He said No.

So. In case you haven’t heard… I work with 5^th & 6^th graders in the Redwood forest at an outdoor education center and it’s kind of the best. I do lots of facilitating, leading, guiding, and teaching. But little did I realize how much they would do the teaching and I would do the learning. These kids are teaching me how to be kind, patient, and bold.

Take Eric for example, A.K.A. the cutest little boy I’ve ever seen. A little bit of pudge. A little more bit cross-eyed. And the sweetest, most innocent smile in the whole wide world. Oh, and the most beautiful brown skin straight out of Mexico.

Adorable.

I loved that kid… wish he was still around. But here’s the thing, Eric was terrified of anything more than 10 feet up in the air. He refused to climb the trees or do any of the ziplines or swings. And I mean, RE-FUSED. I was lucky if the boy even put a harness on.

So there I was, up in the tree sending kid after kid off all kinds of exciting “rides” as they like to call it, my ears practically bleeding from all the spontaneous screams and uncontrollable laughter as each wild eyed participant took their first step or “scoot” off the wooden platform.

Then almost out of habit, I would find my eyes back on Eric, his eyes larger than ever, just gleaming at each participant with such an innocent, child-like hope and determination. I just knew he wanted to fly and wave from the sky like all the other kids. Or did he? Didn’t every kid want that? 

You know, there were actually a few times where Eric would come close to maybe, possibly, potentially, in an hour’s time… attempt to climb, zip or swing from the trees. And each time I would get so excited. In fact, on his last full day of camp, I was certain it was going to happen.

WHAT?!! Eric has a harness on!

He’s moving toward the stairs!

Heart pounding.

Feet grounded.

Carabineer ready.

Eyes locked on his.

After only one step up, Eric casually yet intently looked back at his even more terrified friend, Christian, the only other kid who had not yet attempted the the zipline. Desperate for an Ok, a nod, maybe just maybe, some sort of approval from his loyal comrade. But Nothing. Just the same familiar fear staring back.

Still Eric moves forward, terrified and full of doubt.

Man.

We tried everything. Eric’s father-like figure chaperone, David, stepped in and together we were ready to Conquer. We had Eric close his eyes and dream about his puppy. I explained our equipment set up and our inspection process… told him those carabineers can hold the weight of a baby elephant. We even had him repeat after us,

I know I can do this. (I know I can… do…this.)

This is not scary. (This… is not… scary.)

It’s going to be super fun. (It’s going to be super…. fun.)

Then tears. Lots of tears. We’re talking major waterfall.

Quick sidenote: I’m beginning to become pretty comfortable with kids crying next to me up in the trees these days. Shoot, I almost expect it. And then there’s the uncontrollable shaking. And the petrified, toddler-like screaming. Oh and let’s not forget, the mere shock on the kids’ faces as they look down for the first time and practically swallow the entirety of the height at which they are going to fall from. Although I never use the F word with kids… at least not that F word.

"Not fall, Rebecca.

FLY. You are going to FLY."

Anyway, back to Eric. Here we are, desperately trying every possible technique in the whole wide world of Challenge Course Counseling. At one point, we even picked him up on both sides of his harness so he could feel the support of the cable.

But after about 10-15 minutes of doing everything but pushing this kid off the dang platform, he looks us both in the eye and says without a stutter,

I can’t do it.

Hands officially and forever out of the handholds.

Head shaking profusely.

And without another word, we both know there’s no way he’s letting down this time. Eric’s done.

After catching his breath and wiping the remainder of his tears on his sleeve, he and Christian walk down to the field and wait in silence for David to walk them back to their cabin. All the other kids had left at this point. Free time had begun and they were tired of waiting on Eric to make a decision.

“Well, we tried. That’s too bad. These kids sure are missing out,” Military Man David says to me in a rather depressing tone. Then he turns around to go back down the stairs, ready to give the boys a Growing Up Talk on their walk back to camp.

But you know, as I think back to that day at the zipline, I begin to realize something: Maybe Eric has more courage than any of us. Maybe he is the bravest one of all.

Eric said No.

A ten year old. A mere ten year old. Still afraid of girls. Still learning how to hike without tripping over every possible root in the forest.

He said No.

How often I say Yes because people expect me to. How often I...

Do this. 

Do that. 

Go here. 

Go there.

