A New Endeavor

"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens."

Ecclesiastes 3:1

Molly and I have undergone a pretty intense "season" of change these past months. We're talking riding-a-wild-stallion-bareback-through-a-minefield intense season of change.

Besides getting married (which short of giving your life to Jesus, is just about the most world-altering thing you'll ever experience), we became first-time homebuyers. And no, rumor mill, mommy and daddy didn't buy it for us. We did, indeed, purchase the house with, wait for it, our own money.

Lately, our priority list consists of figuring out what's on our priority list. Friends have turned on us, goals that were once important to us have been put on the backburner, and to top it all off, we both recently just left our jobs on less-than-ideal terms with our previous employer.

On the Holmes and Rahe Stress Scale (a life unit scale regarded by the medical community as the best predictor for stress-related illness), marriage, loss of friends or loved ones, purchasing a home, and changing jobs are all among the top 20 most stressful events that can happen to an individual. Believe me when I tell you, we didn't need a group of psychologists to tell us that. We've felt the effects of every last "life unit" from each of those events.

But you know what the psychologists didn't bank on? They didn't factor in an awesome God coaching us through it all. And you know what else? We're hanging in there, and we're doing a pretty dang good job of it.

Despite the months of searching, despite a lender committing mortgage fraud and causing our first contract to fall through, despite saving every last penny we could only to turn around and spend a nauseating amount of money on a down payment, God allowed us to walk away with the keys to a beautiful, affordable home.

Despite having my integrity questioned by a corrupt workplace full of "cookie cutter Christians," despite raising money to help people in need only to find out they were blowing it on new cars and vacations, despite serving faithfully with leadership I could never fully trust, God provided me with a new, better paying job that provides enough for Molly to go back to school. God has taken away our misery and replaced it with happiness and more time together as a family.

And despite being told, time and again, how we were moving too fast, despite being told that getting married young was a bad decision, despite being told (literally) that "you will most likely not make it," despite the naysayers, the doubters, the "friends" waiting and hoping for us to fail, God has taken care of us. God is taking care of us. God is growing us. God is with us.

That's all I could ever ask or hope for, to know that my God has my back regardless of what anyone else, friend, coworker, boss, family member, or otherwise have to say about it.

Change is defined by Webster's Dictionary simply as "to become different."

Through it all, that's what Molly and I have done. That's what we're continuing to do. Heck, being different is what God calls us to do. When seasons of change come, it isn't easy by any vastly exaggerated stretch of the imagination. Staying where we are may be easier, remaining stagnant may feel safer, but God's will is so much better, so much more rewarding than any risk we could ever encounter.

Whether we want to admit it or not, when life demands change, when God demands change, it must be unprejudiced and wholehearted. We can't always plan for it. Sometimes, change takes whatever it is you thought you knew or understood and throws it in your face, demeans you. Sometimes, change holds you down and forces you to rethink your priorities, forces you to come to grips with the fact that things simply cannot stay the same.

And we aren't staying the same, we won't stay the same. If that means leaving behind a bad job or friends who won't grow up, so be it. But every new day is a gift from God, a new endeavor that we have to choose to take on, to adapt and grow with.

Don't waste it.

Excuses, motivation, and some other junk

"Above all else, to thine ownself be true."

- Shakespeare

Most of us grew up with some form or assemblage of these words echoed through parents, teachers, preachers, and friends. We've heard stories, read books, and watched movies where the protagonist emerges triumphant despite wave after wave of opposing forces trying to convince them to deny a part of themselves.

We've foolishly absorbed this information as if it was nothing more than an inspirational pick-me-up for the soul. Our generation is locked in this purgatorial stasis where we acknowledge the necessity to be true to ourselves, but yet, we consistently neglect to do so. We treat self-actualization like a period of rapid ascension into adulthood or some post-mid-life enlightenment designed to kick in at a predetermined moment in our lives, but it's not. It was never meant to be like that.

Owning up to who you are as an individual, the core of your metaphysical existence is not an event contained by any time-based parameters. It's a process that you have to take part in, choose to take part in everyday. And I say choose because it's 100% your decision who you are and who you want to become.

This isn't some motivational speech. This is your life we're talking about.

Stop trying to define yourself through your friends. There's an old saying that goes, "If you hang out with chickens, you're going to cluck, and if you hang out with eagles, you're going to fly." 

Frankly, that's a load of crap. 

That statement is so fundamentally weak that it might as well gift wrap an excuse for the behavior of every individual who falls prey to it. Statements like that apply situation-based logic to displace blame and mask guilt. It's nothing more than a glorified, universal crutch. 

I'm here to tell you that I make my own choices, not my friends, acquaintances, or anyone else I interact with. I make my own choices just like every other human being on this planet God created including yourself. Free will isn't just a cute little biblical concept that we toss around on Sunday morning to make us feel warm and fuzzy. The living, breathing creator God thrust His hand into each and every man and woman and specifically positioned free will at the forefront of our design. Free will isn't an afterthought; it's hard-coded into our DNA. Free will is etched into our souls.

