Lest you think last night’s post where I suggest I may perhaps be on my way to maturity was a little too confident, I present the following actual conversation from my drive home tonight:

Me: “Um, God?  You know The Situation?” (Side note: this isn’t a situation I’ve written about, just so you don’t have to play the guessing game.)

God: “Yep.”

Me: “Well, I know that You said in Your word that vengeance belongs to You, but I would be happy to help in This Particular Situation if You need some assistance.”

Just keepin’ it real, y’all.  Just keepin’ it real.

I was running several minutes behind schedule this morning when I finally made it out the door and on my way to a breakfast work meeting. When I hit a red light, I just happened to look to my right to see a man in a pick-up truck checking me out with quite the grin on his face. I tilted my head and gave him a little smile while reaching up to tuck my hair behind my ear.

Which is when I realized that? My 29 pink hot rollers that I put in this morning?

Well, they had come along for the ride, safe atop by air-filled head.

When one of my college girls sits down across from me and asks where the box of tissues is, I can usually guess the problem immediately: boys.  Of course, there’s rare occasions when it’s something else — stress with school, problems with parents back home, etc.  But most of the time, it’s boys, plain and simple.

These tearful conversations usually don’t happen until something has gone amiss, naturally.  Each of their stories are different, some more heartbreaking than others.  But after several years of hearing these conversations about a full dorm worth of boys, I’ve picked up on one similarity that their stories all have in common: the grieving of the loss of regular communication from that boy.

That, of course, is a fancy way of saying that they’re upset that he isn’t calling anymore, that their phone isn’t vibrating with a new text.  The realization that there won’t be an email from him to wake up to the next morning is enough to go ahead and open up another box of Kleenex.  Losing a relationship means losing the knowledge that, at the end of the day, there’s someone out there in the world that wants to know that you’re home safe and sound, tucked away in bed just waiting for their call.

I understand this, obviously, because I am still one of them.  Maybe a few years older, but really, still a girl that can get awfully attached to knowing that the phone is going to ring that night without fail, that the text messages will come in steady succession.

Over the last few weeks, I had the opportunity to get very attached to it (and oh, you don’t know how hard it was to keep from telling y’all about it!).  Hours spent talking about everything — but really nothing, of course — before goodnights that took an average of 16 minutes to finish only to be followed by texts declaring that we already missed each others’ voice and other ridiculous mush.  It was fun and it was exciting and it was just a breath of fresh air straight into my heart that so wants to be loved.

But now it’s gone, a right and (dare I say) mature decision that was made just in time to perhaps let us remain friends.  It’s a good thing, a decision that is best for both and made because it’s just the right thing to do.  You’d be proud of me, I think, for choosing what’s best over what’s easiest.

The only problem is that it doesn’t make the phone ring at night.

Adjusting back to that reality — the reality of, quite literally, a silent night — is a tricky thing that, if not done properly, can result in many tears and, far worse, the Christian girl’s version of drunk dialing: the 11 p.m. phone call asking the recent-yet-now-ex-boyfriend for prayer for her great-aunt’s knee problem.

Oh don’t act like you’ve never done it.

For the last few nights, as I’ve worked on adjusting to my new reality of my unlimited cell minutes being, well, unused, I’ve tried a lot of different things to fill my evenings.  There was cleaning out the kitchen cabinets last Thursday night, an failed attempt at a bubble bath on Friday night (it’s a long story), the reading of one very thick book Saturday evening and even a misguided stomach flu to round out Sunday night.  While I deserved an A for effort, I failed at the overall exam: I still missed my nightly phone calls.

So tonight, when the sky went dark, I decided to try something different.  I pulled out a few candles (to set the mood, of course), checked my hair in the mirror (lacking volume, but no time to fix that), sat myself down on the ottoman that sits in front of the brown leather chair in my living room, hugged my knees to my chest and said the words I had grown used to saying each night these past few weeks:

“So, how was your day today?”

We talked for a long time tonight, just me on that ottoman and Him in that chair.  I told him about my day and how work went and even about the broken mailbox at the Starlite office that packing tape hasn’t yet fixed (yet another reason we need men willing to sport some Starlite pink).  I couldn’t help but thinking, as I sat there with a silent cell phone beside me, that I wasn’t getting what I’d been asking for, what I had been begging to have delivered by the ring of a phone each evening.