All because I’m supposed to or because everyone else is doing it. Or because I don’t even know there’s another option. How often I stand at the edge of the platform internally terrified and more than overwhelmed, trying to calm myself down but failing miserably as my breathing soon evolves into disappointing attempts at inhalation, forgetting for the life of me how to exhale.

Harness: Check

Helmet: Check.

Clipped in.

Handholds On.

Step. Forward.

And…

Gone.

If only I knew I had a choice. 

The choice to say No.

To step back.

Get unclipped.

And walk away. 

There’s always a choice.

An Invitation

So I am learning that I really enjoy being 24. While it is somewhat disturbing to move further and further into adulthood and watch the years of my youth slowly fall through my fingers like sand, I am, in very tangible ways, rediscovering myself. For the first time in a long time, I am folding inside out and becoming comfortable in admitting my own weakness, hesitations and doubts.

And in this process, I am seeing and tasting and discovering more beauty than I ever knew existed.

So here I stand at the beach of self-discovery. I visit this place often in my internal explorations, as it quickly becomes my necessary escape. It is here that I linger in reflection and collect memories like shells in the sand. It is here that I speak kindly to myself in a calm and motherly tone.

Today I play in the sand like always as I painfully allow each tiny speck to drift from my hands back to the ground until suddenly it seems, my childhood and college years become a closed chapter. The story must go on.

But with the sand forever set free, I sense something new in my hands, something invisible but heavy. I experience the weight of it in my palms all the way down to my feet. I feel it dance within each strand of my hair. I feel it nudge at my limbs and tickle my eyelashes... 

Wind.

I welcome the wind in all of her playfulness. Boldly, brilliantly, she sings a majestic sound, like music I have never noticed on this beach of golden sand. With time, the wind becomes stronger in her movement, more intricate in her choreography, until she completely and deliberately turns me around. At once, my eyes are in shock at what they see.

A body of blue perfection.

The ocean in its raw and fiery blue, is the most calming yet inviting piece of creation I have ever seen. And like a magnetic pull, it draws me in and never wants to let me go.

In this great big ocean of blue, moments combine into days and days into weeks and weeks into years and over time, I discover, this is what it means to grow up... 

To weave in to the waves of the majestic. 

Yes, the years of playing in the sand are most beautiful, I must assure you. But may I invite you to swim in the sea? May I request your arrival at this ocean of glory? Come discover yourself in the waves of desire and swim toward her horizon. And as you swim, I dare you,

Invite your Creator to pull back layers of your heart. 

Layer after layer… in all of your past, in all of your confusion, in all of your doubt, He peels. In all of your very fragile and human moments, the moments you thought impossible to forgive, He peels. So for once, let each year of your life serve as just one more layer being peeled back as you are given a deeper awareness of yourself with all of your kinks and quirks, cravings and aspirations.

The ocean is behind you. Let the wind carry you home.

Tears of Gold.

So I got my first taste of homesickness yesterday. It stung a little and still stings now if I’m telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Wow…just had a sudden flashback to the magical slumber party game every girl dreams of known as… wait for it… the legendary, the timeless…

Truth or Dare.

I remember that feeling like it was yesterday. We would all be in our pajamas by this time of the night. And we had (of course) already completed the other tasks on our To Do List of Sixth-Grade Fun including a 3hour-long series of MASH, make-overs, dance performances, scary movies, raiding the fridge… and NOW. It was everyone’s favorite.

Pillow in lap. Here we go.

And before you could say Backstreet’s Back, everyone was sitting in a perfectly flawless circle, Indian style and all, silently comparing PJ’s. And I swear you could actually hear hearts beating heavily around the room like rocks gloriously tumbling down the Carolina mountainside. And the longer the silence lasted between players, the louder these hearts of rock would become until suddenly, the moment when you equally love and hate your name…

Mary Margaret. 

Truth or Dare!?

At once, as if all N’sync (ha, see what I did there?), a chorus of giggles and glares would leap across the circle as each girl internally analyzed you to death, looking you up and down trying to figure out what your puberty-stricken self is made of. In retrospect, it is a bit creepy how each individual tween's eyes would gleam like diamonds as she would silently predict your answer better than a weatherman predicts the day's mood.