Ephesians 6:11-13 says,

"Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world...put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything...stand."

In simple terms: "God can literally protect you from the devil himself, the embodiment of evil, so why are you worried about everything else?"

In even simpler terms: "Take your excuses and shove 'em."

Stop trying to absolve yourself of the guilt you feel for your past actions, seeking refuge in "yes men" (and "yes women") to soothe the sting on your conscience. Stop trying to define yourself or "find yourself" in anything this world has to offer. Stop letting your job deteriorate your value system. Stop allowing negative people to influence you, and when they do influence you, for Pete's sake, don't make up some screwball excuse. You messed up. Own it, and move on.

God gave you one shot at a beautiful, fulfilling life, but you have to take charge of it. You have to stop letting authority figures bully you because you have the Ultimate Authority on your side. Stop letting people tell you the way you think or feel or act is wrong when everything in your soul tells you otherwise. Stop living in fear and misery.

Cut the crap. Drop the act. Make use of the free will God gave you.

I know you've heard it a bajillion times from every person under the sun, but for the sake of your heart and happiness and future listen and absorb and dissect these words...

Just be you.

Burdened

When I was younger, I lived for the weekend, not because I was some renowned party animal amongst my prepubescent social group (we're talking elementary-school), but because Friday nights were family nights.

Our living room, while it served as an office, a classroom, and on some occasions a dining room every other day, was transformed into my favorite place in the world for just a few hours each week, a sanctuary where love lived and thrived. Even during the school year and the holiday season and when everyone was at their busiest, my parents still managed to reserve that most coveted of evenings to spend together as a family.

I remember the long nights we spent watching movies and eating our weight in popcorn, building forts out of my grandma's old quilts, eating ice-cream sandwiches and getting the foamy chocolate caked onto our fingers, playing Mario Bros. on the Super Nintendo before "graphics" and "high-definition" were even conceptually relevant terms, waiting until mom went to bed to watch "big kid" movies like Indiana Jones and Terminator with dad.

Looking back now, I cherish those memories, those tiny swirls of vibrance that detailed my childhood. Even now as adulthood dilutes that essence with its stream of gray, those bursts of youthful color reinvigorate me.

Friday night was where I could find happiness and dwell in it. Friday night served as insulation that protected me from the world, from the disappointments, from the expectations, the deception, the bullies, the fear.

It doesn't work like that anymore though. It stopped working that way a long time ago.

The calendar remained vigilant, gifting seven days each and every week. But while the time between Fridays never changed, the time between those Friday nights got longer with the passing of the years.

That's just like life, isn't it? Simplistic in origin, but ever growing, ever complicating.

For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why God would make us in such a way that our timeline is one of declination. In Isaiah 48, He promises to teach us and direct us in the way we should go, so why the heck would He make it so increasingly difficult as we age to achieve childlike happiness in our lives?

Then, it hit me. Every new day is a battle. Although we may put on our armor and lock emotion away, "have thick skin" as some suggest, every day that armor takes damage. It dents with each demeaning blow from a boss or coworker, it cracks under the strain of a loved one with cancer, it rusts in the rains of depression, and when we're at our weakest, it can and it will break.

As a child with so few days on this earth, so few battles waged, I delighted in God's blessings and rejoiced because I felt His love through my family. As an adult, I've faced quite a bit more than that little boy in snuggled up to his daddy in a blanket fort. These eyes have strained from fighting tears and from yearning for sleep. Every scar and stress line etched into my skin tells a story of pain. I need more than a weekend with my family to handle all that life is throwing my way. I've grown weary trapped in this world that is not my home...but, praise God, I don't have to struggle alone.

"Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28)

And therein lies the secret to a colorful life, one of excitement and continually renewed happiness in an ever-worsening world, in an increasingly difficult life. Sharing the weight. We weren't created to go in alone, to "tough it out" because we think we're strong enough. We're called...actually, we're invited to cast our cares upon Him, invited to find relief and peace where there seems to be none.

And as for me? I'm RSVPing to that party.

Married Things: Day 25

We're officially three and a half weeks into this glorious union that Molly and I have entered, and I've gotta say, things have been pretty awesome. We've settled into our house, the hubub surrounding our new status is dwindling, and things have finally slowed down a little bit.

It is truly amazing how fast time has flown by. (Cue my dad saying, "I told you so.")

The wedding day, the honeymoon, and everything up until now is stored in my memory as a swirling blur of emotion and color and highlights. But despite the rush of these past few weeks, I've managed to learn quite a bit of useful information about marriage that unmarried guys may or may not be aware of. Don't get me wrong...I am by no means an expert on all things matrimonial.

