One of my very best friends from college, the lovely Cara Maggie (pictured above when I made her pretend to be a model for me), happened to come through Cleveland very quickly this weekend so we decided to get together for breakfast at our favorite restaurant (one guess) and then head to church together before she headed back home.

That was a very, very long sentence. And yet I am too tired to try to fix it.

Moving on.

When we were in college (like, you know, two years ago), we ended up taking this media law class that began at 7:45 a.m. two days a week. We had to write case studies several times throughout the semester which ended up being 10-15 page papers. I can’t remember exactly how many we had that semester, but I want to say we did seven to ten of them.

Being excellent students who always never procrastinated, Cara Maggie and I often found ourselves laying on her living room floor, laptops in front of us at 3 a.m. as we vowed never again to wait until the night before a case study was due to, um, begin writing it.

And yet the vicious cycle continued that entire semester. We were trapped by forces outside of our control, ya’ll. Totally out of our control.

We would walk into class, turn in our case studies, sleep sit through the rest of the class and then, directly upon dismissal, head straight to Cracker Barrel. It was just our thing. We’d order part breakfast, part lunch (I believe they may call this phenomenon brunch?) and sit there for hours, just talking about our lives.

Okay, talking about boys. You caught us.

This past weekend was no different. We ordered drinks (water for me and hot chocolate for Cara Maggie) and began dissecting our boy-relationships before the drinks ever made it to the table. There was something different though, this time around.

And I think it might be called maturity.

You see, when we were in college, it was a little different than it is now. We’re growing up, I suppose. We’re making dating decisions based on who we want to marry, not just who we want to take us to formal next month. We’re making the right decisions in our relationships, not the decision for right now. We are, I do believe, actually becoming adults.

Before she got here, Cara sent me an email in her typical style:

Hello darling dear,

Regardless of what happened between you and —–, please remember the following: (1) you are dearly loved and (2) that one day you will be dearly loved (and adored, and praised, and delighted in and pleasured by) mr. God-designed-this-woman-for-me-and-there-is-no-other. I believe it for you! Regardless of how I may act/speak/etc. on occasion, I also believe this for me (and for Roomie, and for Allie and Cate and every girl who seeks God’s good, pleasing and perfect will).

Hearts, unicorns, fluffy kittys, and hand-knitted organic cotton sweaters,

Cara Maggie

You know, I really hope that she is right. And I also really hope this particular guy likes brunch at Cracker Barrel ’cause some things just never change.

One of the things that I didn’t get to tell you about during my little bloggy break (and let’s never do that again, please?) is that I took our entire leadership team plus some of the graduated girls from the team (to act as chaperones, if you will) on a weekend retreat. I took 30 girls, ya’ll. 30!!! I’m going to tell you more about the whole weekend next week, but I thought I’d give you a little taste now — literally.

On Saturday morning around 1 a.m., we began making smores. I (and get ready to be shocked) have never actually had a smore before, so I decided to try one. And, because my camera was nearby, somebody caught it — all 15 seconds of it.

Before you view said video, I would like to note that my hair was a little, um, big at the moment. But then again, what’s new?

Now that you’ve watched the video, go back and watch it again and watch Cate (also known as my cousin who snorts) in the background on your left. She attacks that smore with a vengeance like I’ve never seen before. Girlfriend was HUNGRY!

One of the things that may or may not have been mentioned before on this blog is my inability to cook. Sure, I can make cereal and the occasional bag of microwaved popcorn. But real cooking? Like, frozen pizzas and chicken nuggets? I just can’t seem to get it right.

Ex-boyfriend didn’t really have a problem with this, mainly because he’s a good cook himself. Sure, I got the occasional comment of “I see your cooking skills haven’t improved” after describing a particular incident with pancakes, but overall, I was pretty secure in the fact that cooking just isn’t my thing.

Oh, but how I had to go and prove that true.

In a fit of emotion the other night, I decided that NEW LEAF, it is time for A WHOLE NEW AMY BETH. And so, in thinking about all the things I wanted to change about myself, I decided that cooking would be the easiest route. I had seen a recipe I wanted to try, though I use the term “recipe” very, very lightly. Basically, it had three ingredients: french bread, butter and fresh thyme. Surely something even I could handle, right?

Wrong.

Off to the store I went, just as perky as can be. I grabbed my Single-Girl Cart and headed to the bakery side. I spent plenty of time surveying the various loaves of french bread available while softly patting them to make it look like I was picking the best one out (I’ve since been informed that you don’t actually pat bread but? Hello? HOW DO YOU EXPECT ME TO KNOW THESE THINGS?).