And as fun as it was to be the brave soul that took on the Dare every round and be forced to rush to the garage and shove a bowl of Dog food down your throat against your own Limited Too will, you do know that, most times that was the easier route. I mean, seriously, what middle school girl really wants to open all doors to any question which she is required by Slumber Party Law to uphold to in all honesty? Um… sorry, but No Thanks.

Ok so we’re on the same page? Truth is the new Dare. Just go with me for a minute…

So back to yesterday…you know those moments when you crave nothing more than familiarity? This was one of those days. Shoot, you could have thrown me in a ditch in Nashville or Tuscaloosa (take your pick) and I would have been one happy little camper. Either place would have sufficed. Just give me a voice I recognize, a face that knows my past so I don’t have to explain myself anymore. Just give me that Alabama ground, a tree at Centennial. Anything.

It’s quite hilarious, though, how upset I get at myself when those feelings come. I find myself saying things like, Just tough it up Mary Margaret. Come on. You’re a big girl now. And then low and behold, the real battle exists between a clean cheek and a wet one. And let me tell you, if those tears come, all hell breaks loose.

I get so mad at myself.

Each tear becomes one more avalanche reminding me I failed. I failed at being grown-up. I failed at putting on the happy face that people so easily associate with me… or at least that’s my desire. Tears mean soft, weak, pitiful. And this is not the time. At least save them until you are by yourself, I tell myself. Save it for a decent writing session, a lonely night before bed.

I was in Rite Aid when it happened. The battle had begun. Two of my new coworkers/friends scurried around the store to cross off their lifelong list of items… or so it seemed because it had literally been years since I purchased my one necessary item for the day: a watch. I was putting it off as long as possible. I hate wearing those heavy, ugly things on my wrist. And more than that, most days I hate knowing what time it is. It makes me feel like I live in a box… but I guess that’s part of being grown-up too.

So I was sitting in a cheap, raggedy looking chair in the front of the store that I’m pretty sure was for sale since it was in the middle of Nowhere-ville, Rite Aid. Yes, I was feeling a bit on the lazy side but I was certainly ok with that. I know I probably looked a bit silly and out of place sitting there but I somehow felt entitled to such temporary and unusual comfort, I guess because, “I’m not from around these parts.”

I’m using that line as long as possible.

And then it hit me: I’m not having fun. I feel stuck in this town, in this store, with no car and no desire to be the slightest bit social. And I just bought a watch. Really?! A watch.

Ok so mission accomplished. I didn’t cry. My new friends who are coming to know me for my quirky humor and Alabama twang never even knew I was hurting inside. But should that have been my goal?

It’s such a natural instinct for me to not let myself “go there” too many times than not. As soon as I get the shaky voice and the stuffy nose, I just want to crawl into a hole and die. Ok that’s a little dramatic but I think it’s safe to say I quickly turn into somewhat of a drill sergeant inside demanding this way, then that. This feeling, not that.

And you know one thing I am beginning to realize? While I spend all my time and efforts to withhold being vulnerable with people (A.K.A. when my heart turns plastic like a McDonald’s hamburger), I hurt those I am closest to because I don’t let them in. I don’t let them in to that sacred space where God actually dreams of me living. Because it is there that He gets to be God and we get to be human. He gets to be Father and we get to be child. He gets to be Creator and we get to be creation.

Simpler version? We become what we were made for: Weak.

I know, it’s a bit unsettling. I still struggle with the concept myself but God is opening my eyes to a new day, a new reality, where I actually can begin to trust in His goodness. He is inviting me to a new place on the map, an island of liberty perhaps, where He can actually hold my frail and fragile heart and let me be me.

Messy messy me. Tears and all. 

Getting to know You.

So I have officially been in the Redwoods for an entire week. I am meeting some beautiful people and learning more and more about myself. Sometimes it takes some distance from familiarity to learn such things. And what’s really exciting is the fact that God is giving me some much-needed rest that I was praying for (a lot) toward the end of the summer.

I spent my summer working at a Christian multi-cultural camp in Kentucky called Barefoot Republic and let me just tell you, it was such a sweet blessing for me. I am still processing all that God did there and all that He is continuing to do in my heart because of my time at camp.

Some of the most memorable experiences come from my time as counselor, once for high school aged girls and once for middle school. It’s crazy how much I saw Jesus in those girls. Like you think you know Jesus after growing up in the church and reading so many stories about Him in Scripture but what is so beautiful and alarming to me is this:

We are always getting to know Jesus.