Heck, I'm not an expert on anything relating and/or pertaining to marriage. I understand that I'm still in that "honeymoon phase" that you relationship veterans so charmingly reflect on. But I am, in fact, still married and my wife hasn't killed me yet after living in the same house as me for nearly a month, so I must be doing something right. That, or she's lulling me into a false sense of security with food and cuddling. Regardless of whether this is the last thing I ever write or not, here's the top five things I have learned post-knot tying:

1. Always lift the toilet seat, and put it back down when you're done. Even if you're dog tired and the neighbor's obnoxious, mange-ridden chihuahua has disturbed your sleep and restored consciousness to your bladder FOR THE FIFTH TIME IN ONE NIGHT, just lower the dang lid. Because if you thought you didn't sleep well last night...you certainly won't find peace in the morning.

2. She isn't going to know/have the ability to do all the things you can do. Take weedeating, for instance. She may not understand why weedeating is necessary. You might have to explain that slamming the lawnmower into the side of the house won't gently cut the excess grass along the wall without damaging the siding. Be patient. Remember you fell in love with her for a bajillion reasons, none of which relating to her prowess in lawn care.

3. You no longer have full ownership of anything. You've departed from bachelor world where you the words "my" and "mine" dominate your vocabulary. "Our" is the new go-to when referring to anything and everything you may have at some point in your life thought you had claim to. It is now referred to as "our house." Our car. Our bed. Our television that is constantly tuned into "Keeping Up with the Kardashians" and other celebrity-filled, drama-fueled programming that makes you want to gouge your eyes out with our scissors. Sharing is caring.

4. Your friends don't understand, and it's strangely okay. Despite how you relish in the fact you can use (and overuse) the words "husband" or "wife" freely, your friends are gonna shoot you weird glances when they hear them and hesitate before they say them. They'll still be hitting you up on the weekends and summer nights just like they did before, but weirdly, unlike when you were dating, you'll be okay with it (most of the time). It's like a well-kept secret, a silent understanding between the two of you that the "dating" mentality is no more. That hectic sense of vying for each other's time is non-existent because you're together all the time. Perhaps, the weirdest change is how that time you spend together is so much deeper and cherished. And before you say it, it's not just sex that makes that time so incredible. (Mind-blowing, I know.) It's simply being in the other's presence and knowing that there's no place in the world you'd be happier.

And last but not least...

5. She is the most beautiful, wonderful, and precious thing in your life. 

Don't you ever, ever forget it.

Everyday.

Two weeks. Two. More. Weeks. That's how long I have to wait to marry my best friend and better half.

That's how long I must wait to hear those beautiful words leave her lips, those words I've been dying to hear since I fell in love with her almost two years ago: "I do."

Stories are often told of little girls who grow up dreaming of one day finding and marrying their true love. It's not the norm for a boy, much less a 22 year-old man to openly admit to dreaming of finding love.

But I did.

Growing up in church, I received my weekly ration of Adam and Eve references, how God created Eve of the same flesh as Adam and how whole and completing their relationship was. I marveled at how love between two people could be that powerful, so powerful, in fact, that the human race was literally born of it. Words cannot describe how sacred and profound that first romance must have been. Their marriage was founded deeply with God-crafted emotions predating the universe itself, and while they were created as two creatures, that ancient, wonderful, incredible, breathtaking love bound them together as one.

That a man and woman could bond in such an all-consuming way that they essentially become an extension of one another in mind, body, and spirit...amazing.

Throughout my life, I (admittedly) haven't prayed about very many things consistently, but one thing I have asked God for almost as long as I could remember is for Him to allow me to one day find my own "Eden" story, a love rooted in God's love for me and as joyous and rewarding as the acceptance of that love.

And so...as Matthew 21:22 says, "Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive."

And my, oh my, the blessing I have received.

So no, I don't really mind to wait a little bit longer. Two weeks is hardly anything at all.

I've been waiting all my life to find that most precious of treasures God describes in His word. The love that Proverbs describes as the "overflowing of a fountain," a love that's "worth far more than jewels" and the physical manifestation of God's own love for man. Patience is a virtue, and my beautiful girl is the reason I know that.

A few weeks ago, I was looking through photos of the day we were engaged. The joy on her face was absolutely priceless. I decided right then, that if I could make her that happy everyday, if I could make her want to marry me everyday, and if I chose to love her like God loves me everyday, like Adam loved Eve everyday, then at the end of my life I wouldn't have wasted a single moment.

I love you, Molly, and I will everyday. I promise. Two more weeks 'til forever.

Do as I say, not as I do

Then Jesus said to the crowds and to his disciples: "The teachers of the law and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat, so you must be careful to do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach. They tie up heavy loads and put them on other people's shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them."

Matthew 23: 1-4 (NIV)

This verse is kind of a big deal for me lately.  As I grow older and more involved in the "business" side of life, I'm becoming more wary of modern-day Pharisees, people who exude a false dedication to the teachings they so shamelessly force on others. From church members to coworkers, I've had my fair share of dealings with people who call on Jesus's name as leverage rather than a lifeline. Unfortunately, Pharisees have had roughly two-thousand years (give or take a hundred years) to perfect the art of hiding how blatantly hypocritical and simultaneously prominent they are in society today.

