Cream and Sugar

“Anything in your coffee?”

“One of each, please.”

I stare undecidedly at my hands -a packet of Splenda in the left and a cup of creamer in the right- carefully weighing my numberless options as I let my coffee cool on top of the fold-down airplane table.

Questions race through my head as I try to determine the appropriate sugar-to-coffee-to-creamer ratio to avoid multiple taste tests.

Do I use the entire packet of sugar? 

Will the creamer be enough for this size cup of coffee?

Do I even want any sugar?

Are there other creamer flavors…?

I get overwhelmed and pour in the entire thimble-sized creamer and guesstimate half the packet of sugar. 

Done. 

It’s mediocre at best, and quite bland to be honest. But I question if this is my failure to concoct the perfect cup, or the airline’s supply of sub-par coffee. 

After nearly six months following this instance, filled with mornings of experimenting and many sips of coffee later, I’ve found two things.

One, I like my coffee more on the bitter side, often relying on espresso and steamed milk for a simple latte (If I feel daring, I switch to soy to add some sweetness to my sip).

Secondly, at the age of 22, I realize I won’t fully feel like an adult until I know how to make my own cup of coffee without fault. 

It’s like grocery shopping - one of the hardest tasks to do perfectly. 

At 19, I was in my first year at Chapman and living out of the house and with a roommate for the first time. The frozen food my family stocked for the two of us was running low, so it was time to go grocery shopping to refuel. I remembered how my mom would come home with brown bags full of fruit and vegetables, packets of brown rice and ready-to-make meals; raw chicken and salmon, cartons of almond milk and the occasional bag of chips or popcorn. Grocery shopping was going to be a breeze.

Wrong.

I stepped inside Ralph’s and was immediately swamped with anxiety, stuck in the flower section next to seasonal goods wondering where the heck to start my journey. I’m a right-handed gal, so I followed my instinct and turned right, starting with produce and working my way counter-clockwise towards the deli section.

An HOUR later, I had strawberries and apples, hummus and carrot sticks, string cheese and Jennie-O turkey meat; popcorn, a small jar of almond butter, and those cheap sleeves of chocolate and vanilla cookies. In my eyes, my basket was filled to the brim and well beyond my $30 a week limit for groceries. 

I got home, unloaded the goods and proudly surveyed my treasure only to be grief-stricken almost immediately after. I looked at the lot and realized I had enough to last me through the first half of the week and to satisfy my midnight snack cravings.

I didn’t know how to meal prep yet or how to plot out the number of times I realistically needed to eat during the week. Granted, I became very creative with what I had, mixing frozen remnants, baking supplies and fresh food to concoct a (somewhat) edible meal. (frozen corn and shrimp street tacos with hot sauce were at one point my go-to meal). 

Alas, I had failed one of my first real adult tasks. And felt super lame (and broke).

In my last semester of college, I can say I still grocery shop when I’m hungry and still sip at my coffee until I’m satisfied with my results. And you know what, I’ll probably be doing that well into my twenties……and thirties.

Why?

Because becoming an adult doesn’t happen over night, or follow the “third time’s the charm” saying. And as I reach graduation, I have to be ok with failure. Because that’s the only way I’m going to progress. 

Who wants to be perfect, anyway?

Yes, it would make my mornings easier and grocery shopping more efficient but then I lose the fun and experiments and mess ups. 

I think I tell myself I have to be perfect or do certain things in order to feel like a successful adult. When in reality, that mindset only sets me farther back and takes me away from recognizing all that I’ve accomplished.

I know how to:

1. File taxes by myself
2. Take someone to small claims court
3. Meal prep for an entire week
4. Organize my planner down to the minute
5. Order a cup of coffee I’m happy with
6. Call my friends on the phone and hear about their days (because only adults talk on the phone now)

I take the bad with the good and the successes with the messes and I’ll be doing that for the rest of my life. Might as well come to terms with it now, right?

