her. Katie, watched me a couple times as well, and I also thought she hung the moon. Emily was a year younger than me and my best pal. We terrorized our sunday school teachers (including trying to fire one, a story for another time), played handball, mermaids, and read baby-sitters club books. Kevin was my little brother's age and although he was never more than an annoyance growing up, he grew up to be someone that I respect, love, and cherish.

The Cox family was my family. Mary and my mom used to throw us all in the car weekly and take us to the beach. We vacationed to Palm Springs together. Every year we all spent a week at family camp, getting dusty and eating those Pine Valley delicacies. Tom and Mary always had a house full of us. We played ping-pong in their garage, ate salsa while trading stories in their kitchen, and they hosted more than their fair share of parties. Mary and Tom taught me how to make a card game an event. Playing hearts with them was not for the weak. That yellow house has seen it all.

Mary was a spitfire. It was said over and over at the memorial, but it bears repeating: that woman knew how to speak her mind. Gosh, this is something I wish I was better at. I'll never forget one Saturday I found myself over at the Cox's and I was waiting on Emily for something (I can't for the life of me remember what). I wandered into the backyard to talk to Mary. She was laying out in the sun, wearing her infamous blue and white polka-dot bikini. I sat next to her while she asked me about school, my relationship with God, and what I planned on doing with my life (I think I was probably around 10). I told her I didn't know and I must have said that too apathetically. Mary sat up, her short hair sticking in all directions and she proceeded to give me a lecture about using my life for something. She told me that my voice matters, that God gave it to me for a reason and I better not waste it.

Mary taught me a lot of things. She taught me how to make the world's best chocolate chip cookies (although, I do think Katie has improved upon that recipe if it's even possible). Mary taught me about fighting for what you want, whether it's a smaller dress size or a college education. She taught me what it means to really hold someone up. When Amy lost her sweet Leah, I watched Mary use every bit of strength in her to hold Amy up and when she first got her cancer diagnosis I watched as she gathered that strength again for her family.

A couple years ago, right after the diagnosis, I was standing in the Cox kitchen talking to Mary. I'd brought over dinner (because that's what we do when we don't know what to do) and she was thanking me. Once again, we got talking about life. She asked me about school (I was headed to seminary in a few months), boys (I had nothing of interest to note), and what I planned on doing with my life. I told her I wasn't sure and I hoped seminary would help me figure it out. She asked if I planned on getting ordained and I told her I wasn't sure. Then she looked me right in the eye and said, "Why not? God has given you a voice Chelsea and you better use it. We need more women in the pulpit. These men need us to point them in the right direction." I nodded, at the time not really thinking much of it. I was mostly shocked that we talking about me when she had much bigger things going on. I asked her how she was and she said she was fine (because that's what you say when you don't know what to say). She said she was worried about her family, she wanted to be there to make sure they'd all be ok and at the time we really didn't think she was going to be there for very long.

This past weekend our church was bursting at the seams to say good-bye to Mary. The church was standing room only. I sat in my pew and listened while people talked about her life and her legacy. I cried while we sang some of her favorite hymns and I laughed when we watched the slide show and I saw what joy she had in those pictures.

Tonight, as I sit on my bed, back in Seattle I can't help but think about my friend Mary. I can't help but think about the mark she leaves on my life. I think her legacy is two big things. The first is her family: Tom, Amy, Jeff, Tommy, Nic, and Kenny, Katie, Jeremy, and Owen, Emily and Mike, and Kevin, Colleen, and JP. The Cox Family- her family and my family. These are people that I can't imagine my life without and I love them with every little bit of me.

The second thing that Mary leaves me with is the knowledge that nothing in this world is as important as my faith. But Mary taught me that's got to be more than just showing up on Christmas and Easter. It means not wasting my life and using that voice of mine. A year from now I'll be graduating seminary and I plan on seeking ordination. I think Mary would be proud to know that she played an important role in helping me get there.

I love you Mary Cox- now and always.

hiding under the bed...

on days when the world is a little too cold and i just want to pull the covers over my head the following things always make me feel better. consider them the next time you need something comforting…

1. reading harry potter:
books have always been my bright light. sliding into old stories soothes my soul and helps calm me down. harry potter books are particularly good at this.

2. watching the west wing:
nothing is as comfy as listening to aaron sorkin dialogue and watching my favorite characters storm down hallways in the white house.

3. listening to my "moody mcmoodster" playlist:
included in this list is savage garden (no, i'm not ashamed), wakey!wakey!, U2, augustana, and jack savoretti.

4. cooking:
some of my best creations have come out of times when my spirit is all "swooshy." my favorite: parmesan mashed potatoes, you can thank me later.

5. snuggles with my pup:
self-explanatory

Long Time, No Write...