Time and again, I've watched self-proclaimed Christians bastardize God's Word, reducing its purpose to that of a corrupted pedestal on which to exalt themselves. These Pharisees practice something I call "situational faith," or in layman's terms, "they're a bunch of two-faced phonies." I realize it's cliche to invoke the "Is the person you are on Saturday night the same person you are on Sunday morning?" bit, but yet, I've known so many who can't answer "yes" to that question. Just a few examples:

I've met a deacon that consistently fills his "amen" quota every time the church doors open and can out-swear a sailor throughout the work week.

I've met a music minister that sang "Amazing Grace" more times than he could count who frequently made sexual jokes about "what he'd do" to women in the church, including the pastor's daughter.

I've met a Sunday school teacher who, no doubt, taught her class the importance of forgiveness and showing God's love to everyone, yet I've watched her viciously insult others behind their backs in an attempt to exile them.

If you read my last post, you know I'm not claiming that Christians never do wrong. I'm not even claiming that Christians should never do wrong because even God acknowledges that perfection is impossible for anyone but Himself. I'll be the first to admit that I consistently fail God and consistently fall short of His standards.

But the people I mentioned aren't pharisaical because they're Christians and they screwed up. That just means they're human. No, they're pharisaical because they don't own up to their sins, instead they actively and knowingly choose to live like they don't sin at all.

They want the title, they want the "oohs and ahhs" of the congregation in awe of their heightened levels of spirituality, but they don't want to work for it. They want to pick and choose who is worth witnessing to or worth "playing the part" around. They don't "practice what they preach." And in doing so, not only are they openly mocking the name of Jesus and His followers, but they are playing with the souls of those who don't yet have a relationship with God.

It's not my intention to bash anyone, but there has to be accountability somewhere. We can't all go on ignoring the fact that "Christian" has become a label with a negative, hypocritical connotation tied to it. Surely, I'm not the only one who is bothered that our faith is being considered extremist and discriminatory.

But if we want to abolish the predominant image of the Pharisee from our culture, we have to do more than run around cramming God's word down people's throats. We can't allow ourselves to buy into the notion that Christians are entitled or better in any way. We have to do more than "amen" the pastor's sermon about God's love. We have to do more than act like Christians.

We have to live like them.

Hollywood's Heaven

As much as I enjoy the yearly influx of people who realize they believe in Jesus overnight and google directions to the nearest place of worship, this weekend's Easter celebrations left more to be desired.

There was a big hub-bub surrounding the feel good movie of the month, Heaven is for Real, which conveniently released within days of Resurrection Sunday. A lot of people, like Molly and myself, went on opening night to see the movie. Unlike many of those people, however, we didn't go out of some obligatory sense of Christian duty to support non-secular film. We went because it looked interesting and, more importantly, the tickets were free.

Because to be brutally honest with myself and everyone else...faith-based movies generally suck. I know that doesn't make me the most popular Bible-reader on the block, but I'm not gonna sugarcoat it. They suck.

While the message may be great, the acting is consistently sub-par and restricted to a very limited range of extreme emotions. There's only so much I can take of Kirk Cameron rapidly alternating between rage and a seemingly drug-induced state of bliss. And eventually, they're bound to run out of blonde-haired, blue-eyed children and attractive middle-aged women to cast for supporting family roles that require the extensive quoting of scripture.

But what ticks me off the most about "Christian" movies isn't that the actors are laughably poor. What ticks me off is how they don't even come close to accurately representing Christians.

Flicks like Heaven is for Real don't convey the true gravity of what it means to be a Christian in an ever-declining society, to cling to a dying faith. The directors consistently fail to capture how exceedingly controversial it is to have a relationship with God in a world where toxic levels of individualism and political correctness discourage religion all together.

Believers are portrayed as a cloudy-eyed stereotype. Their lives are perfect, their picket fence is a pristine egg shell white, and every new day is full of abundant blessings. In Christian movie world, the only struggles that exist involve trust issues with God. I hate to break it to you and possibly ruin the big surprise, but none of that is realistic. 

Granted, God does bless His people, and Christians do struggle with their faith, but our lives are very much still entwined in earthly matters, and as much as we would like everyone at church to believe life is all rainbows and puppies, that's simply not the case. Believers are not immediately placed in a reality-nullifying bubble upon accepting Christ into our hearts. We aren't granted immunity from human nature and society and this imperfect world we live in.

The internal battle for those movie characters may end in a passionate prayer while gripping a cross necklace, heads bowed at the altar. But the harsh truth is that, when real Christians are on their knees, we're just calling for backup. Because in the real world, the altar is just one of many places where the battle rages on.

The church you see pictured on the big screen is full of smiling faces with "amen"s and "hallelujahs" echoing up into the rafters and triumphantly bursting forth from steeple, but what the cinematographers fail to get in the shot is all the pain in those pews. They can't film every instance where those men and women have been looked down upon because of their faith or judged because some radicals ruined their nation's predisposition about them, despised for every drawn breath and subsequent exhalation of Jesus' name. 