...for the Caged

As my head rests against my car window I realize I should look ahead, so I slowly drag my eye line upright to look forward at the miles of traffic that lie congested before me. I dredge along, unable to change lanes, or experience a speed faster than 20mph. I get tired of the traffic and look to my left, the Los Angeles skyline waking up between the hustle and bustle of its many residents and eager travelers trying to enter its gates. It’s Tuesday, and at 7:15 in the morning I want to be absolutely anywhere but here. Not just the monotony of LA traffic, but the doldrums of an all-too predictable fall semester.

I wanted out, and where did I find my solace?

Fresno.

Zac Brown Band rang through my static-filled stereo and awoke an idea that would fuel the rest of my two-hour car ride. I tossed my phone to my carpool buddy and gave him direct orders to look up their tour schedule.

I was in luck.

Zac Brown Band, playing on Friday, November 15th in California!

Where? 

Fresno.

A four-hour drive was all it took to take me out of my life and into a night I so desperately needed. So, what did I do? I brought in reinforcement of course.

“Sarah, want to drive to Fresno with me on Friday to see Zac Brown Band? I need to not be here.”

Send.

 “You’ve got it. I’ll book the hotel.”

Received.

I text her Tuesday, we buy the tickets Wednesday, seal the hotel room Thursday, and gas up and drive away on Friday. Only a best friend would agree to such spontaneously rash decisions and venture north toward California’s armpit.

We drive, and it gets dark, and after we have gone through the minimal selection of playlists on our iPhones, we arrive at our destination.

We check into our seedy hotel a few blocks from the venue and ask the receptionist how far away we are.

“It’s a 20 minute walk to the venue from here.”

“Ok, so, a five minute drive.” There is no way we are about to adventure along the streets of Fresno in the unknown darkness that fills this unknown city.

Beer and braut in hand, and an upgrade on our seats, Sarah and I were ready to relax and enjoy the concert. And by concert, I mean the full on ambiance of it all. The people watching in Fresno is absolutely prime. After the seats fill and Sarah and I get our fix of eye candy by observing the three sets of swingers just two rows ahead of us, the curtain dropped and Zac and his men arrived.

Two solid hours of perfectly-pitched, smooth-as-butter music and all we had to do was take it all in. 

Aside from the fact that all we really wanted was a getaway and ended up stumbling upon a concert listing by happenstance, it really was one of the best music experiences I have yet to go through.

Yes, your mood affects the way you take in the music, perceive the lyrics and feel the emotion in the band and audience members, but their passion and dedication to their fans across the nation is what makes Zac Brown Band stick out. The intentionally-constructed sets, lightly scattered with stories from home and the reasons behind the lyrics made me fall in love with them as humans. Not just musicians, but people who live and love all the same, and have the gift of articulating it all so beautifully; hand-crafting words for the masses to relate to and feel not so alone in such lonely times.

Chicken fried closed the show but Uncaged started the encore. Appropriate for Sarah and I, this was our night; our night to let go and forget about our to-do lists and real world obligations, to leave the cages we built around ourselves made of expectations and false desires and to fly away for the night.

Fresno was my solace on a Friday night, proving to me that it’s the reason behind a decision that makes the impact, just as much as it’s the people behind the lyrics that make the song. 

347 things that will change your life (or whatever)

Scrolling through Facebook and clicking my way around BuzzFeed the past few months, I've noticed a very similar pattern. Considering I'm a "lists" woman myself, I have become hyper-sensitive to all of the to-do's and checklists I have been advised to pursue in this very instant in my life. For example…

20 things every 20 something must do

30 things to do before you're 30

100 things every college student must know

50 reasons why studying abroad is life changing

10 reasons why being a young adult is hard

25 things every woman must know before she dates

(God forbid I wait to do any of this, or else I’ll surely fail at the current life stage I’m in)

Amongst these are, of course, the sillier ones indicating world’s best cat gifs and countdowns through the most famous 90’s kid memories.

And as much as I love reading this and being reminded of all the things I can be doing, or should have done, or already did, I find it really hard to want to follow those lists.

Why?

Because I don’t find it necessary to write down a list of things we already know.

Taking a road trip and counting your blessings, saying thank you when you’ve been complimented and studying for midterms until 3am come with the territory of simply living life.

None of these lists are revolutionary. No new idea has been presented, no answers to questions have been unearthed, it’s just a list of to-do’s to remind us of past conversations about future pursuits.

