His Love is Relentless

Today kicks off the Christian season of Lent. So, I guess, Happy Ash Wednesday, you guys?

Lent is, surprisingly, my favorite time of the year. It pulls Christ’s life and death onto center stage, and only recently have I begun to appreciate her for her personality.

When I was a kid, Lent was a time to pick something ridiculously impossible to give up (I once chose Cadbury eggs. What the what?) and then pray loudly (and oftentimes before an audience), invoking my dependence on God to not crave that sweetly smooth fondant encased in milky delicious chocolate. (Are you craving Cadbury eggs yet? I’ll pray for you.)

But this morning, I read something that sums it all up quite nicely, from The Holy Bible: Mosaic‘s Lenten reading plan. It explains the season of Lent as a focus on humans’ sinful nature and…wait for it…God’s solution. I might have pumped my fist in the air when I read that.

Lent is not necessarily a season of deprivation, but truly a season of reflection.

It is a glorious gift from God, a specific period of time set aside to know Him more.

It is to understand, with greater depth each day, how truly impossible the distance between God and Man was. And not to stop there, but to also realize how deliberate the act of reconciliation must have been.

It is the most powerful message of the Gospel. It is the predominant tenant of Christianity.

It is God, calling to us, loudly and relentlessly.

Reconciliation is borne from the very heart of God, fed by His unquenchable desire to reconnect with us, to plug us back into Him, individually, and as His creation. It is the seed that encases God’s very identity.

But it is more than that.

It is action.

It is beyond the simple but profound yearning God felt for His estranged daughters and sons. It is leaps and bounds from His despair of separation.

It is God, breaking through the barriers of sin that kept Him from relationship. It is God, kicking in the door, desperate for His beloveds. It is God, removing us from the equation and instead substituting Jesus’ perfect worthiness, making us perfectly worthy. It is God, imposing His identity on us once again, refitting us into His image, an image worthy of life.

Reconciliation is, and has always been, God’s solution.

There is nothing — nothing — we can do to get there. But oh, that is beautiful. It is with purpose, with blood, with a violent passion, that God bridged that impossible distance with an impossible solution.

He is relentless, and for that, we live.

Show Me Your Blogs!

I want to know what YOU guys are writing (and/or reading).

What have you written that maybe didn’t get as much traffic as you’d hoped?

What have I missed of yours that is a must-read?

Leave a link in the comments, because…

Show me your blogs!

There might be beads involved. (Spoiler alert: there’s not. Sorry. BUT there is a not-so-clever boob innuendo involved, and we could all use more boob innuendos.)

On Quick Wit and Kindness

This is a story about one and sadly not the other.

This past weekend was a wet and cold one. We currently have family in town. On Saturday we all gathered in a tiny dojo to watch Bug graduate to a yellow belt in karate (HUGE deal, you guys, can I get a quick round of applause?). And after church today, we decided to bring the whole gang out to Gatlinburg for a day at the aquarium. Perfect for a rainy day with a chance of flurries.

Because of this wintry weather, we broke the rules and dropped everyone off in the Trolley Only lane. By the time six of us, including three kids, a stroller, and thirty pounds of diaper bags, tumbled out of two cars, the trolley had arrived, and we, along with the two other cars behind us, were holding it up.

We broke the rules, and an angry woman waiting to get on the trolley came up to tell me that.

Now, I know I usually come across this blog as a sweet, mild-tempered, meek Proverbs 31 woman (RIGHT, you guys?) but I can sometimes have a razor sharp tongue. This was one of those times.

I might have argued back. I might have pointed out that she hadn’t been waiting in the rain, that I had children I didn’t want wet and cold, that I was fully aware of the traffic jam, as were, I was sure, the other two cars behind us. I might have laughed in her direction when she finally boarded the trolley and the driver decided to step off for a smoke break. I might have said to my mother but loud enough for my words to carry that I hoped she wasn’t in a hurry, that the traffic still wasn’t moving, that she was probably just mad because she was having a bad hair day, and maybe a few other sharply-laced barbs I am too ashamed to own.

