Someone's got to say it...

I've always thought "The Coloring Song" by Petra sounds like something written by a Christian who has smoked a lot of pot...or maybe some kind of Native American herbal hallucinogen...

Fun-tastic furlough!

It was a stressful day. 

There are four reporters, including me.

Two were working in Lucedale and one was on furlough. I was the lone ranger in the office.

It was a stressful day.

I'm realizing something I knew all along but didn't want to think about. The true frustration in a furlough isn't the lost income--it's all those days of working short-staffed when your staff is already the size of a midget's pinky finger.

In about two weeks I'll be combining a furlough day with an already-scheduled day off for an awesome four-day weekend. That'll help me hold out for my first actual vacation of the year in June...if I can make it until then...

In retrospect, this is cheesy, but I hate to waste the effort by deleting it...

One night last week I found myself at Pascagoula's "beach." It was about 1 a.m. I couldn't sleep, which isn't unusual for me. Insomnia is a lifestyle.

Sometimes I love just feeling the water lap my feet, over and over again. It's soothing. I pretend it's God reminding me over and over again that he loves me. 

But more often, I go to the beach because I'm feeling stir-crazy and need to talk to God somewhere besides my junky apartment. It's like using the altar at church--sometimes I need a physical drop-off spot for my burdens, and the same gentle waves that tickle my feet can wash away anger, hurt, fear, guilt, bitterness, stubbornness, unforgiveness, unbelief, unrepentance and whatever else I'm willing to send off into the Mississippi Sound of God's love and forgetfulness.

When I first moved here, I used to end up by the water on accident. I still don't know how it happened, but I'd blank out...and I'd come to and be somewhere that *wasn't* the inside of my apartment. Sometimes I drove myself to Pascagoula, sometimes I walked to the water near my home, but I never remembered getting to my destination. Scary, I know.

Or every once in awhile, being fully aware of what I was doing, I'd take a bottle of very disgusting cheap wine to the beach and drink it at night. I'd sit on the other side of the seawall so nobody could see the drunk crying girl. (If you ever see an empty bottle of $6 white zinfandel washed up on the shore, blame me.)

I guess no matter where I am in life you can't keep me too far from the water. I was born in South Louisiana, and even though my parents didn't own a pirogue or live on swampland, I grew up in a culture defined by the presence of water. You can't have da crawfish without da water, cher.

I was at the beach on a Sunday afternoon in August of 2007, of all days and times, that I realized I was frustrated enough with life to give a victorious Christ-following life "one more try." (I had only one try left in me.)

So when I find my way to the water, I'm usually exhausted and frustrated, because life isn't what *I* want it to be...yet these days I'm thankful, because life isn't what it used to be.

And even when I'm awake at 1 a.m., I'm probably disappointed, but not despairing. I've got a few hang-ups, but I'm not letting them hang me by a noose. I've got more praises to sing than complaints to air, and I'm hopeful--yes, hopeful--the tides will turn in a few areas of my life if I'm patient enough to wait on the one who controls the water.

P.S. Don't even think about fussing at me for being out at 1 a.m. Don't want to hear it.

Just got confused...

So I wasn't supposed to be singing on the worship team today, because it was a scheduled week "off," but I was asked if I would during second service because someone was going to be out, and I was all, "Heck, yeah!"

Anyway, I guess not singing for the first service threw me off during second service, because I totally went to pass out the communion stuff for the worship team when we still had another song to sing. Luckily I realized before I picked the stuff up and walked around on stage with it, but I felt like a dork.

BTW, passing out the elements of communion to people on stage makes me feel like a cocktail waitress, minus the uniform.

Boring, but you can still sleep at night...

As a newspaper girl, I often find myself involved in debates with people about what kinds of events should be covered as news. Some people feel slighted because the paper doesn't cover their event, some people want to see more hard news and some people want to see more "community news"/fluff.

I've always been a hard news kind of girl. Even when I was a kid, I'd skip the stories about festivals and parades and do-gooders and go straight for the coverage of a shooting or a debate in the city-parish council (or whatever form of government Lafayette had back then). 

And I get my fill of the news in any given day. Along with the stories we're writing in the newsroom on a daily basis, there's a nearly constant stream of news from the outside coming into our newsroom--either from CNN, which we keep on all day long, or from one of us reading news online and announcing to everyone the most shocking headline of the day. That's just who I am.

I've always rolled my eyes at the fluff people. Heck, I roll my eyes twice when I'm assigned to cover fluff. I can't even *understand* why people would prefer the fluff over the hard news. Makes no sense to me at all. I usually thank God I'm not one of those poor, misguided fluff-lovers.

But then sometimes, when I'm lying awake at night because I can't stop worrying that I'll be shot and killed at a gas station...or when I'm panicking randomly for no reason at all...or when I'm watching stupid infomercials at 2 a.m. because I can't sleep for the third night in a row...I wonder if I wouldn't make my life a little easier if I were a fan of fluff.

Everything I learned about hugging, I learned at church

I'm not a natural-born hugger. Not by a long shot.

Some people come from families where hugging is a mandatory part of every greeting, and you don't walk into a room and speak without hugging at least one person.

My family, on the other hand, believes that hugging is something you save for marriage. I don't actually remember hugging my dad, ever, and hugging my mom is like hugging a clammy-handed robot that smells like cigarette smoke. Hugging me is like hugging a cold-handed robot with sharp edges, because I'm skinny and don't have much cushioning. (Note:  Don't even ask me about kissing. Kissing is also reserved for marriage in my family.)

So in 2007, I started going to this church--we'll call it "Church on the Boulder in Pascagoula" to protect the innocent. 