It never stops. We meet someone, we hear a story, and BOOM. Jesus becomes real in that moment and you pause and you ask yourself,

Wait.. This can’t be Jesus. In this conversation? Really?!

Yes. Really.

His presence is always with us and just when we think we fully know Him, He surprises us with another layer to His goodness, another shade of His color scheme.

I think that’s what I love most about meeting new people. I get to meet Jesus again and again and again. Because this is real: Jesus loves His people. He loves smiling on His creation and He loves when we live out what we are made for: 

Relationship with each other. 

And there we meet Jesus. 

Have you met Jesus today?

A Day's Climb.

So here I am after too long of an absence. Not just from this blog but from my own creative outlet, my sacred space. The kind of space created when I actually pause and listen to myself. I listen to my desires, my fears, my dreams, my ideas (the ones that make sense and the ones that I hope to make sense out of some day).

And in this space I become a student again…

A student of myself.

And suddenly, the oh-so-missed college days return. Flashbacks to my ocean blue quirky little Wal-Mart bike (yes, it was stolen and yes, I am crying… almost) that could take me a mile a minute in any direction of campus flood my memory. And of course my favorite New College seminars like Songcraft and Creativity I and II with the infamous and dream shaping Dr. Dill. And who can forget those beautiful spring afternoons on the Quad in between classes with nothing to do but lie in a blanket of Alabama’s greenest grass and melt into the heat of the day, letting the mind run loose into the trees.

Oh, the joys of calling oneself a college student.

So not entirely different, here I sit at the classroom of my own thoughts, a student yet again. Here in this sacred space I collect, I analyze, I learn and relearn how to be human. It’s funny how we tend to forget such a thing. The art of being human, I am learning, is to listen well. To listen with my eyes, my ears, my feet, my hands. And here I feel more alive than ever.

And once again, I listen to myself as I allow my thoughts to climb high into the trees as they did on the Quad years ago. With time and years, I am learning how to watch my thoughts, how to step back cautiously yet attentively and gaze at their growing curiosity in the world around them, at their beautiful fascination with the trees. Like a child at the playground for the very first time, they climb in anticipation and wonder, alive and full.

Too easily in a culture like ours, we stand motionless underneath the trees, letting our eyes casually drift and wander from the climber we are responsible for, the climber we are belaying until suddenly, tragically, the climber falls as we have released all of the necessary tension in the rope. And just like the climber loses height, our thoughts lose what they are made for as we let them fall into ground-level normalcy. And if we’re not careful, our once creative and imagination thirsty thoughts forget how to climb trees.

I hope and pray that I can better learn to care for myself in this new season. So I step back, I look up and watch my thoughts climb. Branch by branch, they grow into the skies of my Creator.

And there He waits, watching my thoughts from above as I watch below. And He smiles down at His messy, broken child underneath the trees.

Alberta Soul

So I just got back the journal I share with my sweet friend Lydia! We swap this journal around and I am proud to say it is almost 3 years old! Wow, just realized that. When we started it, I was living in Colorado Springs for my final semester of school and she was in Tuscaloosa. Then she was in Ireland and I was in Nashville. Now she's literally all over the place... about to be in North Carolina, and I'm in Kentucky about to be in California.

Crazy times.

This journal has been through a lot with us. She has turned in to a friend of sorts as she has watched us grow up a bit, change a lot, and maybe even become young adults...? Eh, that's a stretch.

So here's an entry I wrote on August 3rd (almost a year ago!) at 12:12 AM. It's about the aftermath of the tornado(s) that hit Alabama. I thought I would share since I don't think I wrote about the effects of the tornado when it actually happened. I think it just felt too close to home, honestly, and I didn't know where to start. But now that time has passed I feel good about sharing.

Ok here goes... (Thanks for listening with your eyes.)

... Girl I totally connect to your confusion and pain and frustration during the post-tornado chaos in T-town. Even being in Nashville was hard. I can't imagine the weight you felt in your heart being so far away. Your prayers have not gone unheard. I can assure of that, my friend.

One trap that I have tried to avoid with every ounce of energy I own is distancing myself from the reality of Tuscaloosa now. It's a different world there now. And it's so easy to just fall back in to my seemingly perfect little Nashville routine and forget about the destruction, the lost lives, the injured souls... to just put that all away like a used-to-be Best Seller now collecting dust in the corner of an old book shelf. Thankfully, I live close enough to travel back fairly often and check up on things... hear names, hear stories.