Thinking further into this, it got me pondering into why we love these articles so much. It helps that we feel reached out to and concentrated on, of course, but we are simple humans living in a not-so-simple world. And all of those lists serve as reminders to hone it all in to what we believe really matters.

Growing up in the church and immersing myself in leadership throughout high school and college, I’ve had countless opportunities to hear motivational speakers and leadership developers of the like encouraging me to stand up and make a difference. Be a call to action, reach out to a friend in need, lead by example. And I leave those seminars absolutely fired up and after a week passes, my “church camp high” has faded and I’m back to struggling through daily life.

We are in constant need of daily reminder.

We are always seeking out ways to improve on and remember the simple things we learned in our earlier years.

And no matter how we spin it, it’s always the same.

We need that daily bread to keep us going. Just as we nourish our bodies with food and our minds with wisdom, our hearts need the same attention.

So I challenge you this. Instead of seeking out 20 things to do before next year or 150 things to memorize for a perfect life, what if we all just sought out love?

Simple.

Love.

For with love you can do mighty things.

With love you can call your mom and catch up on the past few weeks, or months.

With love you can bake a batch of brownies for your friend buried in midterms.

With love you can feed the homeless, take quiet time for yourself, and view those around you in a way that says, “You are human, just like me. We fail, we rise, we fail again, but why not do it together?”

So what will you do this week?

Will you remind yourself of all that needs to be done, or will you give yourself a break and just complete one daily task? 

Love.

...for the Child

As the early morning light seeps its way through my blinds, I peel my eyes open and stretch my hands above my head, uncurling myself out of the cocoon I had been nestled so cozily in.

Hopping out of bed, I scuttle to the bathroom then slide my feet across the carpet to warm my toes up before making the long voyage downstairs along the twisted staircase.

Grabbing onto the banister, the wood feels cold against my hands; still warm from the night under my giant white duvet cover.

I tip toe across the hard wood floor and peek my head around the corner and into the kitchen. The rich smell of coffee leads me to my destination and the navy blue plaid bathrobe confirms my initial assumption. I look up and climb into my daddy's lap as he kisses my head and slides over my designated Saturday morning reading material: the funnies.

At 8 years old, this was my weekend routine.

Wake up and read with my dad, just us two partners in crime before the rest of the house awoke.

He would fix me a cup of warm milk and honey-always served in his ceramic mug with the whale tail as a handle-and we would start our day as this; the father and his child.

12 years later and on the rare occasions my dad and I share our mornings together, we still read the morning paper. But instead of the funnies we read the front page and community sections and my milk has been replaced with a styrofoam cup filled with coffee. Black.  

12 years later, I am still his daughter and he is still my dad. That doesn't change no matter what age we reach, yet the duties alter as our age increases.

He can still set up a tent and make a mean breakfast sandwich and continues to teach me how to fix my car. He knows how to diagnose my sister's illness across the globe and can steer me home after getting myself lost, all with a simple phone call.

I was reminded last night, however, that sometimes daddy-daughter days are better to reminisce about than to look forward to. 

See, as a child I, along with many other little girls, thought my dad knew every answer to any question I asked him. 

Why? Because he's my dad.

And that's the only reason I ever had to know. 

That simple word, "dad", that could solve math equations and dry tears, the word that could build a fire and tuck me in super tight was the answer to any question I would ever have to ask.

As the world would have it, however, children age and start to learn. We learn about the world around us and our desired paths in life and we realize that our parents may not know the answer to every little thing. 

Does this change the fact that he is my dad and I am his daughter? Of course not.

It does, however, help illustrate the fact that let downs occur and circumstances change and no matter what happens on earth, there is always a Father who knows every answer to any question I ask. 

I will always be a child. 

I will always have a father.

And I will always have a Father.

When circumstances are out of my control and words are misplaced and used to hurt rather than heal, questions arise that seemingly no one will have the answer to.

When placed in these situations, I have no other choice than to turn to the one Father who never fails to provide answers in a time of such scarcity. Scarcity of knowledge, scarcity of power, scarcity of tangible solutions.