I might just be a snarky little turd.

After laughing about it with my mother and sister-in-law and filling in my husband, who had missed the whole incident, I barely gave her another thought.

Until 2:30am (when I actually started writing this) when I woke up to a whimpering Bean. After I comforted my child back to sleep, I started thinking of some other quips I might have said. I thought about my quick wit, how her only retaliation was repeating our inconsideration and the reality that we had indeed broken the rules and held up traffic. I thought about how I surely had won that battle of words.

Then I wondered if she had given me another thought today, if my words had kept her up. I wondered what might have happened if I had just apologized, foregoing the right I thought I had to call her irritation and raise with sarcasm. I wondered if she felt bigger because she had confronted a rule breaker, but left feeling smaller.

Now, at 3:02am I feel far less proud of my wit and much more annoyed with my inability to clamp down on my tongue. I want to explain my rottenness, to dilute it. I want to choose to remember her bitter tone, her singling me out to attack, and consider my actions justified.

But I know it isn’t about how I can stand up for myself, how I don’t let anyone talk down to me.

It’s about refusing to show kindness, about failing to to see what Jesus sees, about holding on tightly to my pride. It’s about trying to transfer the guilt I felt for inconveniencing a trolley full of people when my transgression was called to light. It was about retaliation.

I no longer feel like I had some right to put her in her place, or that she should have been more understanding when I clearly was not. And I cannot help but feel a tiny bit grateful that my husband, a much bigger person with a much deeper well of patience, as well as both my kids, had missed my example of how to be a troll.

And I wonder if someone else had been kind to her today, because I most deliberately was not.

Buttrams Begin

Today Hubs and I celebrate eight years of marriage.

That’s nine years and two days since our very first date at Up the Creek, which was Big Spending for a broke college kid. He even sprung for dessert, some strawberry cheesecake something or other, which we split, though I found out later that he wasn’t a big fan of strawberries, cheesecake, or desserts. (Don’t worry, I’ve rubbed off on him since then.)

And nine years and six-ish months since he was first introduced to me as a fellow Alabamian in Tennessee. I thought he was a freshman, and he thought I was pretty.

Nine years and six-ish months later, I know he’s an Older Man, and he knows I’m nutty.

Nine years and two days later, we ignore Valentine’s Day, calling it the Buttrams’ Anniversary Pre-Game Show. (It’s pretty much the Pro Bowl to our Superbowl. How do you like that sports analogy? So romantic, amiright?)

You can clickety click HERE to read the rest of how our story began over at my good friend and Internet Twin Leigh Kramer‘s blog as part of her This is How We Met series. Leigh is a talented writer, a supportive blogger buddy, and a funny Twitter pal, and we’ve since bonded over our mutual taste in music, television, and literary crushes.

And while you’re there, you should definitely get to know her. She is, above all, authentic, and you can never get enough of that on the internets, right?

A List of Wonderful Marriages

It’s not going to be that kind of list. I promise.

My marriage has been pretty wonderful. Sometimes in a Disney princess sort of way, and sometimes in a The War of the Roses sort of way. (I’m kidding, people.)

And it made me think of some other wonderful marriages, many of which make any day – including Valentine’s Day – that much more wonderful.

Marriages like:

• Peanut butter and chocolate. I pledge my undying love to you, Reese’s.
• Cookie dough and vanilla ice cream. Whoever was impatient enough to skip the whole bake-the-cookies step is a genius, and I applaud that impatience wholeheartedly.
• Apples and caramel. Let’s ignore the fact that we are coating vitamins and nutrients in pure sugar, shall we? We shall!
• Coffee and French vanilla flavored creamer. Let’s be honest. I love coffee because it’s just an appropriate vessel to binge on French vanilla flavored creamer in polite company.
• Laundry detergent and Febreeze. (And you thought it was all about food, didn’t you.) You know, no one would even have a date in the first place if their clothes smelled like dirty gym socks and rotting pineapples.