I have been back three times since the tornado hit, one of them being last weekend with a group of students from the high school I work at. These kids worked for three days in the blistering heat of Alberta City without complaint... well, maybe just a little, but anyone could read their eyes and see that they were committed- committed to acting, to listening, to responding. I was truly inspired by their persistent leadership, unique and creative ideas, and passion for shedding some light into the dark struggles our Alberta neighbors have experienced.

I watched a student who I thought I had all figured out as insincere and insensitive break down in tears as she shared with the group of nearly 20 of her closest peers and adults about a lady she had met in Alberta that day. Let me try and paint the picture...

"OH THANK YOU! THANK YOU!!" exclaimed the elderly woman, looking at this group of young students as her rescue from the sinking Titanic. Her skin seemed as rough as a reptile; her eyelids getting heavier by the second.

All of the sudden, she leaped up from the brick steps that used to lead to her house of nearly 45 years, and ran as fast as she possibly could to hug the neck of whoever she got to first. The group of teenagers seemed exhausted, yet eager, afraid, yet oddly comfortable.

The old woman with her hunch-back grace and short stature hugged Lanise so tight you would'a thought the two were long-life pals. From this moment on, the woman and the girl were inseparable as shared stories and tears and praise fell so free, like the autumn leaves that used to dance across the sky of Alberta. But now the streets lay bare, exposed, more vulnerable than they ever thought possible.

"This was my house..." said the woman pointing to the pile of rubble beyond the steps she had just abandoned. Suddenly, each word became sacred as they flowed effortlessly into the thick Alabama air. The woman's voice would break at parts as the memories unfolded and Lanise held her tight, carrying her through with all the strength her 17-year old self could allow, hoping it would somehow transfer into the heart of this kind soul. Lanise knew how much this meant to the woman to share her story, and in an odd way, Lanise felt as though she was stepping into this woman's experience with her, like she had been there all along.

"Over there is where we found my mother," the woman explained as she pointed to what used to be the last house in their little culdesac in the heart of Alberta. The woman paused for a long while, her silence screaming.

"You see, Lanise, in front of that house there was a tall, beautiful tree, a tree I grew up playing on as a little girl.... my mother's body was found in its branches... all tangled up in the middle. She didn't make it."

Lanise's heart dropped. She hugged her new friend, not knowing what else to do or say in that moment, as they stood motionless in front of that tree for what seemed like hours.

Meanwhile, the guys in the group were helping the woman's husband search for his belongings in the pile of rubble. A pair of glasses, and old American flag, his Purple Heart medal from Vietnam. Since the couple was understandably preoccupied with a death in the family, they had not gotten the chance to sort through their things after the tornado in attempt to find their most precious keepsakes like wedding pictures and war medals. So here they were the first day on the job and along came these strangers from Nashville to help, to listen, to care. Perhaps they were angels undercover, blessing the troubled couple with fresh ears to receive and hands to give. Perhaps...

As the van pulled away and Lanise led the group in extended goodbyes out the window and into the streets, their voices echoing behiind them, they noticed the former Vietnam soldier do something so peculiar, they were astonished. The man pulled his lawnmower off the back of his truck and attempted to mow his used-to-be lawn. Like it was any old normal summer day, they watched the man fight for routine and regularity in his daily life like he was on the battlefield fighting for independence and freedom. He fought with the same intensity, the same passion.

And in that moment Lanise knew life must go on.

Cookin in the Kitchen

So one part of camp that has been a MAJOR blessing has been teaching songwriting class.... I wish you could hear the tune of this but here are some funny lyrics from my 3rd-5th graders.

(Prepare to get hungry.)

Cookin in the kitchen

Makin fried chicken

Eatin up some french fries (ohh..)

Eatin em how I like em

Dippin them in ketchup 

Finishin up my plate

I hope I'm not late

Alright Alright Alright Alright Alright.....

French fries chicken nuggets

And tater tots

Ravioli and steak

Is what we got

Peanut butter and Jelly 

is what we want

We're done with our dinner plate

Yeah....

(Remix) 

Peanutbutter French fries

I love macaroni

Eatin up potatoes so I can eat my ravioli  (2x)