– The Easter Conundrum (Confession) – Jen Hatmaker

Jen’s post is challenging, heartbreaking, inspiring, and convicting. Oh, is it ever.

– Be Loved – Christy Nockels

This song has meant so much to me over the past week and has just ministered to my heart like crazy. If you’re going through something difficult and could use some encouragement, would you leave a comment and let me know (or send me an email if you’re more comfortable doing that)? I’d love to send you a copy of this song. The only condition is that you need to be able to download from iTunes.

(And in the interest of full disclosure, giving away this song has nothing to do with a record label or PR firm or anything like that. Just so you know.)

– The Centerpiece of All History…

There was a time in my life when I knew what Easter was – but the magnitude of it, and the purpose in it, just didn’t register with me. Knowing that Jesus died on the Cross is all fine and well and good, I guess, but it’s not the same thing as believing it. It’s not the same thing as seeing the sin in your life for what it is, seeing the state of your heart for what it is, and trusting that Jesus took on every bit of your sin and shame so that you don’t have to pay a penalty for it. Our surrender to His sacrifice reconciles us to God – something that we are not capable of doing on our own. The Cross that I looked at so casually when I was younger is the grace of God, grace that’s sent from heaven to earth, grace that reaches out and beckons us and envelops us and covers us and changes us for God’s glory.

This Easter I pray that His grace takes your breath away. And if you’re feeling a little uncertain about the Truth of it all, or if you’re feeling discouraged in your faith, or if you’re walking with the Lord but want to soak up more of who He is and what He’s done for us, take some time to listen to this sermon. I think you’ll be glad that you did.

First of all, I totally forgot to draw for the winners in the Dave Barnes Stories to Tell giveaway. So here are our winners.

And who are those lucky (PROVIDENTIAL) winners?

Well, I will tell you.

258 – Deanna
122 – Robin Veazey
111 – Melissa
63 – Kelly
11 – Vicki

Y’all should have an email from me with details about how to claim your prize.

Second of all, I still don’t really know how to use Instagram.

That has nothing to do with anything, of course, but it’s a source of frustration in my life.

I believe that’s what you would refer to as a first world problem.

Third of all, this afternoon Alex and I ran by the Walmarts to pick up some drink options, among other things. The little guy wanted some lemonade, and D needed some Diet Coke, and I was perilously close to the end of my container of wintergreen IceBreakers and needed to rectify that situation immediately. I like to have at least two spare containers (packs? batches? flocks? I have no idea) of IceBreakers on hand at all times, a sure sign that I have officially lost my ever-livin’ mind. I also needed a couple of blocks (wedges? pounds? prides?) of cheese to go with my ever-growing crackers collection (please see previous sentence re: the losing of the mind), and I threw a rotisserie chicken in the cart just because it smelled good and seemed like the best way to avoid cooking anything for supper.

(I did end up cooking some asparagus to go with our rotisserie chicken.)

(Of the last 365 nights, I estimate that I have cooked asparagus 234 of them.)

(Perhaps this trend is indicative of my tendency to get in a food rut.)

(Or perhaps it’s just an iron deficiency.)

(Only time and some blood work will tell.)

After I paid for the groceries, the cashier immediately started ringing up the next person in line, so I grabbed our remaining bags off of the spinny-bag thing (and yes, I believe that is its scientific name, and no, I did not have any reusable grocery bags with me, so feel free to mock and scoff at will), put them in the cart, then walked out to the car. Alex and I were having a lively discussion about my aversion to any situation where someone is throwing up (I would explain, but you would die from boredom), and after I put the bags in the back of my car, I returned my shopping cart to the cart thingie (cart dock? cart holder? cart return?). Then I got in the car, cranked the air up to high since April has decided that it wants to be July, and we headed home.

I fear that I’m devoting far too many details to a story that is sure to be anti-climactic.

But this is really no different from, well, ever, so I will continue.

Once I unloaded the car, I started unpacking the groceries while Alex rummaged through his backpack for papers I needed to sign, and as I pulled each item out of its bag, I ran through a little mental checklist to make sure I didn’t forget anything: asparagus, lemonade, IceBreakers, cheese, ham, cheese – wait a second – HAM?

I HAVE A HAM?

Because, you see, I did not buy a ham. But there was a ham on my kitchen counter.

You can appreciate my dilemma.

After a few seconds I figured out that the woman who was ahead of me in line must have left a bag of her groceries on the spinny wheel, and in all of my urgency to get out of the way when the cashier had moved on to the next customer, I grabbed a bag that wasn’t mine. And brought home a 10-pound Smithfield spiral cut ham as a result.

All I could think of was Scout Finch when she dressed up like a ham for the play in To Kill A Mockingbird and was supposed to walk on stage at Mrs. Merriweather’s cue: “Pork!”

Thankfully Bob Ewell was in no way involved in today’s ham-related events. That would have been terrible.