They'll never be able to capture the ache etched in the bones of God's battered children who long for home, their real and eternal home.

"Christian" has become a label synonymous with "virgin," with "sober" and "drug-free," with "happily married," with "innocent," with "holy." I cannot express how very misguided the notion that Christians are somehow better than anyone else is. We are not exempt from iniquity or the suffering that goes along with it. We are just as unpardonably sinful, just as irreparably broken, and just as inexcusably human as everyone else on this earth.

But the difference? The thing that sets us apart? The reigning truth that makes it all worthwhile?

We have a perfect lamb to pardon us, a master healer to repair us, and a loving God to forgive our imperfections.

Perhaps, that's why Hollywood just can't get it right. Because there's no drama or documentary or actor or writer or speaker who could ever fully explain what makes believers different. Why, you ask? Because no drama or documentary or actor or writer or speaker will ever be able to fully explain the awesomeness of our God.

A mile in someone else's slip-resistant shoes

I hate to be so wrapped up in the going-viral bandwagon lately. But if you truly and thoughtfully consider the things that people are making a fuss over, you too would sit for hours on end in your car listening to "We Didn't Start the Fire" whilst violently weeping for the future of humanity. Burn on, Mr. Joel. Burn on.

Apparently, crap like the fact that Jessica Simpson's weight has fluctuated for the eight-hundred and twelfth time this week takes precedence over advances in medicine, local development, the status of our country's economy, and...well, any form of actual news. Fortunately or unfortunately, I don't have the patience to hash out my feelings over the skewed agenda of television-based news, so naturally, I'll turn my focus to Facebook, the love child of bad grammar and unnecessary drama.

Recently, an almost two-year-old blog entitled "Confessions of a Chick-fil-A Employee" surfaced on the interwebs and began being "shared" like a fever.  As a hard-working employee of the Chick, the title quickly caught my attention and, before long, I found myself reading one of the most honest and hilarious rants that I have ever had the pleasure of coming across.  Should you ever find yourself contemplating life on the other side of that mysterious, crackling speaker box, that blog will bring you up to speed.

I was elated to see the comments section filled with current team members and CFA alumni from all across the country chiming in with their own, equally comical experiences. Truthfully, my excitement stemmed from the sheer fact that I wasn't the only one who'd been perplexed by the request for a milkshake to be placed in a bag or frustrated by the father of a Brady Bunch-sized family passing out food to all 17 of his children before exiting the drive-thru.

"This is so funny!" I said.

"This is so true and relatable!" I said.

"Everyone will love it!" I said.

But, as usual, my train of thought was derailed, set ablaze, and its ashes were peed upon by the hoarde of trolls plaguing social media.

Following the initial sympathetic comments from other employees was an honest to God book of hatred towards both the post and its author. Hardly any of the feedback actually pertained to the post itself. Instead, it was, for the most part, a massive slap to restaurant workers in general, particularly those in fast-food. The consensus, from what I read, is that those of us in fast-food, by society's standards, are an inferior breed of person. Beyond simply insulting our intelligence, some people were downright cruel in their criticism, and in light of this situation, I've decided to address a few of these assumptions, and they are indeed assumptions. And we all know what ass-uming does. *wink*

itoldyousoApril 6, 2014 at 8:30 AM

Arguing with someone who works at a fast food place for a living. Congrats. You're all idiots. For the record. You are employed there to cater to my needs. If you don't like the way I, or anyone else orders.... because we don't know what you can or can't do in your system. Find a real job. If you're out of high school and working in fast food.... you deserve to deal with douche customers. I'm just saying....

Dear itoldyouso,

Using the correct form of "you're" on two occasions within the same body of text would typically score brownie points with me, but I'm making an exception for this comment. You, like many others, have made the implication that fast-food workers are naturally uneducated. You even go so far as to state, very matter-of-factly might I add, that entry-level restaurant positions should be filled by high school students as if, upon making physical contact with a diploma, students undergo a mental transformation in which they divine their future career path and their closet is suddenly stocked with Versace suits and penny loafers.

Unfortunately for those of us who don't poop money or have gold-plated resumes, like myself, high school did not leave me appealing enough to land a six-figure salary. The executive committee at Google was sadly not impressed enough with my membership in the French Club or the National Honor Society to offer me a job.  You see, some of us have to work to build our futures, to pay for that college education that will actually make us marketable, and yes, while that work may be slaving away to cook food for ungrateful people like you, working at Chick-fil-A is, in fact, a real job...and for having to put up with the likes of you, it's not an easy one.

lovelynjladyApril 5, 2014 at 8:38 AM

what else do you expect from people who eat at chic fil hate?

Dear lovelynjlady,

LOLROTFLBBQ. "Chic-fil-hate!" So rhyme! Such clever!

Seriously though? Drop it. It's bad enough that we fast-food workers are talked down to and treated like we're on the bottom rung of humanity's grimy ladder. I get it. You're ticked because Mr. Cathy said he didn't agree with wedding bells ringin' unless it was to hitch up a guy and a gal. You disagree with him. First amendment rights don't matter. Let freedom ring anyway. I understand.