Once I had the perfect loaf safely tucked inside my wee little cart, I went to locate some fresh thyme (I feel so grown up when I put the word “fresh” before thyme). Seeing as I’ve never actually purchased nor used an herb before, this part of the journey took a little while. On that note, have you ever noticed that fresh mint and fresh thyme (still using the fresh part) look remarkably the same, especially to a girl who PRINTED OFF A PICTURE OF FRESH THYME JUST AS A VISUAL AID.

Once I had the (fresh!) thyme in my cart beside frenchie, I headed over to the butter aisle — a section that I know all too well. Here is what confused me though: the recipe said “make sure the butter is salted.” I was rather confused as I didn’t know there was anything else. It turns out, however, that there are quite a few unsalted butters, some salted ones and some that just don’t say it either way. I’m pretty particular about which brand I used and, sadly, it fell into the last category.

I, however, have never met a stranger in my life including the elderly woman reaching for her Land ‘O Lakes beside me. I knew God had sent a Butter Angel to my rescue and, sure enough, she happily gave me a butter lesson right there in the middle of Bi-Lo (speaking of which: Piggly Wiggly? Please come to my town? Just so I can say your name over and over and over and…).

Once I got home, I cut off a small section of the bread and fixed it according to the directions. Well, at least I tried. It turns out that when a recipe calls for room temperature butter, you shouldn’t microwave it for 30 seconds. Also, fresh thyme must be gently pulled from its stalk before chopping ensues. Who knew?

According to this particular recipe, you should turn on the broiler to get the bread really toasted all while watching it to make sure it doesn’t get too dark. I popped that bread in, turned on the broiler and stood there watching it for a good minute and a half before I got bored and decided to check my Twitter.

And that, my friends, was a mistake.

It turns out (listen carefully now, ’cause Mama’s about to teach you a thing or two about cooking!) that the broiler cooks things very, very quickly. And, in some instances when you are not watching, things like bread can catch on fire. And no one likes fire bread.

Even when it does have fresh thyme sprinkled on top.

If the words “Trey” and “Cracker Barrel” mean nothing to you, then I suggest you read this first and then this to get caught up on my Starlite’s obsession with our long lost waiter who once mentioned how he thinks of me as “a flower whose petals cannot wilt.”

You can only imagine my delight when the following post from this particular curly-headed-former-Cracker-Barrel-waiter appeared on my Facebook wall last night:

“I’M COMING BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I, of course, took the news in stride as I replied on his Facebook wall:

“Wait… are you serious? ‘Cause if you aren’t, I don’t wanna hear it!”

Trey’s reply came within minutes:

“I’m coming back… for real!!!!!! Law school is nice, but I realized that the work would not slow down after my three years at law school… it would be increased!!! And I looked at my life and said that, in my life, I want my priorities to be: 1. God 2. Family. 3. My Occupation, and I could not live with the possibility of having to choose between doing my job well or spending quality time with my future family… so I decided to come back to Cleveland and teach… that way I will have plenty of time to spend with my family while still having a successful occupation that I love! But until I get a teaching job I am going back to the good ‘ol Cracker B!!!”

Ahem. Do you see what I see above? THE MAN WE ALL WOULD LIKE TO MARRY, THAT’S WHAT I SEE.

I, being the demure swan that you know me to be, hid my true feelings for him in my reply:

“Well, as your future family, I must say how excited I am about this decision.”

Weeping may last for a night………

Okay, can we just get really, um, real for a minute? I mean, ugly real. Can you go there with me?

I was talking to someone earlier that has been watching me walk through the events of the past few weeks (and if you think this is the only situation going on, you have no idea) and they asked me what I think could be the worst that could come out of this. I didn’t even hesitate: I’m concerned I will give in to the desire to numb the pain. I already sense myself wanting to find ways to numb the pain.

There. I said it. I’m sorry if that’s too honest for you, but it’s just the truth. I don’t like pain. I want to not feel it. Numbing lets you not feel it. Simple math.

I am, however, smart enough to know that if I choose that path, there will be consequences to those actions. Most of the things we use to numb create major problems of their own.

Numbing the pain. Your thoughts?

I’ve got 13 drafts now, all of them with a few weak lines written before I’ve simply given up and pressed “save.” Each time I sit down to write a new one, I tell myself the same line: “You will finish this one. You will write.” And each time I give up, mainly because it’s hard for me to tell you what’s happening in my life without, well, telling you what’s happening in my life.

I can’t write very well right now, either. The simplest things — an email to a friend, a response to a blog comment — are nearly impossible. So, this won’t be funny or eloquent or any of those types of things. I’m just going to tell you what I’ve been doing over the past few weeks, quick snapshots of life.

I go into the office and I sort through the notes that our night volunteer team has left me. I check the email and respond to everything, even though for some unexplained reason, communication is the hardest thing for me now. But I answer them, never leaving the office at night until the inbox is empty. Sometimes I stay until dark, but no one is left unanswered. No question is left unanswered.