Hi Blog,
It's been much too long since I settled myself in your arms. It's not that I haven't had anything to say or that big things haven't been happening. But I guess, I was doing my best to sort through those things without having to do the messy work on the interwebs. But tonight I think I just may have words to splatter upon the soft glow of your screen. I'm not sure that there's any sort of cohesion for this post. So my suggestion is to hold tight and try not to get too dizzy from my transitions.

I'm turning 30 in a month. A MONTH! Geez. I have this very specific memory of dancing around my room at ten singing at the top of my lungs to Tina Turner and thinking about how far away my twenties seemed. And now, here I am about to abandon them. I can't believe it. I find that I'm holding a very mixed bag of emotions, because I like my emotions nice and tidy I've decided to do my best to sort them out. So I'm about to bestow upon you the first of two lists. Tonight I'm going to list our twenty things I learned in my twenties. You're going to have to wait a couple weeks for my list of "30 hopes and wishes my 30's!"

20 in my 20's:

20. My twenties taught me that adventure doesn't look like it does in the movies. I learned that adventure isn't just taking an epic road trip with your friends or flying off to Paris to stop the love of your life before they get married. Adventure can be quiet decisions. Adventure can be sticking it out in a relationship that's headed south. It can be getting lunch with a friend who needs you or even getting a dog. In my twenties, my greatest adventure was enrolling at SPU to finish my undergrad. Getting my Bachelors began the wildest adventure my twenties would ever see.

19. Good friends give as much as they take. This was a hard lesson to learn and I didn't figure it out until I was already well into the twenties. But somewhere around twenty-four or twenty-five I realized that the people who love me deeply, completely, and unconditionally were offering me something. The friends that are forever didn't expect me to do or be anything that I wasn't. Thank God for them.

18. My parents aren't perfect, but that doesn't mean they're horrible either. In my "growing up" years I thought my mom and dad hung the moon. I believed they were superhuman parents who had zero flaws and existed solely to love and provide for me. My teens became a time where I thought my parents were annoying and very, very uncool. But in my twenties I began to see "mom" and "dad" as "Jenny" and "Mark." I realized that they made mistakes, took chances, and sometimes fell flat on their face. But they also loved me desperately. They provided a much needed safety net and they encouraged me when it felt like the world was just a little too cold. Turns out my mom and dad are superheroes, but they fall into the "flawed" hero category.

17. I don't look good in the color grey. I don't know why it took me so long to come to terms with this. But I finally set aside all notions that I could pull off "grey."

16. Not all dreams come true. This particular lesson stung pretty badly when I realized it. I'm such a dreamer. Since I was a little girl I would spend hours in my head, dreaming up the great, big, shiny future I would live. One day I'd imagine myself living in New York writing wildly popular novels, another day I'd be a pop star or anchoring the update desk on SNL. In Jr. High I told all my friends my great, big dream was to win an Oscar. I think those dreams are wonderful and sweet. I think they helped shape the woman I am today. I also think they're incredibly unrealistic. Not all dreams come true, and sometimes the dreams we hold onto can make us miss the life we are actually living.

15. Living simply is my favorite way to live. My twenties taught me that I'm not someone who needs to buy a big house and fill it with "stuff." There's nothing inherently wrong with "stuff." But in my twenties I learned that for Chelsea, the best life is one where I'm not weighed down. My best life involves a passport, a pup, and a phone (so I can call those loved ones whenever I want and google directions).

14. People won't be able to guess what I'm thinking. I've wasted so much time being angry at my friends and family when they let me down. 90% of those times were because I didn't speak up about a need I had. Oh gosh, thank the Lord Almighty that I've finally realized the only way to get my needs met is to speak up about them.

13. My music collection is made infinitely better because of 90's hip hop. Prior to my twenties my music collection was mostly country, pop, 80's anything, classic rock, and a smattering of weirdly, dark alternative. But in my twenties I discovered the joys of Sir-Mix-A-Lot, The Roots, Coolio, Lauryn Hill, Jay-Z, and of course Notorious BIG. Thank you 20's for opening my eyes!

12. My decisions have consequences and sometimes those consequences are bigger than I thought they'd be. This lesson was kind of a double-edged sword. On the one hand sometimes those consequences are great, like I decide to go off-roading with the Hellinga brothers on a whim and have one of the best weekends of my life. But sometimes those consequences are bad and have serious ripple effects, like I decide to lie about something and really hurt someone I love. My 20's taught me that the decisions I make (big and small) come with consequences, so I should do my best to choose carefully.

11. I come with unique gifts, talents, and quirks that no one else has. My twenties helped me to see that I don't want to be a cut-out of what Hollywood or society thinks an "interesting woman" looks like. I'm just me. I'm the me that makes up songs, loves to cook, and can preach the Word like it's going out of style. I'm the me that's weird, funny, and sings at the top of her lungs in the car. Yes, there are plenty of things about myself that need softening or extracting all together. But overall I'm a pretty badass, awesome woman- my twenties taught me that.