It’s been sitting in that brown chair in my living room all along, just waiting for me to pull up an ottoman and sit for awhile.

As you may have picked up from my Saturday afternoon post, my weekend was so very exciting as I watched one movie after another from the comfort of my couch.

I’d like to take a moment to thank the following channels for their contributions to the last 48 hours of my life: Oxygen, ABC Family, Lifetime (yes, I’m embarrassed) and Hallmark (now I’m just ashamed).

I didn’t plan to spend my weekend on the couch, but a headache, fever and case ‘o the chills combined forces to quell the inner wild side of me that just waits to break loose every weekend.  Of course, I got a few cheap thrills in early Saturday morning — why, I went to the bank, library and got the oil changed in my car all before noon.  By 1 p.m. though, I was down for the count and even two repeat showings of You’ve Got Mail did little to break my fever.

Site note: have I ever told y’all that I secretly want to fall in love through the written word?  Okay, I know that makes me sound kinda old-fashioned (the written word?  Really?) but I stand by it.  I don’t care if it happens through letters, text messages, emails or even a telegram for cryin’ out loud!  Just give me love and, by goodness, give it to me in written word!

Demanding?  Impatience?  Those are fruits of the Spirit, right?

Ahem.

Sometime in the night between Saturday and Sunday, I woke up both hot and cold at the same time and felt the need to pace my bedroom floor for a few minutes before giving up and getting back in bed.  I slept for a few more hours before making the decision to be at the local urgent care clinic when the doors opened at 10 a.m.

Sure, it may not sound like it was cause for urgent care to you but the ugly truth of it is that?  My other job that I never write about on the blog? Well, I have to work 59 hours at it this week (far more than usual) plus continuing to man (woman?) the Starlite office on my own.  And that, my friends, means that any fever that can’t be cured with Meg Ryan falling in love through emails on my TV screen basically means GET THYSELF TO URGENT CARE, AND STAT.

You gave it your best, Meg.  Don’t be too hard on yourself.

… while laying on your couch spooning Theraflu into your own mouth, you watch four hours of movies about love on Oxygen before grabbing the remote to see if you still get the Hallmark channel.

I’m just sayin’.

P.S. — Must Love Dogs - I’d give it one star.  Eh.

P.P.S. — But The Lake House?  Well, it induced The Ugly Cry something fierce.

P.P.P.S. — And now, I’m watching Hope Floats while I wait for You’ve Got Mail.

P.P.P.P.S. — I’d say there’s potential for The Ugly Cry to get uglier as the night goes by.

A couple of days ago, I had lunch with my cousin Cate. And then, yesterday, we headed out of town (along with the hilarious Leslie Ruth) to see a concert. On our way, while stopped at a gas station, we decided to make a video of Cate’s dress because we just found it hilarious that I was in jeans and she was in a sequined dress when it’s usually me that overdresses.

Anyway, right before making the video, I casually mention something about Seeing A Boy The Night Before And No, There’s Nothing That Exciting To Report But Thank You For Caring. Cate’s reaction to me not calling her that night to tell her?

Well, see for yourself.

“The enemy reached out to take all her favorite things.” Lamentations 1:10a (MSG)

I rarely remember my dreams when I wake up the next morning, but this morning was different.  Last night, I dreamed that I was living in London and constantly going back and forth between here and there.  I wore beautiful wellies while I was in London and I had, if you want to know the honest truth, incredibly good hair while I was in Tennessee.  It was a lovely dream, especially since my British accent made it all the way back to Tennessee with me and has been, I’m afraid to admit, making a live reappearance while I go about my tasks this morning.

“Snuggles, Cuddles?  Would you like a spot of tea with your dog food this morning?”

SEE.  I AM A NATURAL.

In all seriousness, ever since visiting London my sophomore year of high school, I’ve wanted to live there for a short (VERY SHORT!) stint.  Just long enough to pick up the accent, really.  And to say I shopped at Boots, their answer to our Walgreens and CVS.