I field dozens of calls a day until we’re ready to go, an hour before launching programs. It amazes me that seven of them have launched, all without me telling you about them. I didn’t tell you about the day we went into our middle schools, boxes filled with tortilla chips and processed nacho cheese. I haven’t told you how we went through three week’s worth of Kool-Aid mix in one afternoon, all because God is bringing the girls to us in droves. You don’t know that, only yesterday afternoon, we simultaneously walked into four elementary schools to find so many little girls waiting for us. Four schools. Simultaneously. I can barely wrap my mind around it.

I haven’t told you about hearing Baby’s heartbeat when we went to the doctor’s office a few days ago. He’s doing well, and so is Roomie. She’s gone for a bit, surrounded by people who love her while she gets ready for the biggest event of her life so far. She’ll be back sooner than later, but until then, the house has been awfully quiet.

And then there’s me.

I’ve been waking up each morning and only allowing myself to pull the blanket over my head one time. One time, Amy Beth. Only one time. I stay hidden under it for a few minutes until I begin telling myself it’s time to get out of bed and face the day. “Get one foot on the ground,” I instruct myself. “Now, the other.” I’m stern with myself in the mornings, mainly because I need it.

I’ve been wearing warm clothes, mainly just to remind fall that I’m waiting for it. It’s here, at least a little bit. I saw leaves on the top of my car this morning and shivered as I walked into the office. It’s my favorite time of the year, that perfect season called fall. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that before.

And then night comes.

I pick out which pajamas I want to wear that evening, spending a little too much time deciding. I brush my teeth, going slower that needed just like a child who wants to delay going to bed one minute longer. I turn out the lamp beside my bed and lay my head on my pillow.

And then I cry myself to sleep. And I’m not ashamed to tell you that and I won’t feel bad about it because when your heart is broken, all bets are off. There’s no reason to hide it from you, no reason to lie about it. I thought he was the one, he’s quite certain he isn’t, I’m left alone. That’s all there is to it, years worth of time, effort, emotions, actions all rolled into one tidy sentence. Who knew you could sum up six years of your life into one final sentence?

And yet.

I still get up each morning. I still turn on my laptop, I still type my password that unlocks my inbox. I wear the pearl earrings and feel the weight of my favorite ring, the one with the silver circle. I eat lunch, even if it’s just saltine crackers and, yes, that’s all it really is right now, that’s the best I can do right now. I go for walks in the evening, letting myself be led by two puppies who are finally learning how to play fetch.

I do it because I know this isn’t the end. I know that, one morning, I won’t have to pull the covers over my head before I convince myself to get out of bed. I know that they’ll be a day when I’ll have a new favorite ring, one that goes on my left hand. I believe that there will be a night when I don’t fall asleep with my Bible pulled to my chest, tears all over the cover.

But until then, until that day comes, I’ll still be believing that when He says He loves me, He meant it. And no circumstance in my life — not even the loss of the sweetest earthly love I’ve ever known, the investment I’ve made for six long years — no circumstance can change His love for me.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus, our Lord.” Romans 8:38, 39

Checking in just to let you know that I’m still alive. Barely, yes, but I’m still kickin’.

Seriously? When it rains, it pours.

So excuse me while I continue swimming against the tide.

P.S. – I feel your prayers.

Well, your new 24 year old is here to say a quick hello and thank you for your oh so fabulous birthday wishes. You all are just so sweet.

I wanted to let you know that I’m going to take a little break for awhile, I think. I just don’t have a lot to say right now and I sure don’t have anything funny left inside me. I’ll be back, probably before you ever realize I’m gone.

Don’t go too far, okay? I’ll see you soon.

All of us in Starlite are happy to wish Amy Beth a very special Happy Birthday today as she turns 24 on this sunny Wednesday!

Our sweet birthday girl is actually home sick today! She started feeling bad around 10 a.m. yesterday and ended up having to go to to the doctor who ordered bed rest for a couple of days. Which translates to: we expect her back in the office this afternoon.

In the meantime, one of her college roommates has written a post about knowing “the real her” from before Starlite ever began. Hope you’ll enjoy learning a little more about our Amy Beth:

Hi, ya’ll. Amy Beth is sitting in the middle of a twister. Ok, not really. But it might look like it to her because she’s having a weeee bit o’ vertigo. So I’m here to wish Amy Beth a warm Happy Birthday and give ya’ll a sneak peek into the Woman Behind the Blog.

I met Amy Beth a few weeks into our freshman year. The first time I met her, she was sitting on her bed, sipping some soup that Christan (my roommate) had brought in. She would go on to tell us, over the following days and weeks, about how difficult her first few weeks at Lee had been. I remember thinking, as I listened to her story, about what an overcomer she was. Had I been in her place, with the roommates she had, and the situation into which she was thrown, I would have gotten in my car and headed back home on day 2.

