Browsed by
Author: Elizabeth Brock

The Newest Member of the Southern Ladies’ Club

The Newest Member of the Southern Ladies’ Club

Two weeks ago, something big happened. Something major. Life-changing.

For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you may be thinking, “Yeah, yeah, Elizabeth, we know. You found the laminating machine at work and someone showed you where the good snacks were hidden. Big deal.”

And while that is true, and those were VERY BIG DEAL THINGS, this thing is bigger. Better. More spectacular than even the laminating machine.

*collective gasp (because how could anything top a laminating machine?).

It was just an ordinary Monday. I had gone to work as usual, unaware of the life-changing event that was happening just outside my apartment door.

I wonder if the mailman knew. I wonder if he could feel the heaviness as he placed the glossy pages inside the tiny tin can that is also referred to as my mailbox. Judging by the way it had been neatly nestled into the small compartment, I bet he did.

At six o’clock, I pulled into my complex, wrestled my stuff out of the car, and stopped casually by the mailbox on my way to the apartment. I stuffed the key in the lock, turned, pulled, and there it was.

For the first time in my life, this showed up addressed specifically to me.

FullSizeRender

My mother ordered the subscription for me a month ago, and now that it’s here, I have carted it delicately all over the apartment, careful not to bend even a single page.

If I weren’t so dead-set on keeping it intact, I would tear off the cover and laminate it.

For as long as I can remember, there have been stacks of Southern Living magazines on coffee and bedside tables, stuffed on shelves, and piled in baskets next to couches and chairs. Nearly an entire shelf of my mother’s cookbook collection is dedicated to Southern Living’s annual hardback compilations of their best recipes. The rest of the space on that shelf is inhabited by the mother of all binders, stuffed with torn pages and cut-out recipes that were disconnected from their original binding, gently pushed behind page protectors and inserted into a system only Charman Brock can understand.

And when the controversial new binding was instituted several years ago, our house was not left untouched. There were rants and threats of letters to the new editor who had the audacity to change the binding and add a series of fashion articles to the publication. How dare he! This was a home and cooking magazine, not an issue of Vogue, for crying out loud.

But still, the subscription continued to show up. In the mailboxes of both of my grandmothers. In my mother’s. Now, in mine.

And I have to tell you, I am SO EXCITED.

FullSizeRender (1)
My mother’s reaction to this glorious occasion. Notice the emojis.

I am an official Southern lady.

(It really should come with a card and a certificate of authenticity.)

Admittedly, I have a long way to go. I know this because the first dish I saw that looked both delicious and achievable turned out to be an ad for dog food. Great looking dog food, but dog food nonetheless.

Even so, I believe that this may be the turning point for me. Despite my string of terrible cooking experiences, the ghosts of soupy pies, hopelessly misread cookie recipes, and the vivid memory of a toaster on fire, I am feeling boldly optimistic.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a grocery list. I may not know exactly what “spatchcock chicken” is, but I’m ready to find out.

To be continued…

 

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Me and Mom and Amy Sherman Palladino

Me and Mom and Amy Sherman Palladino

Like most of the other Gilmore Girls fans in the world, I am impatiently awaiting the promised revival debuting soon. In preparation for the four new 90-minute “episodes,” I have recently decided to revisit Stars Hollow a little early by going back to the beginning of the iconic series.

I didn’t grow up watching the mother-daughter series. I was seven when the show debuted for the first time and much more interested in cartoons and Disney plotlines. The show was cancelled by the time I had entered my early teens and had already started circulating in reruns on ABC Family. Friends of mine picked it up in the hours right after school and became dedicated fans through that two-hour block of episodes. However, throughout high school, I spent most of my afternoons at the gym with a basketball or volleyball in my hand. By the time I slumped to the couch after practice, the episodes were nearly over, and I couldn’t seem to care much about a plot I didn’t understand.

But by my sophomore year in college, I had been able to sit through a handful of entire episodes without losing interest. I was at the apartment of a friend of mine drinking coffee and gabbing when I noticed that there, on her shelf, sat all seven seasons of the show. I asked to borrow them, explaining that I had never watched the series all the way through. After a few gasps of disbelief and exclamations of “How have you survived this long without seeing this?” and “What kind of life have you been living?” the first season was readily shoved in my arms to take home with me.

(That’s the thing about Gilmore Girls fans–we want everyone to love this show as much as we do.)

By the time I had devoured the first season, that same friend was moving into our house along with the other six seasons she owned.

