About a year and a half ago, I fulfilled a life dream: I toured the Blue Bell Creameries factory in Brenham, Texas.
Blue Bell ice cream is a way of life in the Lone Star State, and one of the many reasons why Texas is the best state in America (yeah, yeah, it's in other states too, fine). Earlier this year--132 days ago to be exact--this wonderful company experienced a strand of bacteria that invaded its factories. It was taken off shelves of local HEBs and Krogers statewide and other (lamer) ice creams got a major boost in sales.
But today, August 31, the famine ended.
If you looked on social media today, you would've thought the great rains had come after a generation-long drought (which kind of happened this summer too). That the prodigal son had come home. That another A&M player had won the Heisman.
Really, though, it was just ice cream.
Okay, okay, the "just" is kind of uncalled for. I, like everyone else, have been anxiously awaiting the return and realize Blue Bell is more than just a brand of ice cream. It leaves that smooth feeling in your mouth, cool and savory and sentimental.
I think all the hoopla comes from a sense that Blue Bell represents that sweet, slow Texas lifestyle everyone kind of idealizes. And a summer without it just doesn't really feel like a real summer in this weird and wonderful state. Blue Bell reminds us of hot afternoons by the pool, Coke floats at our grandparents' houses, and homemade vanilla in a cone on the 4th of July.
It's part of our Texas identity. Yes, it's ice cream. Yes, sometimes it costs $6 for a half gallon and sometimes that seems a little pricey. Yes, the fact that HEB was totally sold out by 6am was a little alarming. And yes, it's embarrassing to admit that I'm considering waking up in the middle of the night to make sure I get that half gallon of Cookies n Creme because I know when the Blue Bell truck rolls into College Station (but I'm not revealing my secrets).
The craze is undeniably insane. But it's for reasons like this where I just toss back my head and laugh. This life is full of joy. And sometimes it's found in a half-gallon of ice cream.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Thursday, August 27, 2015
The Forgetful God
My parents celebrated their 27th wedding anniversary last week. Yes, you may applaud. I've only been around for almost 23.75 of those, and remember even less of that.
But even those years that I don't remember, I trust that my parents were good. I had no reason to believe otherwise. They fed me. They gave me a bed to sleep in. They bought me a small colony of Barbie's. But they will be the first to raise their hands when someone needs a volunteer for an imperfect set of parents.
It's not that they've done a bad job of raising my siblings and me (quite the contrary, in my biased opinion). They just have a healthy understanding that no one is perfect and, beyond that, no one really knows what they're doing in life. Sure we have things that we're gifted at, but to claim to be perfect at any one thing is absurd.
And the things we're not naturally good at? Please. We're hopeless. We make stupid decisions, say stupid things, think stupid thoughts probably every minute of our lives. Failure, my friends, is an inevitable factor that we have to face.
I'm thankful my parents handle failure well and that they don't seem to beat themselves up over it. They show grace and don't keep score. They love well. I have a hard time forgiving myself when I do something I deem idiotic. It bites at me, a nagging voice that won't let me rest.
It's in these almost daily situations where I have to beg God to remind me of Psalm 103:12. That my sins are as far removed as the east is from the west. My faults are perpetually being pulled in the opposite direction of me. He guides me to him and repels sin. He teaches humility--even when it feels embarrassing. He forgives. He distributes grace without hesitation.
I don't know if you've noticed, but music is a really dominant aspect of my life. Christian rap has been something I've gotten into more recently (Lecrae, Andy Mineo, KB, etc). I stumbled across a lesser known rapper called Flame, and his song "Start Over" has been on repeat through my head. Not because I necessarily feel like I need to turn a blank page, but it's just such a cool reminder of the Gospel. My favorite line is this:
"Thrown in a sea of forgetfulness--what sin? what offense? And when the waves come crashing in, He'll calm the winds in your defense."
I always want to pump my fist to that. What sin? (pump). What offense? (pump). It's so powerful.
After we call on Christ to forgive us, he chunks our dirty laundry into the ocean so we can move forward. He is not a holy scoreboard. He forgives and forgets because he loves us. Holding onto our weights drags us away from him. So he throws them further than we can and asks, "What exactly was preventing our closeness?"
It's our job to let him get rid of it, to forgive our mistakes, and to move on.
Maybe one day we'll figure it all it. But until then, all we can do is forgive.
But even those years that I don't remember, I trust that my parents were good. I had no reason to believe otherwise. They fed me. They gave me a bed to sleep in. They bought me a small colony of Barbie's. But they will be the first to raise their hands when someone needs a volunteer for an imperfect set of parents.
It's not that they've done a bad job of raising my siblings and me (quite the contrary, in my biased opinion). They just have a healthy understanding that no one is perfect and, beyond that, no one really knows what they're doing in life. Sure we have things that we're gifted at, but to claim to be perfect at any one thing is absurd.