But not Amy Beth. She was a fighter. Over the following months and years, I would hear story after story of the struggles and difficulties that she has overcome in her life. I would sit amazed as I listen to all that she had accomplished at such a young age. I knew that this was a person who would make a difference in the world, one way or another.

But the thing that impressed me the most is the story she told me, not so long ago, sitting on the porch of Ye Olde Cracker Barrel. She told me about the summer following freshman year. About how, for her, it came down to two choices:

“I can either accept that freshman year was awful and never go back to Lee, or I can go back and change the system so other freshman girls won’t have to experience what I did.”

Thus, the birth of Starlite Ministries.

That was the story that came to mind when I found out I would be hosting today — because when Amy Beth asked me to host the blog due to her Spinning Room Syndrome, she asked me to write about “The Real Amy Beth.” But honestly, ya’ll, other than this story, I find myself at a loss for words because, quite frankly, the Amy Beth that shows up on the blog everyday is the Amy Beth that I know and love in real life.

She works hard. She loves hard. She prays hard. She laughs hard. She worships hard.

And because of all that, she falls hard. But when she falls, she picks herself up, dusts off her knees, and runs into the arms of her Daddy God.

But you all know that — because you read about it everyday.

So the only thing I can say about the “real” Amy Beth is this: she doesn’t know her worth. She knows that her ministry has impacted thousands of girls. But she doesn’t know that, for those of us who call her friend — our lives have been blessed simply because of who she is.

So today, as a birthday gift, lets all tell Amy Beth how she has impacted our lives. Email her. Comment. Send her a card. Let her know that she has made a difference in your life — either through the blog or in real life.

Happy Birthday, Amy Beth. I love you.

To learn more about Brandy, visit her blog here.

“In the arithmetic of love, one plus one equals everything, and two minus one equals nothing.” - Mignon McLaughlin

I’ve been staring at a blank screen for far too long now, wondering what to write. I’ve got so much to say but no way to get it out there, to make it sound right.

I turn 24 tomorrow. Birthdays are a big deal to me, mainly because I feel like they’re a fresh start — a new beginning, if you will. A chance to start over.

And there the tears are. I knew they’d come.

I was at an event a few months ago when the speaker went silent before the crowd. After staring at the sea of heads in front of him, he quietly said that he believes there are two things we truly want in life: first, to know that the work we have put our hands to has truly helped someone and, secondly, to know that we have loved someone and been loved by them.

I have had the extremely rare privilege of experiencing the first thing by the age of 23. I know how uncommon that is; at least I think I do. It isn’t normal to know that the work you’ve done by age 23 has literally changed someone’s life for the better but, by the literal grace of God, I have experienced that truly unbelievable feeling.

I’ve experienced the other, too. I’ve loved and been loved back.

The problem is that I’m just no good at it.

I am terrible at being in love but I’m even worse when it comes to being loved. You cannot even begin to imagine how difficult it is to love me, the day-to-day me — not the girl from the blog. I don’t think it’s that I’m unlovable or, even worse, unable to love.

I’m just terrified of being loved.

And so, when someone tries to love me, I run. I’ve done it for years; ask my college roommates, my friends from high school.

Or ask him, the one I ran from twice.

It’s truly a very sad thing, watching me run. I’m fine until the light bulb flickers on and I realize that someone loves me. That realization that is so sweet for so many is the very trigger that tells me it’s time to leave, time to run somewhere that I’ll be safe from love.

I sat on the back row at church this past Sunday morning, just broken as can be. I’ve spent the majority of my 23 years trying to train my heart not to hurt. That’s an awful thing to do, but I’m just now discovering how truly terrible it’s consequences can be, how much there is to lose while trying to dodge love.

It’s as if I would rather grab the needle and stick it in my own flesh than continue fearfully wondering when the doctor will give me the shot. I’d rather hurt myself than be hurt by someone else.

I have lost so much by living my life this way. I’ve lost experiences and memories and everything else that comes with allowing yourself to be loved. All of it, gone.

And here is the worst part.

For a brief moment, all those months ago, love somehow got inside and I finally felt what I had been pushing away for so long. I’m sorry to have to tell you that I eventually ran from it, just as soon as I realized that I was in danger of being loved by someone.

But once you’ve had a taste of love, that’s all you ever crave.

I can’t even begin to describe to you the heartache that has walked through my front door over the past week and I don’t mean that figuratively. Love lost, engagements broken. Nights spent sobbing on the bathroom floor, mornings spent dreading the day ahead. It’s almost as if they’re drawn here, into the house that knows what a broken heart feels like, how it seems absolutely beyond mending.

We all react to it so differently, the girls with the broken hearts. One in denial, one in rebellion. One still believing, one vowing to never love again. But at the end of the night, when each of us crawls into bed and turns off the lamp, we all really want the same thing.

It’s no wonder He’s in the business of love.