However, when I went to Italy for three weeks in college (shout out to Jill, Lindsey and the hot professor who was a fantastic chaperone), I realized that Venice was a creating a tie in the game of Where I’d Like To Live If Anything Is Possible.  We only spent a few days there, but I’m convinced that I’ll go back to stay for a bit one day.  Maybe with a husband, maybe just alone.  I could see myself walking by those streets of water in the morning and writing beside them in the evenings.

The real point of me telling you about my dream living arrangements is to bore you out of your mind ask you a question: think back to when you were young and single and tell me where you would have moved and lived for six months if nothing held you back?  Don’t worry about finances, jobs, etc.  Just where would you have gone and why?

Of course, for some of us, thinking back to the time when we were young and single will be quite easy seeing as that was JUST FIVE MINUTES AGO FOR A FEW OF US.

Not that I’m naming any names here.  No, ma’am.  No names at all.

My merry December,

I’m so glad you’re here to stay for 31 days, maybe the best days of everyone’s year.  You hold so much in your 31 days, but I think the greatest thing you have in your bag of gifts is a month full of promise.

I’ll tell you a secret as long as you promise to zip your little lips, Mr. December!  The truth is, you’re my favorite month of the year by far.  I used to think I liked November better, but I’m making an executive decision that you will be my favorite month this year. Motion accepted, verdict given!

You, December, are a month that we can all understand no matter where we live or what language we speak.  You’ve got a bag full of memories to be made, don’t you?  I can see myself rushing in from the cold after a quiet day in the office, Christmas tree waiting for me in the living room.  And even though the thought of that should make me feel lonely, it doesn’t.  Because this year, more than ever before, it’s about me and a baby that changed my life.

A baby that arrived a couple thousand years ago.

That baby, who found Himself cradled in a manger, will be our guest in a house that only He can make a home during your stay, December.

Because any house that He lives in can’t help but turn into a home.

Love,

Amy Beth

In what may come as surprising news, I had the loveliest Thanksgiving of my life this year. As soon as I could get out of the office on Wednesday, I grabbed my bags and headed to a small town in North Carolina to celebrate with some friends — old and new, pink and blue.

Over the course of five days, I went from Tennessee to North Carolina back to Tennessee then to Georgia then back to North Carolina and then, finally, back home to Tennessee. I tried sweet potato casserole for the first time and watched my grandfather beat my brother at Wii bowling. I went to an engagement party for my sweet Katie and had lunch with my mom on Black Friday. I went, with one of my best friends from college, to a restaurant that opened exactly 100 years before I was born and fell asleep that night under three layers of blankets.

And, when it was all over last night, I drove myself home.

I had dreaded the drive home, the task of taking myself back to my house, coming home to my new reality. I told myself that there would be no tears on the drive home, mainly since I was driving through the mountains and needed to concentrate on the road. I think we all know that my driving skills leave much to be desired.

And then, the best thing happened: it started to snow. I was upset, at first, since I have never driven in the snow, especially not over a mountain, especially not in the night. I pulled over, trying to decide what to do — should I try to go back to my friend’s house and stay another night or just keep trying to go home? After calling a couple of people who knew more about the weather, I decided to go home because it was only going to get worse there — no use trying to fight even more of it in the morning.

It was a long two hours after that, as it went from snow to rain to a bit of snow again. I turned the iPod off, put the cell phone with no signal in the seat next to me and gripped the steering wheel the whole way home.

I have a lot of questions right now, due to what’s happened. There are some pretty big decisions that have to be made now dealing with my living arrangements, my job, etc. The whole thing is an absolute mess with me left with a lease for seven more months. I’m looking at all the options and having to make decisions that — no matter which one is selected — will likely take away what little stability I’ve been able to build here. And that’s a real blow when you’re a girl who craves stability.

And yet.

Somewhere in those mountains, on some dark road that I couldn’t tell you the name of, I quietly decided that there is only one thing stable in my life, the only thing that has been stable all these years. And so, I choose to believe that He still has a plan for me, a concern for my life. Don’t get me wrong — the next few months will be hard. They will be ugly at times. And, most devastating to me, they will be unstable at best.

But at least He will be stable.

“It is wonderful what miracles God works in wills that are utterly surrendered to Him. He turns hard things into easy, and bitter things into sweet. It is not that He puts the easy things in place of the hard, but He actually changes the hard thing into an easy one.”

Hannah Whitall Smith