How I still the mental noise of life’s demands

I’m hiding right now.

I’m in my bedroom, with my laptop propped on a pillow, trying to work. I spent the last half hour in my home office, only to be interrupted with endless requests for play dates (from my 7-year-old), repeated inquiries as to the whereabouts of blue princess shoes (from my 3-year-old), and whimpering cries for attention (mostly from my dog, but occasionally from my 11-year-old). So I retreated here in hopes of creating a few minutes of quiet.

I look forward to the moment when, though worthless, I’ll be made worthy of God’s love.

A couple of my Christian friends have told me they worry about being judged before God at the end of time, as the apostle Paul says will happen in 2 Corinthians 5:10: “For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that everyone may receive what is due them for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad.” One friend still anguishes over sins she committed long before she became a Christian. I argue in vain that these sins—along with every sin she’s committed since then and will commit later—vanished from God’s notice for all time when she accepted Jesus’ death in payment for them.

Satisfying my real hunger

I grew up fat.

Not fat enough that people on the street pointed at me and laughed. But I was that fat in my head, so they might as well have.

When my mom took us kids back-to-school shopping at Sears, my sister got to pick out school dresses in the normal girls’ section, but I had to pick out dresses in the section called Pretty Plus.

“For better or worse” is taking a turn for the worse.

Same-sex couples lined up to get marriage licenses in California last week, after my state became the second in the U.S. to allow gay marriage. Gay-rights activists, fighting for nationwide recognition of same-sex unions, want the same rights and privileges as married heterosexual couples’.

Previously, several states, including California, recognized same-sex civil unions to provide many of marriage’s legal benefits, including property, parental, and medical rights. But more than marital rights, gay-rights activists want society to see them as legitimate couples. “Civil unions are unfamiliar; people don’t understand them or know how to treat them … . Marriage is the ultimate expression of love and commitment; people understand and respect it,” reads a publication from the Gay & Lesbian Advocates & Defenders (GLAD) website. As Brad Sears, executive director of the Williams Project on Sexual Orientation Law at UCLA, explained in a PBS interview, civil unions “do not provide gay couples with the social recognition and support that the institution of marriage provides.” The word marriage, gay-rights activists believe, is power.

How I found myself again

I’m in love with my new shoes. They arrived by mail last week, and I couldn’t wait to try them on. For they’re not just any shoes, but black T-strap character shoes for a play I’m doing. I’m tempted to sleep in them.

“Character shoes,” for anyone unfamiliar with theater, are sturdy leather pumps with two-inch heels and soft soles for dancing. These shoes are the standard issue footwear of actresses and dancers everywhere, and work for nearly every time period setting, every costume design, every character—hence the name. And I hadn’t owned a pair for almost 20 years.

Nurturing and wrenching out discontent at work

I recently quarreled with coworkers about financial gain and the Christian nature of our work. As often happens to me in Christian work settings, those in charge of what I thought was paid labor considered it volunteer work. The conflict undermined my contentment at work. So, as soon as I finished the project, I retreated from the scene. I was pleasant to all involved but evaded follow-up meetings and related e-mails. I pretended to myself I didn’t care, but in reality my retreat was what therapists call “cutting off”: demonizing others and distancing oneself in a conflict. I call it “growing the bitter root.”

I retreated to my garden. For the second year in a row, a friend had given me some sprouted raspberry canes. This time, she scolded, I should plant them not in a raised bed, as I had the first ones, but directly in the ground, where they’d get more water. So I dug up some waterlogged strawberries, replanted them in the raised bed, and then tilled the strawberry bed for the raspberries.

What I learned about beauty from a froufrou prom dress

Recently, the newspaper where I work sent me to cover Cinderella’s Closet, an event sponsored by a small group of Christian women. They’d collected more than 300 prom and bridesmaid dresses, and transformed their church’s fellowship hall into a one-day boutique. Then the women invited local high school girls to come choose dresses for prom—for free.

I started working on the story during the event’s planning stage. As I took notes, I looked through the racks of dresses. My eye kept returning to a pale green and yellow “fairy princess” dress. All the women loved it, but none of them fit into it.

Then one woman, Dana, suggested I try it on.