And the things we're not naturally good at? Please. We're hopeless. We make stupid decisions, say stupid things, think stupid thoughts probably every minute of our lives. Failure, my friends, is an inevitable factor that we have to face.
I'm thankful my parents handle failure well and that they don't seem to beat themselves up over it. They show grace and don't keep score. They love well. I have a hard time forgiving myself when I do something I deem idiotic. It bites at me, a nagging voice that won't let me rest.
It's in these almost daily situations where I have to beg God to remind me of Psalm 103:12. That my sins are as far removed as the east is from the west. My faults are perpetually being pulled in the opposite direction of me. He guides me to him and repels sin. He teaches humility--even when it feels embarrassing. He forgives. He distributes grace without hesitation.
I don't know if you've noticed, but music is a really dominant aspect of my life. Christian rap has been something I've gotten into more recently (Lecrae, Andy Mineo, KB, etc). I stumbled across a lesser known rapper called Flame, and his song "Start Over" has been on repeat through my head. Not because I necessarily feel like I need to turn a blank page, but it's just such a cool reminder of the Gospel. My favorite line is this:
"Thrown in a sea of forgetfulness--what sin? what offense? And when the waves come crashing in, He'll calm the winds in your defense."
I always want to pump my fist to that. What sin? (pump). What offense? (pump). It's so powerful.
After we call on Christ to forgive us, he chunks our dirty laundry into the ocean so we can move forward. He is not a holy scoreboard. He forgives and forgets because he loves us. Holding onto our weights drags us away from him. So he throws them further than we can and asks, "What exactly was preventing our closeness?"
It's our job to let him get rid of it, to forgive our mistakes, and to move on.
Maybe one day we'll figure it all it. But until then, all we can do is forgive.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
My heart is my armor
Recently, I've had the album "Blurryface" by Twenty One Pilots on repeat.
My brother introduced me to them and, for whatever reason, I've had this impression that they're a metal band, but they're actually a really cool indie band. Not like metal isn't cool. It's just overwhelming. Anyways.
So they have this one song called "Tear In My Heart" that quickly became my favorite song on the album for several reasons, but the biggest one is because of one line: my heart is my armor.
Which is so counter-intuitive to what we're bombarded by on a daily basis. We're told that we should protect our hearts, that they're vulnerable, that they break easily. Wearing our hearts on our sleeves is a bad thing because it makes them easy to access and easy to hurt. We guard them. We hide them away.
Those things aren't bad necessarily. The danger is that they can allow for a lot of callous to build up and we go too defensive rather than protecting them to be safe and healthy.
But the idea as my heart as my armor is a mind-blowing concept.
Because if we believe that we keep the Lord in our hearts, that he makes our hearts his home, shouldn't it be the strongest, most well-fortified place we have? And not fortified in the sense that it throws rocks or hollers insults at any passerby--you probably won't catch God yelling "Your father was a hamster and your mother smelt of elderberries!" at some guy/girl who comes calling. But fortified in that it is not easily taken advantage of or swayed by each passing whim.
Rather than being a fragile sign of life, it should be an expanding kingdom.
The challenge that we're faced with is this: we are human, so we want control of what we view is ours. But when we ask the Lord to come in so he can make our hearts his home, we transcend our nature and relent control over the center of our perceived wellspring of life.
The key phrase in that is "transcend our nature." We will always, always, be fighting for that control back. Even if we know it would be bad to take it back, we want it. But when we demand that God remove his armor so we can have our way is when our hearts go from being well protected to inviting attack.
I'm not saying that we will not know heartache if we surrender ourselves to God, but the healing will come at a much healthier rate and through healthier means. The Lord allows the chinks so that he can show us that not only is he a knight, but a doctor.
My heart is my armor because the Lord has set up shop in there. He's a protector, and he desires to tend to his creation.
We just need to let him.
My brother introduced me to them and, for whatever reason, I've had this impression that they're a metal band, but they're actually a really cool indie band. Not like metal isn't cool. It's just overwhelming. Anyways.
So they have this one song called "Tear In My Heart" that quickly became my favorite song on the album for several reasons, but the biggest one is because of one line: my heart is my armor.
Which is so counter-intuitive to what we're bombarded by on a daily basis. We're told that we should protect our hearts, that they're vulnerable, that they break easily. Wearing our hearts on our sleeves is a bad thing because it makes them easy to access and easy to hurt. We guard them. We hide them away.
Those things aren't bad necessarily. The danger is that they can allow for a lot of callous to build up and we go too defensive rather than protecting them to be safe and healthy.
But the idea as my heart as my armor is a mind-blowing concept.
Because if we believe that we keep the Lord in our hearts, that he makes our hearts his home, shouldn't it be the strongest, most well-fortified place we have? And not fortified in the sense that it throws rocks or hollers insults at any passerby--you probably won't catch God yelling "Your father was a hamster and your mother smelt of elderberries!" at some guy/girl who comes calling. But fortified in that it is not easily taken advantage of or swayed by each passing whim.