Anyway, A and I hopped back in the car so that we could return the ham to Walmarts, which was so funny because it was exactly how I envisioned spending my afternoon. Nothing says “springtime fun!” like returning a ham that’s not yours to the grocery store, after all. The little guy was aggravated because returning the ham cut into his precious afternoon play time, and when he sighed for about the fourth time before we were even out of the driveway, I offered him some motherly words of wisdom that will no doubt impact his heart and his life for the rest of his earthly days:

“We HAVE to return the ham, buddy. We have to. It’s not ours. Plus, I don’t think you want for me to steal a ham right here before Easter, now do you?”

Embroider that on a pillow and put it on Pinterest, my friends.

Now to be perfectly honest, there’s not a doubt in my mind that back in my younger / grad school / early 20s days I would’ve totally kept that ham. I would’ve kept that ham, and I would’ve called my friends to come over, and I would’ve cooked that ham, and I would’ve served everybody ham for supper while I told them about how I totally lucked out because the lady in front of me forgot one of her grocery bags and HEY, LOOK AT ALL THIS FREE HAM!

Oh, shifty moral compass of my youth. I do not miss you even a little bit.

But now I’m a little older and much more sympathetic about how much a ham costs and for some reason I keep thinking of the lyrics to “Landslide” even though they have absolutely nothing to do with ham. At least I don’t think that they do. Because the presence of a ham would alter the meaning of the song considerably. And negatively, I might add.

So we returned the ham to the customer service desk, and based on the easy-breezy reaction from the cashier, I concluded that ham returns are undoubtedly more common than I realized. I had no idea – though, truth be told, I’ve never given the topic of returning pork products much thought before.

Afterwards we drove home. Again. And I spent a lot of time thinking about that ham. We didn’t know it for very long, but I believe that it changed us in deep and lasting ways.

Or, you know, not.

But the rotisserie chicken was absolutely delicious. So there’s that.

See? A happy ending.

And nary a ham in sight.

I have one eye on the National Championship game and another eye on the computer, so I thought this would be an excellent time to share some pictures from my phone. Oh, we can pretend that there’s a narrative thread and etc. and so on and so forth, but we’ll only be kidding ourselves.

By the way. That reminds me.

Not too long ago I was listening to a song by a friend of ours who dabbles in the singing and the songwriting, and the lyrics were just killing me. Wrecking me. And since this friend writes a lot of songs about real life, the whole time I was thinking, Gosh, I just had no idea that he’d been through something like that, so I texted him and said, “Wow. THAT SONG. I’m trying to figure it out, but I think it’s about…” – and then I launched into very detailed theory.

A few minutes later he replied to my text, and he said something along the lines of “I’m so glad you like it! I have no idea what it’s about.”

And I was all, “HUH?”

And he was all, “Seriously. I just made it up.”

It totally blew my mind. It also made me realize that it’s a good thing that I’m not a fiction writer since clearly I have no understanding of that thing called imagination. Not to mention that I probably read waaaaaaay too much into, well, everything.

Hi. I’m a chronic over-analyzer. It’s nice to meet you.

Okay. Pictures.

One night about a month ago I ran in the grocery store, and when I was waiting to check out, I looked to my left and saw Dr. Oz on the cover of a magazine. Then I looked to my right and saw Dr. Oz on the cover of a magazine. For a few seconds I stood there like I was watching a tennis match, because oh, what a difference a little Photoshop makes.

I can’t figure out what it is, but something about the picture on the right creeps me out a little bit. Though I’m sure Dr. Oz is a lovely individual and all.

I snapped this picture in church not too long ago because I AM A REBEL. Really I snapped it because my husband has officially gone paperless during sermons. YouVersion on the phone, sermon notes on the iPad. I’ve tried using just YouVersion in church, but I’ve decided that I like flipping the pages of my Bible too much. I’m old school, I reckon.

The sky at the beach? Is glorious. Couldn’t get tired of it if I tried.

We didn’t have an official party for the little guy’s birthday since he and his daddy were going on a special trip a few days after the big day. We did, however, have some neighborhood buddies over for cake and ice cream, and I took this picture at some point in the festivities. I have no idea what they were talking about, but it makes me smile.

Alex loves to take screenshots when he plays a game on my phone. This one was the most recent. The game has been quite the hit in our house (though not as big a hit as Temple Run, which apparently is a delight and a joy and a wonder).

My cousin Paige used lots of pictures of Mama to decorate at the birthday lunch last week, and this one caught my eye because it reminded me of, well, me. Weird. I never really thought Mama and I looked alike when I was growing up, but as it turns out: yes, yes we do.

According to David, I start to use the word “fresh” a lot during this time of year. I want fresh vegetables and fresh food and everything needs to taste fresh and I look forward to fresh squash and fresh okra and fresh tomatoes.

The bottom line is that I start to sound like a Kool & the Gang song.