What I don't understand is how you intend to demonstrate the superiority of your side of the argument by making insults and passing a blanket judgment over every individual associated with a multi-billion dollar, nationwide restaurant chain because of the statements made by one man. You're attempting to prove how heinous and wrong it is for people to hold unwarranted prejudicial attitudes towards others by holding unwarranted prejudicial attitudes towards others. Makes total sense.

And before you pull that overused "you don't know how it feels" card, don't think that I don't understand where you're coming from. I know how it feels to be cussed up one side and down the other and your emotions trampled publicly by someone who you've literally never even met because of what my CEO said. I know how it feels to be told by a friend of several years how ashamed they are of you simply because of my place of employment. Don't ever think that I don't know what hate and prejudice feel like.

Jack JohnsonApril 7, 2014 at 6:11 PM

You know what else is annoying? Whiny employees who complain about their jobs on the Internet. Yeah it's annoying, but what's whining over the Internet going to do? And over stupid things like this? "Oh, I'm mad because today at work, someone couldn't pronounce Polynesian sauce." Do you know how ridiculous and petty you sound? This is why people have such little respect for fast food workers, because you have no idea what real problems at work are, but you complain about the petty things.

Dear Jack Johnson,

Love your music, man. I made banana pancakes for breakfast for, like, a year straight after your album came out. And your work on the Curious George soundtrack? Pure lyrical brilliance.

In all seriousness though, thank you for proving just how mentally inept you and the other interweb trolls are for bashing this girl's blog. "What's whining over the internet going to do?" Well, Mr. Johnson, you seem to have stumbled across the question of the day...in the midst of your blind retaliatory rage no less. Kinda puts a damper on the whole, "Chick-fil-A business is going to suffer from this" argument. Because that totally affected sales when the traditional marriage stuff surfaced too, right? Oh, wait...no, they topped 5 billion in sales that year. My bad.

Also, to say that fast-food workers have "no idea what real problems are" is incredibly ignorant because I would bet all the ice dream in my store that it is far more mentally and physically demanding to serve people like you with a good attitude than any obstacle faced within the walls of a cubicle.

holly woodrumApril 11, 2014 at 10:55 AM

some of these are just outright rude... Uneducated for not recognizing the difference between a meal and an entree? Some would argue that working at a fast food restaurant would mean you're uneducated but that would be rather presumptuous wouldn't it...

Dear holly woodrum,

No, sadly, that wouldn't be presumptuous in the slightest by the typical customer's standards. I feel that lacking the ability to read an aesthetically pleasing, exhaustive food menu that is itemized based on order number and enlarged for the elderly DOES indicate a lack of education...but I keep these thoughts to myself because they're "outright rude."

Then again, Miss Rum, look around you at all the hate. Look at all these comments, like your own, that attack our intelligence. You call us unmotivated and uneducated and words that I don't feel comfortable using and yet, we're still there waiting for you the next day. We're still smiling and saying "my pleasure" in response to your every whim even when life sucks and we're failing school and we don't know how we're going to afford rent next month.

And you know what else? We still have actual, working emotions meaning we still get frustrated, God forbid. And you know what else, else? We're still human freaking beings and deserve to be treated in the same manner we treat you when you enter those doors.


It's been a pleasure,

A Chick-fil-A Employee

Mirrors

I've always second-guessed myself when pointing out the mistakes of others.  Because, I mean, who am I to criticize?  Who am I, this flawed and uninfluential individual, to draw attention to the shortcomings of a fellow, flawed human?

It seems obvious to me, yet I feel so isolated on my little island of respect for others.

People certainly don't hesitate to criticize one another, to exploit and magnify weaknesses. They seek out fractures in the beautifully imperfect beings that we are and drive their judgmental stakes in deep, creating painful chasms within us. I know they do because I see it every single day at school, at work, and sadly, at church too.

Naturally, conflict arises.  Conflict founded on disapproval in others, founded on the notion that some characteristic or behavior or detail about an individual is fundamentally wrong.  We should engage in conflict because there are, indeed, times when the differences between us are so inexcusably prominent that they scream to be resolved or, at least, positioned in such a way that it no longer trespasses on who we are.  Iron sharpens iron, as it was meant to be.

But people just don't participate in constructive conflict anymore. They fight, quite simply, to bring harm to others.  They compulsively judge, chipping away at the already fragile composures of people just like themselves.  They pervert the very nature of conversation and collaboration by injecting elements of discord into the lives of those around them, and the cycle continues.

When did we, as God's self-sustaining creations, lose the right to form our own opinions?  When in the exact chronological moment in the existence of everything did it suddenly become unacceptable to be different?