The pastor is a ridiculously fanatical hugger. The dude could win a hugging olympics. He could teach hugging classes, except for that's a really lame way to make a living, so he preaches instead. Preaching is way cooler, and luckily he's gifted in that, too.

But it's not just the shepherd promoting this reckless hugging. Lots of other sheep in the flock are huggers and arm grabbers and touchers who engage in all manner of (non-sexual) physical contact. Someone always kisses the top of my head, someone will always grab my arm, and I'm guaranteed a few hugs of all different kinds. And I'm required to hold hands when the worship team prays.

I used to freak out. I did. I can admit my weaknesses before an anonymous Internet audience. My second time at the church, I was trying to play anonymous Amber and blend in (as well as a facially deformed person does that, which is NOT WELL AT ALL) and I got grabbed in the arm for what seemed like an eternity. I didn't even listen to half of what the person was saying, because he was squeezing my arm and I was thinking I was about to be abducted. (In a church? With a hundred people around? OK, maybe not my most logical moment...)

But now I'm OK with hugs, and I even make some (usually lame) effort to reciprocate hugs. I'm still not that skilled at reciprocating the hug, because it feels awkward. I'm afraid I'll squeeze too much, in the wrong place, for too long. Or something.

Now, if the hug lasts too long, I kinda get nervous, but I don't let on. I've been in a few marathon side hugs before.

You see, at this point, if I *didn't* get the hugs, I'd feel like something were wrong with me. Did I offend someone? Do I smell like the pogey plant? Why don't you love me anymore? I want everyone to invade my bubble, because that's how I know I'm loved and accepted and all that warm church stuff. 

Here is a list of things I've learned about hugging in the last 19 months:

1. Side hugs--gotta be careful when side-hugging someone when there is a significant height difference. See, the side hug requires the huggers to put an arm behind the other person's back. There are a couple of instances where I have to raise my arm way high, so that I'm not rubbing the other person's butt. This is very important--do not butt-rub during a side hug, especially during an opposite-gender side hug.

2. If you don't lean in far enough, the hug is *guaranteed* to feel awkward like you didn't mean it. I'm guilty. Personal space issues. I'm trying. 

3. A lot of people give me really gentle hugs, because they're afraid a girl of my diminutive size cannot handle a strong hug. I pretty much can handle it, however, except when the hugs are so tight and so long that I can't breathe. (You know you're in for it when someone gives you the tight bear hug and starts talking.)

4. Do not get your hand or arm trapped in the middle of the hug, especially if it's going to be a long, tight hug. It'll hurt, and I imagine you could sprain something, and you don't want to have to explain to your co-workers on Monday that your wrist is in a bandage because of a miscalculation in your hugging technique.

5. There is a risk of accidentally stepping on someone's toes during a hug. Some friendly guys who are strong or significantly taller than me do a frontal hug that tends to lift me up just a little bit, because I'm shorter than they are and weigh much less than they do and look like I'm 15 instead of 25.  So then when I'm thrown off balance by the upward lift, I sometimes accidentally step on a toe on the way down. The solution, as best I can see, is to already prepare to be on your toes during the hug, assuming your shoes can handle it. I often dress like a slob at church, so I'm often wearing tennis shoes or flip flops, both excellent footwear for this kind of hug.

Now, ladies, if you're wearing wedges or heels and this still happens...you might be out of luck, because you really can't do anything to give yourself that lift--it's built into the shoe! Just try to be light-footed (don't flail those feet, or you'll end up stomping!), and your hugging partner might not even notice if you step on his foot.

6. For the record, I don't have an opinion about side hugs vs. regular ones. Some people of opposite genders prefer the side hug, I guess for the men to avoid touching womanly goods 

(???) but I never think about that, because I automatically assume every guy who knows me is *not at all* interested in me. On the other hand, I'm not put-off by a side hug at all. I am comfortable with and equally appreciate hugs of both kinds with anyone I've known for some length of time and deem to be not creepy. But I'm a single girl, so things might be different if I were married. I don't know.

Thank you for reading everything I've learned about hugging since I started attending my current church. I hope this information will edify you in your walk with Christ as you sow your many hugs across a field of people needing to know they are loved by some form of physical touch. Be patient with us non-huggers. We might come around...or we might always cringe, but we'll notice if you cut us off.

10 things you should know about my Easter weekend

10. I was the meat in a Freeman sandwich. (I've heard it reported that I'm ham, according to at least one person...it's true. I cannot tell a lie.)

9.  "You need to get your butt in church and STAY there!" -- *THE* quote of the Easter sermon. (But, for real, it's the truth. I could post a whole blog about how my life changed once I left church.)

8.  Easter dinner TWO DAYS in a row. Woot!

7.  I made a "Cardboard Testimony."  I needed a piece of cardboard the size of a jumbo jet, but I made do with what I got.

6.  Then I regretted what I'd put on my cardboard the second I walked into church that morning and saw no fewer than three video cameras. One for the church, one for the local television station that airs our sermons each week and one for the local ABC affiliate's evening news.

5.  I wore a walkie-talkie as "captain" of the FACE team. It brought me back to my college years as a SuperTarget employee. If I had been wearing a red polo shirt and khaki pants, I'd have had some serious flashbacks.

4.  Apology to the esteemed worship pastor:  I was totally the last person to stand up at the chorus of "How Great is Our God." Totally forgot. Didn't even realize I wasn't supposed to be sitting until Elizabeth had already stood. Those stools can get really comfy.

3.  I'm sorry my dad didn't come.

2.  I found out I still have the instinct to flip people off, but I don't anymore. That's the power of Jesus. Small steps... ;OP

1.  God uses broken people. Amen.