We are all children, so deeply and passionately loved on that it wouldn't make sense not to embrace all that we are intended to have. 

The most beautiful duo in all of history is the father and his daughter and I am blessed to have both a father and a Father who deeply love on me.

I can only hope and pray that I continue to constantly reach out beyond my knowledge. When I can't seem to find the answer among the bear hugs and table talks, I can only pray that I remain a child to a Father who is here to be asked questions that only He can answer.

...for the Frightened

Lying in bed at 12:47 last night, everything was still. My breathing, I can assume, was slow and consistent and the air outside was thick, filled with humidity that made even the crickets slow their bluegrass tunes to a lullaby pace. I was tangled up in my sheets, kept warm by my body temperature and the thin layer of fabric that bunched unevenly around my waist.

At 12:47 in the morning, I was suddenly jolted to consciousness. My breathing was jarred and my heart rate increased, a mixture of fear and shock. The sheets that kept me so warm just seconds ago felt distant and useless, my inner being now ice cold, craving for something to cling onto and hide underneath. A loud, distinct crack sliced through the night air and echoed just once, repeating the sound that now rang throughout my entire body. 

To the right of my quaint, suburban neighborhood is a bustling freeway, fenced off by braided wiring and separated from the sleepy doldrums by a bike path and a thick wall of trees. The sound of a gunshot, however, cut through the trees like a machete and landed in earshot of my tiny town home.

I waited for what seemed like minutes for the familiarity of police sirens, the comfort of help along the way to replace the uncertainty. I repeated a prayer and repeated again, trying to conjure up a response. An answer. A saving grace to the gaping time that stretched, holding with it the uncertainty of who was out there and what I could not see.

The minutes passed, and that was that. No one came. No sirens rang out. The rustling of my sister next door was the only response to the wake up call, and as I sat there, frozen, afraid that my movement would provoke another unwelcome sound, I pictured Alana was mirroring my same stature; eyes glued to the window, arms perched on our pillows with the slightest crevice in the blinds to peek through-our perch above the fort, the almighty protectors of our make-shift worlds. 

She stopped rustling, drifted back into a silent slumber, and life moved on. All but the hum of electricity had ceased to conjure up a noise. I wanted to assume everyone in their own cozy homes was mimicking my actions, acting as guardians of whatever the rest of the night held. Sadly, this was probably all make believe. Timers were set and whatever the real world held in its grips meant nothing to the suburban, cookie cutter perfection that we relied upon.

The sprinklers turned off and houses remained heated; timers counting down the seconds until the next rotation occurred. 

My fear in that moment, although initially provoked by the gunshot, was extended through the night by the fear of the unknown. It is all too simple and safe to assume that as a Woodbridge Village Association resident, danger cannot seep through our perimeter. That as one of the safest cities in our nation, havoc and mayhem wouldn’t dare cross our borders, afraid of what our “pleasantville-esque” society threatens to use against all evil.

The truth of the matter is, in that moment I had never experienced so much fear and so much doubt. I played worst-case scenarios in my head, envisioned all escape routes and the speed at which I would cram Alana and my mom in the closet to protect our family and defeat the monster that broke down our door. 

Fabricated and child-like, the scenarios never came into play and I talked myself down, reminded that we are once again, safe and sound. 

I woke up the next morning, groggy from a few stiff hours of forced sleep, but once again, safe and sound.

I was fearful, yes. But I am blessed beyond measure. I’m blessed that my fears were only worst-case and that this once in a blue moon occurrence would probably never happen again. 

Fear comes most commonly in my life when paired with the unknown. 

Fear is different for everyone, but it is always, always real. 

Fear is a feeling most people don’t choose to experience, unless right before an adrenaline rush, an exciting adventure approaching closer with each step. 

You may laugh at my fear, may scoff at the state my mind regressed to, but I know I was afraid. And blessed. And another experience wiser after 12:47 that morning.

Because at 12:47 this morning, I realized that fear stops for no one, and comes uninvited to dinner parties, sleepy silences, and next big life steps.

I welcome the fear, however, because with fear comes one more situation to conquer and learn from. 

I hope you welcome your fear, and I hope you know that your fears are your own, never too small or too large, as the mind creates what it will, a sea diving far beyond the measures of our wildest dreams.