One day, while watching a second season episode, my mother plopped down on the couch opposite me and watched with growing interest. After watching a few episodes together, Charm [pronounced sh-arm] declared that she was going to have to start the series from the beginning. The witty dialogue and excellent casting had caught us both–hook, line, and sinker.

I suggested we start over together. I wasn’t very far along, and I thought it would be fun to watch it for the first time with her.

It quickly became a habit. Night after night, we’d come home from work or school, grab a snack, pick a seat, and watch an episode or two of our favorite show. When we weren’t watching, we were quoting our favorite lines and reflecting on our personal views of Rory’s best romantic interest. (The correct answer is Jess, although Charm makes a decent argument for Logan.) (Dean is irrelevant in our world.)

When we finally finished the series, we spent a few days mourning our loss then started it over again. And for the last three years, that’s the show we’ve watched. On and off, we’ve revisited our favorite moments with our favorite girls in our favorite Connecticut town.

Moving away from home has been hard. I miss the safety of my home, the lack of bills, my family and friends, my sweet little city, and my mama. I miss my mama a whole lot.

The main reason I picked the habit of Gilmore Girls up once again was because it made me feel close to her. I know the things she laughs at on her couch back home, so I laugh harder during those scenes. I know the characters that frustrate her most, so I roll my eyes at the screen when they enter the frame. I know the parts that, as we say so eloquently in the South, just “clutch” her, so I get misty-eyed every time Lorelai sings the last note of “I Will Always Love You.” Gilmore Girls has established its place in the thread of our relationship as a forever tie that binds.

Whether mom and I are 130 miles or 1,000 miles apart, we can always meet in Stars Hollow in a moment.

Happy Mother’s Day, Charm. I’ll meet you at Luke’s in five.

 

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
A Moment in Trig

A Moment in Trig

I have never been good at math. What comes easily to brainy mathematicians is about as easy to me as sawing off my own arm with a butter knife. Not easy and certainly not without pain or tears.

Which is why, when I was answering the cursory, “What did you do this weekend?” question at work a few Mondays ago, I found myself smiling at the irony in my answer.

“What did I do this weekend? Well, I went apartment shopping, started reading a book on the rise and fall of the Russian aristocracy, and went to a concert with my high school math teacher and her husband.”

I don’t need to tell you how strange it is that a less than average math student somehow became friends with her math teacher.

(I also don’t need to tell you that my coworkers have expressed mild concern about my social life.)

The first time I realized Mrs. Finch would be my math teacher, I was terrified. I had heard about how difficult her classes were, so you can imagine my panic. I didn’t need a tough teacher for math to be challenging. Saying the word “math” without trembling was challenging enough.

But during my time in her classroom, I learned that Mrs. Finch was as compassionate as she was tough. Over time, I came to respect her not just because of what I had heard about her, but because of who I knew her to be: a patient, kind, and fair instructor. I valued the time she spent helping me comprehend difficult concepts, and appreciated the way she sympathized with my difficulty to learn something that came so naturally to her.

She has been a great teacher all of her career, I’m sure, but I remember the exact moment I knew it for myself.

It was trigonometry, and I was miserable. I was the lone junior in a class full of extraordinarily smart sophomores. They were breezing down the trig path, while I was trudging slowly behind.

In one of the units, there was a string of vocabulary words that we had to learn, and I lived for weekly quizzes on the terms. Memorize the definitions? That I could do. Apply them on a test? Well, that’s where the problem came in.

One day, near the end of class, Mrs. Finch perched on her stool, folded her hands together, and put on her, “We need to talk about a new assignment” face. She went on to explain that she was giving us an assignment using all the vocabulary words we had learned during that unit.

She wanted us to use the words to write a short story.

I looked around the room at the brainy sophomores and knew with certainty that this assignment was for me. She knew my strengths. She knew that English was my best subject and that creative writing was where I excelled. She knew. And she created an assignment that would capitalize on my gifts and give me one small victory in a class in which I knew consistent defeat.

While the rest of the class groaned about an assignment they felt was unnecessary, I nearly burst into tears of gratitude.

That’s when I knew she was a great teacher. And that’s when I knew we would be friends.

I don’t remember anything about trigonometry.

(I actually couldn’t even remember how to spell it without looking it up on the Google.)

If I were in a life or death situation and asked to solve a complicated math equation, I’d just shrug my shoulders and say, “Go ahead and kill me now. I’ve got nothing.” I don’t remember any theories, Pythagorean or otherwise. But I do remember that moment. I do remember the feeling of pride when I finally handed Mrs. Finch a completed assignment that I was confident in. I do remember how grateful I was (how grateful I am still) that my gifts and talents were being valued and cultivated by a teacher in an entirely different subject matter.