This afternoon I started thinking that chopped salad sounded like the most delicious supper in the history of all suppers, so I went to the store and got lots of FRESH vegetables and made a FRESH batch of dressing and cooked some FRESH chicken. I put it all on a big platter so we could make salads with some FRESH chopped lettuce, and LO, IT WAS TASTY.

And FRESH.

FRESH-tastic, even.

(I could do this all day.)

(But I’ll stop now.)

(You’re welcome and good-bye.)

Well, right now I’m watching the ACM Awards and cooking supper. I’m running a little behind schedule, but that’s not a bad thing since watching the ACM Awards affords me the opportunity to see what Carrie Underwood is wearing. I’m always looking to her for fashion inspiration since our legs are practically identical.

*ahem*

I have to admit, though, that I’m about sixteen kinds of tickled by Reba McEntire’s hair tonight. It reminds me of how she wore it in the 90s, and if she’d push Blake Shelton to the side for about three minutes and sing a heartfelt rendition of “Fancy,” I wouldn’t mind it one bit.

In fact, why don’t we just have a “Fancy” moment right now?

I do enjoy an occasional “Fancy” moment. I also enjoy an occasional “Does He Love You” moment, because in addition to some top-o-the-lungs harmony, the hairstyles are nothing short of exceptional.

I believe I’ve ventured down a country music rabbit trail. I do apologize.

Anyway, our weekend has been a good one. Last week was a long one (I mean, technically it was the same length as every other week in the history of ever, but it was so jam-packed that it seemed to last longer, and I believe I’ve now over explained sufficiently), so we were all in pajamas by 6:30 Friday night. Saturday we had soccer, and it was extra fun because the little man played goalie. The look of intense concentration on his face makes me want to clap my hands; honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever paid that level of deliberate attention to anything – unless maybe it was to count and make sure that we got all eight pieces in our Popeye’s bucket-o-chicken.

Oh, I’m kidding.

Except that I’m not really kidding.

After church today we ate at Chuy’s since, well, we were breathing, and once we finished with a few post-lunch errands, we headed home, where I made the bold choice to put on my pajamas at 2:30 in the afternoon. IT MADE ME SO HAPPY. I have washed about six loads of clothes, and as soon as Mad Men comes on in a few minutes, I’m going to tackle folding this ever-growing pile of clean clothes in the guest room.

Seriously. What is it with laundry and me? Why are we always at odds? Why can’t we reach some sort of truce? Why doesn’t it ever go away? Why can’t it take some initiative and put itself away?

If the laundry doesn’t watch it, I’m gonna take a hint from Reba and put all of it on a boat and BLOW ‘ER UP.

Desperate times, people.

Desperate times.

– Slow Cooker Brownie Pudding Cake

I’ve never been more sorry that I gave up sugar for Lent. But I’m gonna tell you what: come Easter Sunday, we are gonna have a crock pot that is filled to the brim with a batch of brownie pudding cake. AMEN.

– In the Wake of Drought: What Remains

A couple of days ago Beth Moore wrote a post about some trees around her house, and as I read it while I sat in the car at soccer practice, I nodded so much that I’m surprised I didn’t sustain some sort of neck injury. It’s chock-full of wisdom and truth. And I’m more certain than ever that trees are my general revelation love language.

– Into the Glorious – Christy Nockels

My love for Christy Nockels’ music (and hair) is well-documented, I know. But y’all, I’m really not even the tiniest bit biased when I tell you that her new CD (available Tuesday) is her best ever. I got a complimentary copy a couple of weeks ago, and I weep – WEEP – every single time I listen to it. It’s extraordinary.

– OPI Holland Collection Thanks A Windmillion

It’s not gray. And it’s not green. It’s sort of a muted pistachio that looks much more gray than green on your toes. AND I LOVE IT.

– American Idol

I’m not blogging about each episode of Idol this year, but I have to say that Wednesday night’s episode may have been the best I’ve ever seen. Sweet mercy at the great performances. Is anybody else watching? Do you have a favorite?

(I definitely have a favorite.)

(Well, three favorites.)

(Phillip, Joshua and Colton, for the record.)

(This week, at least.)

Have a great weekend, y’all!

Today about 25 of Mama’s friends surprised her with an 80th birthday luncheon. It was such a fun way to celebrate my sweet mama, and I would show you loads of pictures if 90% of the ones I took weren’t so blurry. Apparently I was VERY excited about all the festivities and merriment and whathaveyou. #shakyhands

And this picture? Is my favorite.

First of all, it’s quintessential Mama. Great hair, cute outfit, fresh manicure – I could go on and on. She was still a little shocked from the surprise of it all when I snapped this picture, but she looked so pretty.

And what makes the picture even better is what’s going on in the background: Martha, wearing her three-quarter length sleeve jacket, talking ninety to nothing. I have a feeling that she’s saying some variation of “Oh! You don’t mean! Do you mean it, Jane? You don’t mean!” – but I can’t be completely sure since I was too busy snapping blurry pictures of party attendees. I consider it my calling.

Happy Birthday, Mama – you are deeply and dearly loved by so many!