...for the 'Human'itarian

I hate humans.

Did you catch that? 
I said I hate humans.

Before you jump to conclusions, follow me for a second.
Humanity, as a whole, is a pretty ugly thing. 
It is a self-destructive, wasteful creature that has allowed society to program us to look at our lives in such jaded ways that pick out everything we don't have.
We dwell on the past.
Live in the future.
And complain about never having enough time to just BE.

We are never fully present and in those rare chances we are, we are focusing on those around us. Rarely jumping at the chance to admire ourselves. 

And as much confidence I have in individuals and our will to better our community- and the confidence I have that we will always prevail- and that our true callings will come out once we separate the world's desires from God's desires, what I've seen the past few days has really hurt my heart.

My community has become an episode right out of a teen drama, with anonymous websites to share your darkest secrets, an outlet to rate and assess the "dateable" guys in our area and stereotypes being thrown around during class.

I discovered an application called LuLu, a site that pegs your location and shows you guys in your community that have been rated.
Sex: 8.0
Attractiveness: 7.3
First kiss: 10.0
Commitment: 5.0
And the list goes on and on. And for what purpose? To degrade men in the same way us women fear? 

I had resorted to this narrow mindset that left me with an unappreciated loss of hope in humanity. 

But to that, I have to say that it's my faith in the individual that will conquer the doubt.

The power of an individual seeing their potential and affirming the self worth of others creates a beautiful movement. It creates a force that pushes through the negativity in the masses and encourages others to see what the power of positivity can really accomplish.

So yes, humanity sucks.
But the individual?
The community?
That, my friends, will always win. 

So what will you do? Stick to the masses or branch out and live a life that depicts a true meaning of community. 

...for the Lovers

I met someone Saturday evening.
A little boy, hardly a week old, who happens to take the role of my very little and very new, baby brother.
Before I met Erik, I simply knew him as an idea. As this person I knew had come to exist and be placed in my life but other than that it wasn't quite possible for me to fully grasp the concept of a brother.
See, before I met Erik, I didn't know it was possible to love someone so unconditionally without even a clue as to who they were.

Other than the fact that we are, in a way, related, I knew nothing about this little man. I hadn't shared a conversation with him nor traveled through the depths of his soul and passions, likes and dislikes, but simply just knew him as a boy who was new to my life.

As I held Erik, I looked at him and all the new discovery that was going on through his eyes and I realized that this love I felt, this uncontainable, indescribable love, was one that has been given to me daily and one I have been failing to give.

I looked at him and realized that the life I have been living is unmatched to the one I have been called to live. The love I've been given by the big man upstairs has been given to me not only so I can see the beauty of my creation and the self-worth I really do hold, but so that others can see theirs as well.

Why can't we all love so deeply, so unconditionally, so uncontainably that it fills us with a spirit and a joy that can't help but be contagious?

Often times I find myself questioning my actions.
Conversations I have and decisions I make, with the fear that others might find them too forward or unconventional. 
Why should I be afraid to speak my mind and affirm those around me for the sole purpose of allowing them to see how wonderful they are?
Why?
Because we've been told it's wrong. It's unconventional. It's weird to make spontaneous friends or go up to someone you don't know.
Society has placed on me a barrier as to how and when I should show my love. And the only culprit in this victimization of my own actions, is myself.

I dictate the decisions I make and the people I affect and through it all, I got lost and wrapped up in the idea that showing love isn't normal. 

Where in your life are you placing barriers on the love you choose to show and receive? Where are you second guessing your potential and the ability you have to greatly influence the lives of those around you?

Love does. In the words of Bob Goff, when all else fails and nothing seems to make sense, the only thing that holds true is love. Because love does. Love has no limits or understanding of failure. Love holds no boundaries or time frames to act upon. Love makes sense because sometimes life is too complicated to try and understand anything other than the simplicity of that four letter word. 

I challenge you to love.
Love yourself.
Love others.
And do so in a way that makes others stop and respond. 
Love in a way that calls attention to the life you're living and the influence you hold on those around you.
Love as if there's no tomorrow.
Love. Because love does.