Though I did not choose to teach, had I entered that field, there are several teachers from my career as a student that I would’ve wanted to emulate.

Mrs. Finch, my friend, you are one of them. Thanks for seeing me, for valuing me, and for contributing to the woman I am today.

12804125_10205945114328582_474453838_n
Mrs. Finch and me at Puckett’s in downtown Nashville a few weeks ago. Photo courtesy of her sweet husband, Randy.
Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Music Monday

Music Monday

Back by popular *demand, here’s another Music Monday.

*Popular demand also goes by Lacy Triplett, who is a true pal and wanted to know more of what I was listening to these days.

1. Alive in Me-JJ Weeks Band

I had the privilege of hearing the JJ Weeks band perform an acoustic version of this song earlier last week. This is a single from their upcoming album, As Long As We Can Breathe. 

Untold-Matthew West

Fair warning: you should grab a tissue before you press play on this one. It’ll getcha.

Every Giant Will Fall-Rend Collective

I don’t know about you, but my Monday has BEEN a Monday. This little tune from Rend Collective’s latest album, As Family We Go, will give you some much needed encouragement this evening.

Slow Down Time-Us the Duo

As I mentioned in my last Music Monday, I am obsessed with the duos these days. This couple is largely responsible for that. This is their latest single, and to be honest, I hated it the first time I heard it. Now, I can’t get enough. Even if they aren’t your typical style, give it a chance (or maybe two).

I Love You Will Still Sound the Same-Oh Honey

Again, with the duos. Not only do I love their name–(isn’t Oh Honey the most precious band title you’ve ever heard?)–but I love their sound. And this song is about twelve different types of darling.

Suitcase Full of Sparks-Gregory Alan Isakov

I know you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, and I’m guessing the same rule applies for judging songs by their titles. But I do both of those things, so I loved this song before I heard it all the way through. His name may sound like a character from a Tolstoy novel, but his voice sounds like melted butter.

The Tall Fiddler-Tommy Emmanuel

This one is a little bit of a deviation from my normal style. I had never heard of this man before this weekend. Some friends from Florence took me to see his show at the Ryman on Saturday night, and y’all–I was BLOWN. AWAY. This man is so incredibly talented. He made that one instrument sound like four. The whole night, I just kept thinking, “How does one person walk around with that much talent in his body?” When asked how I liked the show, all I could say was, “I had no idea a guitar could sound like that!”

And now, because it’s Leap Day, here’s a bonus video that will brighten the rest of your week, I’m sure. Try not to smile when Ben sings this classic. I dare you.

I Wanna Dance With Somebody-Ben Rector

Happy Monday!

 

 

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Music Monday

Music Monday

If you’ve ever ridden in my car (or had me as a passenger in your car) you will know that, usually, the first words out of my mouth are, “Hey have you heard this song/band?” Not only do I like to discover new (or new-to-me) music, I am not satisfied until I have made someone else fall in love with my new finds.

So, since I don’t have many folks riding in my car these days, and since you are the poor souls that clicked on this blog, you are my new victims.

Grab a seat, get comfortable, and prepare to treat your ears to some great tunes.

My Current Top Seven Jams:

Though I did include a pretty significant throwback track, along with some already established music names, you should know that several of these folks are brand new artists. That means that once you move through their limited selection, you’ll be ready to form a mob, go right to their doorsteps, and demand more songs featuring their beautiful vocal cords.

  1. Oh My Love-The Score

I’ve recently developed an obsession with duos, typically of the male and female variety. However, these two guys circulated through one of my Pandora stations and immediately caught my attention. Their fun lyrics and dance-able rhythms have made me a raving fan. I recommend checking out their whole EP, Where Do You Run.

  1. Polaroid-Imagine Dragons

It saddens me to think of all the time I spent underestimating Imagine Dragons, assuming that all they had going for them were a few radio hits (i.e. “On Top of the World,” “It’s Time,” etc.). I will gladly admit to being wrong. Though I haven’t made it all the way through the twenty-one track deluxe version of Smoke & Mirrors, I have yet to hear a song I didn’t like. This song is one you’ll want to crank up on your morning commute. Don’t worry if you start to involuntarily dance/bob your head/play an imaginary set of drums. It’s a pretty standard response to “Polaroid.”