I could go on, but we all know I’d just start talking about food again, and Fat Tuesday isn’t until next week (wocka wocka!).

Happy Valentine’s Day! I love you! (Seriously. I do.)

The Hierarchy of Grocery Stores

If there’s one thing I know instinctively, it’s which aisle powdered doughnuts are in at any grocery store in America. Because I’ve been in more than my share. In grocery stores, not in powdered doughnuts, although that sounds awesome, so please can we make that happen?

So naturally it was my duty to rank these grocery stores in order of desirability and granola availability. And even more naturally, I had to do this over at Clay Morgan‘s site. So click here to read my guest post and let me know where your grocery store falls in the hierarchy.

And for the record, I had no idea he owns a Yorkie, but…now everything just makes sense, right?

One last order of business: the Anna Dressed in Blood giveaway! Hip hip hooray! The winner is Jan Heath! Thanks for commenting, friend! I’ll be emailing you to collect your goods.

Anna Dressed In Blood : Book Review

First of all, I rarely (never, actually) do book reviews, at least on my blog. Mostly because my opinions are very fickle. I do, however, strongly suggest things you should read if you even so much as mention books, reading, words, or even being bored.

But my sister lent me Anna Dressed in Blood (Amazon affiliate link) by Kendare Blake, and I actually stopped in the middle of reading it to text her and let her know how much I loved it so far. (You can stop reading and skip to the comments for a chance to win a copy of this book, if you’re like me and only read reviews as far as the star rating before deciding to impulse buy the book anyway.)

Synopsis: The main character Cas Lowood is a seventeen-year-old boy who travels around the world killing murderous ghosts. The end.

The plot isn’t too terribly unique, especially with all the paranormal stuff out there that is saturating the market, but the writing is superb. It’s what made me stop and sit back and just think, “Wow.”

It’s not particularly eloquent or thought-provoking, but the tone is flawless. It reads like a seventeen-year-old boy (which, ahem, may include some teenage language and/or innuendoes…), which seems to be pretty tough to capture. It really is one of the best written Young Adult novels I’ve read in a long time. (Although, I should disclaim that I don’t read a whole lot of Young Adult.)

There are a few plot points and loose ends that I’d like to contend with (so, you know, it’s not PERFECT), but I’ll save that for book club. (PS, anyone want to start a book club with me?)

To RECAP, I liked it enough to review it on my blog at the risk of sounding over important and pretentious. And since my sister lent it to me and I paid zero dollars to the author, I’d like to give a copy (either in Kindle format or paperback, winner’s choice!) away to one lucky friend.

To enter, comment with what you’ve read recently so I can add it to my list. Look, we both win! Winner will be randomly picked sometime Friday, if I remember. (JUST KIDDING, I’ll remember!)

Buttram Out Loud

Just take my word for it: I’m pretty loud. I once lost my voice because I shouted “Free Willy!” repetitively while on a bus trip to YoungLife camp. Seven hours of pint-sized random yelling, you guys. Because I. Am. Annoying Awesome.

Oh, hi, Tamara

But that’s not what I’m talking about when I say Buttram Out Loud. Nay, I’m talking about my guest post at Tamara Out Loud’s blog. Tamara is one of the most gifted writers I’ve ever come across on the interwebz, and I was honored when she gave me her space to talk about something ridiculous and belated.

You know what, I don’t care. Luckily, neither did she.

So click here to read my guest post over at Tamara’s site, and if you don’t already read her site regularly, you HAVE to linger. She’s impressive. If you know what I mean.

Dear Jeff Goins, Stop Reading My Diary

For the record, I don’t keep a diary (anymore); I believe these days they call it a “blog.” And actually, I wish Jeff Goins was reading my diary (blog).