Rather than being a fragile sign of life, it should be an expanding kingdom.
The challenge that we're faced with is this: we are human, so we want control of what we view is ours. But when we ask the Lord to come in so he can make our hearts his home, we transcend our nature and relent control over the center of our perceived wellspring of life.
The key phrase in that is "transcend our nature." We will always, always, be fighting for that control back. Even if we know it would be bad to take it back, we want it. But when we demand that God remove his armor so we can have our way is when our hearts go from being well protected to inviting attack.
I'm not saying that we will not know heartache if we surrender ourselves to God, but the healing will come at a much healthier rate and through healthier means. The Lord allows the chinks so that he can show us that not only is he a knight, but a doctor.
My heart is my armor because the Lord has set up shop in there. He's a protector, and he desires to tend to his creation.
We just need to let him.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
College Station and the melted Reese's cup
At this point, you're all probably tired of me talking about how wonderful my undergrad years at the best university were. Texas A&M and all of its quirks and activities and people made me one happy human. It was here where I learned how to grow and speak well and trust wholly and invest fully without fear.
So I figured that year five would just cap off a magical last four. Even better: I could work at a church and not have to study for classes I don't care about. It was like God said, "Look, I have created the happiest situation for you. Have it and bask in how #blessed you are."
But God probably doesn't speak in hashtags, and he certainly does not make plans centered around my level of happiness.
Stupidly, I had the idea that College Station would be exactly the same when I returned after the summer. It would be like all the other summers over the last few years. I would go, take my hiatus from the 77840, and then return and poof! Everyone would be there. College Station did not exist without the Cauldron, Timm Dr, Puryear, and Rayburn crews. Right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, I was in an all-too-familiar place with very, very few people who knew me well. And it was, to say the least, a shock. It was like when you open a Reese's peanut butter cup and it's all melted and not at all what you expected and you're not sure that you really want it anymore. That's kind of how College Station feels right now (to put it in an imperfect metaphor).
I didn't realize how absurd, how abnormal, it was to have a horde of people who knew me well until I only had one or two within a short driving distance of me. I freely admit that I took that for granted.
But even though my roommate situation has changed and I'm in a familiar environment that looks different somehow and I'm feeling kind of lonely, I know that the Lord absolutely has me here for a good reason. It's easy to ask him why he didn't prepare me for this immediate loneliness and tell him that it's his fault for not planning ahead, but I know that won't be right.
It's another lesson. It's another reminder that I am perpetually thinking that I can either 1. do all this by myself or 2. don't think he's going to ultimately work for my good. Probably a decent combination of both.
It's a call to come and kneel at the cross again. To do it every day. To realize that none of my expectations will ever be met because I have too small of an idea of what to expect. He can do far more than I could ever imagine (Ephesians 3:20). I can only expect him to fulfill his promises he makes in scripture, but I don't have any clue how they're going to manifest in my life.
The answer to the uncertainty and the loneliness is standing right beside me. But do I trust him enough to reach out for his hand?
So I figured that year five would just cap off a magical last four. Even better: I could work at a church and not have to study for classes I don't care about. It was like God said, "Look, I have created the happiest situation for you. Have it and bask in how #blessed you are."
But God probably doesn't speak in hashtags, and he certainly does not make plans centered around my level of happiness.
Stupidly, I had the idea that College Station would be exactly the same when I returned after the summer. It would be like all the other summers over the last few years. I would go, take my hiatus from the 77840, and then return and poof! Everyone would be there. College Station did not exist without the Cauldron, Timm Dr, Puryear, and Rayburn crews. Right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, I was in an all-too-familiar place with very, very few people who knew me well. And it was, to say the least, a shock. It was like when you open a Reese's peanut butter cup and it's all melted and not at all what you expected and you're not sure that you really want it anymore. That's kind of how College Station feels right now (to put it in an imperfect metaphor).
I didn't realize how absurd, how abnormal, it was to have a horde of people who knew me well until I only had one or two within a short driving distance of me. I freely admit that I took that for granted.
But even though my roommate situation has changed and I'm in a familiar environment that looks different somehow and I'm feeling kind of lonely, I know that the Lord absolutely has me here for a good reason. It's easy to ask him why he didn't prepare me for this immediate loneliness and tell him that it's his fault for not planning ahead, but I know that won't be right.
It's another lesson. It's another reminder that I am perpetually thinking that I can either 1. do all this by myself or 2. don't think he's going to ultimately work for my good. Probably a decent combination of both.
It's a call to come and kneel at the cross again. To do it every day. To realize that none of my expectations will ever be met because I have too small of an idea of what to expect. He can do far more than I could ever imagine (Ephesians 3:20). I can only expect him to fulfill his promises he makes in scripture, but I don't have any clue how they're going to manifest in my life.
The answer to the uncertainty and the loneliness is standing right beside me. But do I trust him enough to reach out for his hand?
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