  1. Lost Boy-Ruth B.

Y’all. This girl. She is crazy talented. For her debut EP, it’s just the simple power of her voice and a piano. She brings raw honesty in both her lyrics and her vocal tone. After a six-second Vine of this song went viral, she wrote the rest of the tune and included it on the four-track EP, The Intro.  It’s a little weird and quirky, but it is BEAUTIFUL.

  1. Hypnotize Me-Taylor Berrett

One word: SWOON. This song is so fun and is often blaring through my room while I get ready for work in the morning. His debut album was released last year and is full of great tracks like this one. So you might as well just open Spotify and stream the whole album, because this song will definitely leave you wanting more of his voice.

  1. Live at Rockwood Hall-Johnnyswim

Stop what you’re doing and go listen to this album. And, while you’re at it, you might as well listen to every other song this husband and wife duo has ever recorded. Then, allow yourself to cry openly about the fact that you’ll have to wait until June for their next record.

  1. Heart Won’t Stop-John Mark McMillan

I recently had the opportunity to hear John Mark at a show here in Nashville. To put it lightly, I was blown away. I have, of course, crossed paths with JMM followers, but have never really investigated for myself. Not only if his voice great, his lyrics are powerful. This song is a perfect display of both of those facets.

  1. Orphans of God-Avalon

This is clearly my token throwback. I grew up listening to Avalon and have always loved their music. But occasionally, I run across a song I haven’t heard in years and the Lord uses the freshness and familiarity of it to speak straight to my heart. This is one of those songs. The lyrics are powerful, the music is incredible, and the message is overwhelming. Grab a few tissues before you hit play. Trust me, you’ll need them before it’s over.

I hope you enjoy this list of my current favorites! Now it’s your turn. What are you listening to today? Tell me in the comments below!

 

 

 

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Sundays

Sundays

Nashville life has been an adventure. I’m learning how to adult and so far, it’s going well. Here’s a brief list of the things I am most proud of:

  1. Without using my GPS, I can navigate my way to my job, my house, my church, my gym, and my favorite pizza place. Though most of these are on the same road, it’s still a pretty huge accomplishment.

**Those of you who know how long it took for me learn how to get to Florence Boulevard should be especially impressed.

  1. I’m no master chef, yet, but I did (fairly) successfully use my George Foreman the other night.
  2. My socks match. Everyday. (To be honest, this is my crowning achievement thus far.)

Yes, things are going very well here. During the week, the days go by quietly, systematically, gently allowing me to adjust and settle down into this new life. Saturdays might have been more difficult had I not had a fairly steady stream of visitors from home.

But then there are Sundays.

Sundays have proven themselves to be the most difficult of all.

I cried the first time I visited a church here. The first time, I looked up at the pulpit and saw someone other than my dad addressing the congregation. I looked out into the teeming crowd of unfamiliar faces and used my fingers to push back in the tears that were trying to escape. For the first time, it occurred to me how alone I was. There were no hugs from long-time friends, no familiar laughs in Sunday School, no choir light on my face, no sweet grandmother’s voice singing beside me, no dad to teach the Word from a familiar pulpit. There was family in that room, but it wasn’t mine. I suddenly felt Highland’s absence painfully, like a tightening band around my heart squeezing until I thought I’d have to reach in and rip it out myself.

Sundays are hard, and this week was no different.

Except this time, it was hard to be home. I held my breath from the moment I arrived to the moment I left, trying to cage my emotions. My trembling hands again caught tears before they could spill conspicuously over my cheeks. I didn’t want anyone to see, to know how much I hurt with the ache of missing this church family. I didn’t want anyone to think I was lying when I answered the constant stream of “How’s it going?” and “How’s Nashville life treating you?” with a resounding, “Great!”

Because I wasn’t lying. It really is great. The Lord has continued to prove Himself faithful, and I am still certain I was being obedient to His call on my life when I moved here. No question.

But the truth is, I miss home. And never more than on Sundays, when I’m missing my church family.

I wish I could articulate how much I love Highland and its people. I wish I could put words together to adequately explain how my life has been formed and shaped through the ministry of this church. Maybe someday I’ll be able to express it fully.

But until then, Highland family, know that I love you dearly. And miss you fiercely. But because you have shown me what it means to love and serve Christ’s bride and the lost community around her, I am equipped to do the same in a new location.

For that, and countless other blessings you’ve given me, I’ll be forever grateful.

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
The Promised Land of Paperclips

The Promised Land of Paperclips

In my last post, I mentioned a new job; I recently began working as a sales rep for Capitol Christian Music Group. And though it has been a tremendous adjustment, I have loved every second of it. In fact, after Nashville received some very unusual snow last week, I sat squirming on the couch, watching the clock tick towards Monday when the snow would be gone and the roads would be clear and I could go back to work.