"Society" is a joke.  We've allowed ourselves to rally behind relentless, idealist bigots, accepting everything they say and crucifying those who disagree.  Republicans, democrats, homosexuals, heterosexuals, whites, blacks, everyone is guilty of this new paradigm.  There's an invisible exemplar in society today that tells each new generation to follow existing trends and every new pattern of thought for the sake of popularity.  Everyone is striving to find the path of least resistance and shaming the ones who try to break the mold.

If people embraced their insecurities and, just for a moment, start treating their fellow man like something other than a failure in progress, maybe then they could find happiness we all so long for.  Maybe if people started trying, simply trying to see each other like Jesus sees them, maybe then there would be peace.

Growing Pains

Growing up sucks harder than a dehydrated preschooler with a half-empty Capri Sun pouch.

And based on the conversations I've had recently about this realization, the fact that growing up sucks is apparently understood and simultaneously unspoken by everyone over the age of 25.  Thanks for warning us guys.  As if belonging to the lethargic masses of Gen Y wasn't already difficult enough.

I guess, rather than brooding, I could explain where all this angst is coming from.  Recently, Molly and I began searching for our first home together.  We naively assumed that we could acquire a beautiful, move-in ready starter home for about fifty-thousand dollars less than what informed, rational, educated adult people already knew we would need to spend but failed to mention to either of us.

Needless to say, our initial search was quite terrifying.

We started looking with the first agent that listed his number on a hand-written realty sign (red flag #1) in the yard of a property which we now refer to as the "fight club" house.  The smell inside the home was so toxic that I'm fairly certain it would disintegrate a Febreeze can on contact.  Without a doubt, the fetid odors leaking from that house are responsible for the growing hole in the ozone layer and should be dealt with by the U.S. government accordingly.

There were rotting wooden boards nailed haphazardly to random walls throughout the house, and the doorways were latched with rusty locks, most likely to keep out (or in) whatever animal had previously lived there.  The carpet was stained in what appeared to be some combination of blood and stomach bile, and the sheetrock had deep, Freddy Krueger-like claw markings from floor to ceiling.  We didn't even make it past the living room before abandoning hope and fleeing the house to prevent further lung damage.

The best part of the story?  Our so-called realtor, after it was all said and done, informed us in an almost hopeful tone, "It might need a little work." A little work.  The house that could cause cancer if viewed in direct sunlight and has no living plant life around it in a half-mile radius "might" need a "little" work. Really.

But hey, at least things could've only gotten better from there, right?  Sadly, no.

The next showing was a pile of ashes. The house had literally been burned down shortly before we arrived.  Embers glowing.  Wet smoke billowing from an empty lot.  God made it clear to us that it was time to change tactics.  That or He really didn't want us buying a house.

Thankfully, He had a plan.  We ditched the dunce and hired a wonderful Christian friend I've known and loved for years.  With her assistance and a few weeks of pleasantly odored showings (for the most part), we found "the one," the house we wanted to start our lives together in.  Before we knew it, we were sitting crosslegged in the floor of our soon-to-be living room signing paperwork.

Agreements, offers, disclosures, some stuff I wasn't even sure what it meant (don't kill me, Mrs. Shoffner). Every piece of paper I initialed, I mistakenly thought, got us closer to the romanticized outcome in my head where Molly and I would soon be picking paint colors and placing furniture in this flawless house of our dreams.

Instead, here we are a week and a half later, and I'm still signing paperwork, negotiating terms, and asking for repairs on a house I assumed was perfect.  I'm filled with uncertainty not knowing what will turn up in each new inspection, not knowing if the next repair will wind up being the straw that breaks the camel's back (or the seller's wallet, in this case).

I can't pretend that I'm not overwhelmed or scared making one massive decision after another.  I won't act like I don't miss the days when my most difficult decision was Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops.  New expenses are popping up every day, chipping away at my bank account and absolutely terrifying me.  Even now, I find myself just as worried as I was leaving the fight club house almost three months ago.

But in the end, my gratitude outweighs my burden.  I'm so thankful God has brought us so far from where we were.  I'm thankful that we're weeks from closing on a wonderful home.  I'm thankful I have the ability to purchase and afford a home at all.  I'm thankful that Molly, for whatever reason, still wants to marry me after all this.

And most of all, I'm thankful that I'm growing up...even if it really, REALLY sucks sometimes.

Pink Shirts

I don't want to get started off on the wrong foot by posting a melodrama revolving around "engaged life" (as my female peers fondly refer to it) and have everyone who reads this thinking they've stumbled across yet another website for a starry-eyed young couple to gush incessantly over their budding romance.  You'll very rarely see me use the term "soul-mate," and if you do, just realize I'm probably being held at gunpoint.

That being said, however, a good friend once told me to never apologize for writing about things I wanted to write about because, if I wanted to write about them, then they must be worth writing about.  At the moment? I actually do want to talk about my relationship.  Sorry 'bout it.

I'd be lying if I pretended that my relationship with Molly was the perfect paradise of sunshine and mutual, unyielding affection towards one another.  Rarely a day goes by that we don't argue about something.  It doesn't have to be important, and most of the time, it wouldn't even make "The Top 100 Arguable Topics Pertinent to Molly and David's Life" list, assuming that list actually existed.