But that is neither here nor there. Which doesn’t make sense, does it? How can something be neither here NOR there? By the very definitions of here AND there, something would have to be one or the other.

My next post will be: Lessons in Colloquialisms. (No. It won’t.)

Moving on.

I received Jeff Goins’ weekly (bi-weekly? Monthly? I don’t know, I don’t pay that much attention.) newsletter the other day and for an otherwise nonviolent piece of email, it bashed me squarely between the eyes. (Why so mean, email?)

Just in case you aren’t subscribed to his newsletter (what kind of person ARE you?!), here’s what the heaviest hitting parts said:

So when do you ship and when do you wait? When is it okay to go over budget and extend your deadline? That’s up to you and your gut.
Learn to trust your artist instincts (and the counsel of others). But at the end of the day, it’ll still feel risky. And it is.
The thing to not do is stall. No one is going to pick you. Whether you wait or not is your call. You’re the one who has to live with the consequences.
My suggestions?
Be brave. Fail fast. And make it count.

See, here’s the thing. I am naturally good at very few things.

And the vast things I am not naturally good at…I quit.

I don’t enjoy these things, I don’t give them time to become enjoyable, I don’t give myself time to improve, because what if I never do? I don’t like feeling mediocre, in anything. It’s why I quit tennis and piano; it’s why I have an unused easel in our den, across the room from a sewing machine that has grown dusty.

So even though I love to write, and it is one of the very few things I am naturally more than mediocre at, I hoard my words like a miser. I scrutinize each one, I demand them to perform and to perform flawlessly. And because they are not yet (ever?) flawless, they remain stashed inside my pocket, tucked against my cheek.

But things are threatening to overhaul that way of thinking.

Be brave. Fail fast. And make it count.

You see, I have words, words strung together to form stories. Some stories are finished, some are still being strung. There are one or two that are waiting to be shipped but I have given myself permission to hide them until they are flawless (don’t tell Jeff Goins).

But there are many, many more that are guaranteed to be an exercise in failing. That is, if I can loosen my grip on them long enough to toss them in the air and duck for cover.

And I’m going to need your help.

At least with the failing part.

Sometimes Twilight, Sometimes Dawn

In just a few short weeks, Hubs and I are going to celebrate eight years of marriage. EIGHT, you guys!

Most of what I write here is about my (magnificent, beautiful, hilarious, photogenic) kids, and only sometimes do I mention the fella who started it all.

For anniversaries past, I might have mentioned how well we click, how much we enjoy each other, how stinkin’ cute he is, and how to catch a boy using the chicken dance. (No, really, it’ll work.) And actually, if you stay tuned, you’ll also read about how we met. (EXCITED? I know you are, but what am I?)

But…we truly wouldn’t be where we are today without the times that weren’t so certain, the days or months we weren’t quite so sure about. When instead of leaning on one another, we were merely pressing on. The moments when, if we weren’t fully stalled, then we were running on fumes. When the light began to fade and a black night loomed.

And those seasons – however brief, however often – of stagnancy, of staleness? Every marriage has them.

And ours came quickly.

We were newlyweds and new parents, all at once. That in itself was a challenge all its own. I was unprepared and unrelenting. He was shouldering a small, new family. We were treading water, fighting the tide of the inevitable, wondering if it was only a matter of time.

But.

As we wove around the sleepless nights and the dirty diapers and trying to balance all of our new identities and sharing space and things and thoughts and giving a little to get a little, I learned that first year that love isn’t always the key to marriage.

Sometimes it’s merely the commitment, the head-down-and-plow-through. Sometimes it’s recognizing the impending darkness and promising to wait for daybreak. Sometimes it’s just sucking in oxygen and refusing to go under.

And then?

Eventually or all at once, you find that solid ground again, you hit your stride. The night is broken by the dawn.

And oh, how sweet that dawn is.

The Dawn