(A good sign, I think.)

Though each day has had it’s own special thrills, I have to tell y’all about yesterday. On day one, my boss showed me around the building, pointing at this and that, introducing me to everyone who crossed our paths.  But there was one place in particular in which I desperately wanted to spend more time—the office supply center.

Or as I like to call it, The Place Where Dreams Come True.

(Before I go any further, let me issue a warning. There is a real possibility that, after you learn this part of my personality, your belief in my elevated level of cool may be damaged. You may find yourself thinking how disillusioned you are. Just note, you have been cautioned.)

Of course, in the days to follow, I thought of reasons I’d need to go back downstairs. I needed post-its and paperclips, drawer sorters and pushpins. It was like shopping in Office Depot without having to pay for anything.

And let me tell you, it is embarrassing to admit how much I loved it.

Yesterday, after swallowing a panic attack at the messy pile of papers in one of my filing cabinets, I marched right back down there to that land flowing with stationary and staplers in search of something that would bring order to my mess.

I was borderline giddy when I walked out with my spoils. So great had been my quest, I could almost hear Gandalf saying,

“One pile of protectors to rule the papers, one packet of monthly tabs to find them,

One binder to bring them all and in the darkness of my desk drawer bind them.”

(My apologies, Mr. Tolkien.)

As I walked through the hallway, smiling to myself thinking of how much fun I would have stuffing all my pages into their individual protectors and placing them behind the January tab, it hit me.

I am super weird.

I get a thrill when I walk down an office supply aisle. I love starting a new list on a brand new notepad. I enjoy color-coding a spreadsheet. In fact, I can’t look at a simple, black and white Excel document without feeling as if the walls are closing in. And I’m afraid I came by it honestly. I had a whole conversation with my mother last night about the many merits of her newest discovery in the world of pens. And I’ll be going out soon to purchase my own set of The World’s Greatest Erasable Pen.

Hi, my name is Elizabeth, and I’m an organizational, borderline OCD, office supply addict.

*collectively respond, “Hi, Elizabeth.”

I know I’ve surely fallen to an eight or nine on the ten-point scale of cool. But I guess you had to find out sometime. And I had to tell you. Because how was I supposed to keep the glorious reality of The Place Where Dreams Come True to myself?

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Big (But Probably Old) News

Big (But Probably Old) News

 

Every time I get in my car, my phone lights up and tells me how far I am from home. I first noticed this little trick several months ago after I downloaded the new update for my device. Of course, like any iPhone owner after a new update, I experienced several emotional reactions to this interesting habit my phone had developed.

First, I was amused—delighted, even—to discover how smart my phone had become overnight.

Way to go, phone, for knowing how long it takes to get somewhere and for telling me this information entirely unsolicited.

Then, I noticed that it only pulled this little stunt when I got inside my car. I was unnerved by the fact that somehow, this device knew my location and often guessed where I was going based on the time of day. Immediately following my discomfort at being so well known by a cell phone, I became infuriated when it would light up with an “8 minutes to home” message. It developed into a challenge, which is no real surprise considering my uncanny ability to make everything into a competition.

Eight minutes, huh? I’ll be home in five. Just you wait, you stupid electronic. I’ll prove you wrong. YOU’LL SEE!

Now, however, there is a new emotion that catches in my throat every time I see that little screen light up with my geographical location. “One hundred and thirty minutes to home,” it tells me. Every time, I blink back a few tears, and I wonder when the system will adjust—when I will adjust. When it will notice that I’m not going home anymore. Part of me hopes it never catches on.

If you didn’t know already, I have moved to a new city to start a new job and live in a new house. All kinds of new.

As I was telling folks about my big move, I heard so many precious and kind words of affirmation.

“You’re going to do great!”

“That’s so exciting!”

“We’ll miss you around here!”

“I’m so proud for you!”

“Things won’t be the same when you’re gone.”

All those things were nice, and I soaked every bit of it right up. But, I have to say there was one phrase I heard that really, really touched me. It came from my precious friend Madeline. As I was lamenting about the limited Sunday afternoons we had left to spend at Ricebox or Bluecoast, she said to me, in the kindest and sweetest of tones, “Oh please, Elizabeth! Don’t be dramatic!” Doesn’t that just tear your heart out? So precious. The eye roll that followed really sent this sentiment out of the park.

But she was right. There’s no real need to be dramatic.