Take for instance our conversation the other day at Molly's happy place, known as Target by those who don't know her.

Molly, holding up two blouses: "Babe, do you like this one or this one better?"

"You already have enough pink shirts. Why don't you pick out something in a different color?"

"So, you're saying I don't look good in pink?"

"That's not what I'm saying! I'm saying you always wear the same color."

"So, you're not happy with the way I dress?"

That's just one of many examples where a discussion over something completely benign resulted in me losing the right to ride in the front seat of the car. Now, I could go into some spiel about how communication is essential to the health of a relationship, but I'm gonna be straight up.

I love arguing with Molly.  Absolutely, 100% love it.

Before every woman reading this, including my own, grabs the nearest appliance to throw at my clearly chauvinistic head, hear me out.

Arguing with my fiance, to me, means stability.  It means that we've got a good thing going on.  It's the equivalent of her looking me in the eye and saying, "I don't agree with you right now. I even don't like you right now. But I sure as heck love you right now."  You're still thinking I must be crazy, right?  I don't necessarily think so.

If Molly didn't love me and, more importantly, if she didn't think that I loved her, she certainly wouldn't have her hand on her hip giving me one of her infamous laser-guided glares over the color of a $12 shirt.  A woman, or a man for that matter, who feels his or her relationship is on thin ice is going to think twice about picking a fight and think twice more about picking a fight over something so frivolous.

Couples in jeopardy choose their battles wisely.  They argue over BIG stuff, and they hold back while they're fighting because neither really knows if the next thing that comes out of their mouth will be the last thing they ever say to the other.  Molly and I, we don't have that problem.  We don't bite our tongues when the other says something we don't like.  When a disagreement arises, big or small, we make it a point to figure out why we disagree.  And why wouldn't we?  Doesn't it make sense to seize every opportunity we have to get to know more about the thing we love most on this earth?  We strive to learn more about each other every single day.

That's a beautiful thing.

If we're in the car, fuming at one another, we don't conceal it.  We go at it.  Molly dreads car rides when we're in the middle of an argument because she knows I will pull over, lock the doors, and refuse to move until we've hashed it out.  We've always disagreed with the mentality that splitting up and taking time apart to brood is an acceptable way to deal with problems, despite being advised to do so by many older couples.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking anyone's relationship.  Maybe taking time for yourselves to organize your thoughts and come back with a clear, viable argument works for you.  For us, organizing our thoughts, formulating our arguments, that's all part of the process.  Sometimes, we have no idea what the heck we're thinking.

And for us, that's okay.  Our mentality?  "Let's figure it out together."

So yeah, I love fighting with Molly.  I love it when we butt heads.  I love it when she rolls her eyes at me, when she shoots me those glances that could knock a vulture off roadkill, and even when she nails me with a laughably girly punch to the arm.

Because when it's all said and done, she knows I love her more than anyone ever loved another person, regardless of what color shirt she's wearing.

New Beginnings

Starting a blog is an awkward process. A little disclaimer: I've been through it three times now, and each time, I've failed to avoid turning my introductory post into a Match.com profile. My track record aside, here goes nothing.

I ditched my old blog for a number of reasons, the primary reason being that 21-year-old me has a difficult time not vomiting from embarrassment whenever I read the ramblings of 17 and 18 and 19-year-old me.

17-year-old me was incessantly whiny and found ways to exaggerate almost every situation through the gross misuse of the word "literally" and the gross overuse of ellipses after EVERY SENTENCE. 18-year-old me most likely needed therapy and, upon review, definitely needed therapy supplemented with Xanax. Lots of Xanax.

Thankfully, 19-year-old me demonstrated some degree of maturity by frequently acknowledging that 18-year-old me's behavior was inexcusable.  But that faint glimmer of manhood faded as 19-year-old me suddenly grew ovaries and went on an estrogen-fueled descent into depression and poorly structured poetry that no amount of Hershey's Special Dark could quell.

Then, before 19-year-old me has time to post any choreography to Sarah McLachlan's greatest hits CD, something strange happens.  20-year-old David begins to write.  Really, actually, truly write some things that have some meaning and depth and, dare I say it, thought to them.  I wrote with direction, and I wrote when I was moved, and I wrote like someone who'd finally grown up.

Looking back, it's very encouraging to see how I've grown, but as with growing up, you learn to move on.  Despite the pride I feel in reviewing the gradually maturing archives of thoughts I've expressed through the years, it was holding me back psychologically and creatively.  And that's where this blog comes in, a new place to detach 21-year-old David from all those younger personas and write like man, so to speak.  I can feel my mom's eyes rolling already.

I'm hoping to use this blog as a "Chapter 2" of sorts for the next phase in my life. I'm soon to be married to the love of my life and best friend, Molly, after whom this blog is named. I'm a semester away from graduating college and beginning a career beyond school.  There's exciting stuff headed my way, and I'm itching to write all about it.