10. Heartache is unavoidable, even if you don't put yourself out there. I spent so much of my teens and twenties hiding from romance because I was convinced no one would ever want me. I believed with every fiber of my being that I was one of those "she's like my sister" girls (side note: MEN: THIS IS NOT A COMPLIMENT). So I didn't speak up when I like a boy. I didn't put myself out there, because I figured if i wasn't playing the game I couldn't get thrown out of it. I figured if I didn't hold out my heart, no one could break it. This, sadly was not true. Hearts are just too fragile to go a lifetime without pain or aches. In my twenties I learned that it's better to go big and go home, than to stay home and eat ice cream (this is solid advice and should be embroidered on a pillow).

9. Having friends of all ages, from a variety of backgrounds, with diverse beliefs is the only way to really, truly live. In my 20's I started to see that if ALL of my friends were locked in a room together for 24 hours they would get in a lot of fights. There would be blood between the democrats and republicans. The USC fans would attack the UCLA fans, and I'm positive that my seminary friends would offend someone. This is the best. As soon as I was able to see that diversity made my life richer I worked to collect even more variety in my friends. I am made better by the wide range of voices that speak into who I am.

8. A sad song and a little bit of wallow is necessary sometimes. I do not understand the whole "stiff, upper lip" theory. There are times when I need a good cry, my journal, and a Tori Amos song. Wait, scratch that. I don't like enough Tori Amos music to use her as my example. New try: There are times when I need a good cry, my journal, and an Eric Clapton song. Wallowing is ok. I don't have to plaster a smile on my face and fake it till I make it. Throwing the covers over my head and refusing to face the day is a perfectly acceptable response to sadness and grief.

7. There are days when wallowing is self-indulgent and unacceptable. I know that it seems #7 is in conflict with #8, but trust me on this one. My twenties also taught me that there are times when I need to shake it off. Part of living on this planet with other people is learning that there are times when it is not about me and what I need. I don't have to say every, single thing that crosses my mind (such a hard lesson to learn). I don't have to get my "me" time. If I'm going to be a real person, a person who loves others and contributes to this world we live in than I accept that there are times when I will have to give from an empty place.

6. I love the outdoors. This lesson kind of threw me. I discovered in my teens that I'm a lover of architecture, museums, and big cities. But in my twenties I learned that I also love long walks, open spaces, and camping. This world is full of beautiful sunsets and breathtaking vistas. As it turns out, I'm someone who wants to see said vistas. Shocking.

6. When I'm angry I need space to figure out why. Living with me is not easy, just ask my current roomies Cassie and Bingley. Actually for that matter just ask any of the people who have ever lived with me, I think my dad ended up writing a dissertation on the difficulty of living with me. Prior to my 20's I thought that I had to dig my heels into every fight, yell whenever I was mad, and that leaving the room meant I was a hater of resolution. But my twenties taught me that I am someone who needs space when I get mad, so I can figure out why I am mad. This doesn't mean that I'm bad at conflict, it doesn't mean that I am incapable of offering an apology or changing my mind. It simply means that my brain needs an hour or two (or sometimes a whole evening) to sort itself out.

5. I'm a dog person. Go peruse my Instagram and this lesson will need no further explanation.

4. My favorite person to talk to on the phone is my brother. My brother is funny. He's "fall on the floor, pee your pants" funny. But he is at his comedic best on the phone. I love to listen to him tell me how he's keeping up with the Kardashians or the latest way he scared his wife by hiding in the bathroom. Thanks twenties for teaching me that I can be friends with my baby bro.

3. Growing up does not mean I have to reject my childhood. I had one hell of an amazing childhood. I had friends who are still in my life, great teachers, an awesome family, and a church that loved me with it all it had. I can grow up to be a mature adult and I don't have to assume that means the good stuff I was raised with loses it's power. If anything, that "good stuff" is a big reason why I am a self-sufficient, confident adult. My testimony may not have the "wow" factor of some, but it's bright and shiny in the best ways.

2. Loving someone is harder than I thought. In my twenties I worked with students and there were a couple of them who stole my heart (you know who you are). I wanted to be there for them in the way that pastors, friends, and family had been there for me. But when you commit to loving someone- to really love them, it asks something of you. Telling students that they can call you at 3am if they need to means you have to answer the phone at 3am. Being a steady force in someone's life means that you have to keep showing up even when they disappoint you or say something dumb. Mostly my twenties taught me that love is more about quiet humility than it's about flash.

1. The biggest lesson that I learned in my twenties was that I can trust myself. The 20's seemed to pound out the little voice in my head that told me I couldn't trust me. I learned that I have valuable instincts and that when I believe in myself there really isn't any mountain I can't climb (gross, that sentence should come with a motivational poster)! I know my voice now and I trust it enough to follow it.