(Though, I have certainly been about twelve different shades of it throughout this whole process.)

After all, I’m only one hundred and thirty minutes from home. And it doesn’t matter much if my phone updates the geographical location of my living arrangements. Because the truth is, wherever I am, Florence, Alabama will always be home for me.

 

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Adventures at the Lawrenceburg Fair: Part 3

Adventures at the Lawrenceburg Fair: Part 3

So it’s taken a little longer than I initially anticipated, but here it is: part three of my Lawrenceburg fair blog series.

As a teenager, I had heard all kinds of legendary stories about the Lawrenceburg fair.

(Let’s just pause for a moment to laugh at my use of the phrase, “As a teenager.” Like it was so long ago. Also, laugh at the implication that I am now an adult. Ha!)

There was a glow of grandeur around my vision of this event. But to be perfectly honest, I was less than impressed when we arrived. We walked in next to the bathrooms and the animal stalls, and I have to tell you, it was not thrilling. Around the corner, we came to a string of rides and booths. Exciting but nothing different from any other fair. From where I was standing, it just didn’t look like anything to write home about.

After a short wait in line, a friend and I climbed into a cage on the Zipper. If you’re unfamiliar with fair rides, let me explain: the Zipper is essentially a Ferris wheel for thrill-seekers. Hence the cage. Though I have seen it make grown men nauseated and terrified, it is one of my favorite rides.

Much like the Ferris wheel, whenever other riders get off, the ride stops mid-circle, leaving you dangling wherever you stop. After a few minutes of flipping and screaming, the ride paused, leaving us at the very pinnacle of the machine. I looked to my left, through the holes of the closed-in contraption, and saw the Lawrenceburg fair. All of it. It was glittering, beautiful, and huge, expanding far beyond what I had originally assumed. At the highest point, I could see all the grandeur I had missed from the ground.

That’s often how life goes. We see only pieces at a time, confused by their smallness or ugliness or inability to fit in the puzzle we’ve already started.

But sometimes we get glimpses from the top. We stop at the peak of the ride and look out on all the pieces at once. We’re allowed a moment of perspective. Of understanding. Of clarity.

When we’re standing on the ground, it’s important to remember that another view does exist. There is a bigger picture. There is an end result even if we can’t see it. Just because the stables are clouding our current view, doesn’t mean there isn’t more just around the corner. There’s always more than what we see.

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook 
Adventures at the Lawrenceburg Fair: Part 2

Adventures at the Lawrenceburg Fair: Part 2

Other than the animals and the food and the strange characters one can find, I go to the fair for the rides. I love the adrenaline, the speed, the heights and flips. Naturally, the first one I hopped on was the ride characterized by all of the above. The contraption looked very similar to those little colorful plastic windmills.

I watched for a moment as the base turned and twisted, causing the rows of seats to spin and flip dramatically. Screams from riders echoed from the top as I tried to convince my friends to join me. One brave soul agreed and moments later we were strapped in tightly to our seats, legs dangling over the edge.

The ride started, lifting us higher with each turn. Our row spun and twisted. The machine threw us in the air then dropped us dramatically toward the ground below. In one particularly impressive plunge, I had a thought.

In the middle of my screams and laughs and squeals, it occurred to me that I was trusting my whole life to this blundering contraption that had, only a few hours ago, been in pieces in the back of a trailer. My security was resting on the dirty bars strapped around my shoulders and the accuracy of the bored worker who had come by to lock me in. At any moment, it could fail. At any moment, I could be flung across the fairgrounds if the engineering should fail even in the slightest.

And, as it most often does, the Lord’s voice echoed quietly inside my brain.

Why are you so willing to trust this piece of equipment, but struggle to trust me with the details of your future?

As the idea rattled inside my head, it suddenly seemed absurd to me that I had so thoughtlessly surrendered my safety to this man-made machine, when I regularly fight to trust the One who created me.

So many times, I end up placing my trust in other people, in plans I’ve made, in my own ability. In a radical display of ridiculous logic, I trust in things that have failed me time and again, instead of trusting wholly in the God who has never once failed me. Never once.

As absurd as it is to surrender total trust to someone (or something) who doesn’t deserve it, it is equally illogical to assume that our Creator, who has never failed us before, would abandon His creation in the future. He won’t. He just won’t.

He is a God who knows us, sees us, loves us in spite of us. And let me tell you, He is a God who can be trusted. Every time. Every season. Every circumstance. He will never fail.

 

 

Share on Twitter Pin It Share on Facebook