Motivation

These demotivational posters were hilarious to me when I first saw them. I had the -Potential- one as my desktop wallpaper for the longest time. But the more I looked at them, the more I realized how sadly true a lot of them are. So many people, especially my generation of teens and 20 somethings, aren't motivated by anything. Whenever I realize a prevalent attitude of my generation, I try to decide 1) If I have that same attitude and 2) should I have that attitude. So . . .

Am I motivated?

If I am, what is it that motivates me?

Should I be motivated, and what should motivate me?

And here's my conclusion. 

I have a lot of motivators in my life. Many times my personal gain is my strongest reason for accomplishing something. Oh, I have hopes for a career and those push me to do well in school. My pride motivates me to become better, because you know I have to be better than the people around me, or so I tell myself. Money motivates me to go to work. Pretty selfish and materialistic, right? I know. I knew especially when I read this verse

For the love of Christ controls us, because we have concluded this: that one has died for all, therefore all have died; and he died for all, that those who live might no longer live for themselves but for him who for their sake died and was raised.

Christ died for me. I'm to live, not for myself, but for Him who died for me. It's nothing for me to be motivated by money, or pride, or even something like love for my family. It's empty, because when I come to the Judgment Seat of Christ, it won't matter. Nothing, nothing I have done with my life will matter unless I have lived my life for the One who died and was raised.

Motivation gives purpose to your life and mine. With Christ as my motivation, I have real purpose. My future is somewhat up in the air at the moment, full of possibility . . . but it's the possibility of failure that scares me. But does it matter? Some, yes. But that verse really says it all because 'those who live might no longer live for themselves'. Do you know how much pressure that takes off of me? I don't have to live for myself and submit myself to that kind of pressure. I can live for Christ's sake and let Him do the rest. I like that. I love that. God is so good to me, a selfish, worthless human being. How could I not give Him my life?

m(r)

Fruition Sandwich

I have a new-found obsession preoccupation with food blogs. They are simply wonderful. My friend, Darla, and I sit at work and drool over beautiful looking recipes on blogs such as Pioneer Woman and How Sweet It is. It's not enough for them to write down these sinfully delicious recipes, but they also show pictures. I have a love/hate relationship with these blogs. I love looking at them, dreaming of them. I hate realizing that I don't get to eat food like that because I live at college and must eat Dining Common fare. Not that the DC is all that bad. For cafeteria food, they do okay. But it's nigh unto impossible to make this for 5,000+ people. Or this. Or any of these for that matter.
Needless to say, there is a large disconnect between the food I would like to eat and the food that I am eating. Until tonight. Necessity is the mother of invention, you know. I was lying in my bed at 4pm because I had gotten off work a little early and decided to take a small nap before dinner. However, my body (who had been tired all day long) decided it was not time to sleep, it was time to think about food. It's a side effect of reading food blogs, you see. As I thought about some of the good food I had enjoyed in the past, I remembered this sandwich.

Turkey, Apple and Havarti Croissant
Boars Head turkey, havarti cheese, sliced apples, lettuce
and cranberry chutney on a freshly baked croissant.
Served with choice of side.

I had it at this wonderful little restaurant called Mary's in downtown Greenville. And that's when I decided that I was going to recreate that sandwich. There would be no croissant, but there was going to be turkey on the deli bar tonight. Check. Cheese? Well, it won't be havarti because I don't really know what that means, but provolone sounds regionally the same, right? Lettuce, I can get. Apples are served in the DC. Then I hit the cranberry chutney. It's the main reason I loved the sandwich, but I have no earthly clue what chutney even is. But here's what I do know. It's kind of like a paste . . . like peanut butter! It has cranberries in it . . . I have Craisins! It was full of cinnamon . . . I have that in my room!

So here's what I did. I gathered all my ingredients. I cut my apple into rings. I mixed peanut butter, cinnamon, and Craisins to spread on two apple rings. Then I placed all the ingredients onto a soft wheat roll.

I don't know exactly how, but it worked. It worked!! It wasn't quite restaurant quality, but it was pretty stinkin' close. And it was GOOD. So good that I had two. I'm still very pleased with myself and if I had a camera I would have taken pictures and put them up here for you to see.

I'm going to try and find more delightful ways to change up some of the food that is served in our dining common. It's a bit adventurous for me, but with all these food blogs seeping into my subconscious and making me think about food combinations . . . it's inevitable. If I make any new discoveries, I guarantee I'll document the recipe here. Food is such a beautiful thing.

m(r)

Blessings

While sitting in my room attempting to do homework, I got distracted watching my roommate. Abby was across the room from me, sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up to be used as a stand for her book. Her eyebrows were wrinkled in concentration while she read Pilgrim's Progress. As I watched her, the Lord brought to mind all the people that have influenced my life. Abby is definitely one of them. Not only does she live in the same room as me, but she takes an interest in how I'm doing, challenges me spiritually, and encourages me to grow.
Abby is one of many. Friends, family members, coworkers, bosses, pastors, teachers, professors, they've all been used by God to shape who I am today. I don't deserve any of them. I don't know why the Lord decides to bless me with such support, but I know that I'm extremely grateful.
If you've had an impact on my life, I want to say thank you. I may never get a chance to repay you, but I'm praying for you. And I pray that I may pass on the blessing to someone else.

m(r)

Don't Be Confused

The girl in the picture at the top is not me . . . She's like the picture frame girl that you leave in until you find your own picture to put inside. I promise I will find some scintillating photos to put up instead, but for right now, you may enjoy the girl with the book AND the croissant picture until I find time to dig myself out of my accounting book to change them. It may be a while, because it's a fairly thick book.

Maybe I'll just put up a picture of my accounting book.

But probably not.

m(r)

My Own Personal Trial

Annoyance. Irritation. Bane. Vexation. PLAGUE. 

It has followed me since my senior year of high school. It appeared out of nowhere, and as much as I want to demolish it, it will not leave. It hovers over every restful moment ready to snatch away my happiness. It comes out at night. Just as I lay my head peacefully onto my pillow, it strikes. It comes out in class. Right in the middle when there is no way to subdue it. No mercy. No relief. 

An itch.But not just any itch, for I believe that this is a seven year itch. It's hung on for three years already, so the next four years look rather grim. The most vexing thing about it is it's position right under my left shoulder blade. There is no good way to scratch that portion of your back, trust me. My fingers can reach it, but they just uselessly pass over the itch without doing any damage. I've tried to use my pen when it hits in class, but not all pens have a good scratching surface. Seems they weren't made to scratch backs . . .  When I'm home, my dad kindly scratches it for me, but I'm not home now. 

It's starting up now, because it's almost time for me to go to bed. 

I don't want this to go on for four more years. I hope it will be a 5-year itch, but I've never heard of one of those. Maybe I will invent a pen that is a back scratcher. Or I could buy a back scratcher. Do they sell those anymore? Could I hire a person to walk around and scratch my back whenever I needed them to? So far, the best thing I've found to relieve my suffering is the handle of a plastic spoon. It adds just enough length so I can successfully reach the spot and also has a sharper plastic edge (not the spoon part you see. The handle) the digs into the skin and rids me of my agony. 

We all have our own personal trials. Mine is a persistent itch. I'd rather it be a fear of elevators, but I didn't get a choice. So I will deal with it. Where's my spoon?

m(r)

Animals & Kings, or Barnes & Noble

I'm staring forlornly at books. 

I've always been a big advocate of the library. Since I first learned how to read, I always knew the library was a magical wonderland where stories come alive and learning makes sense. It was not an uncommon occurrence to find the young version of me exiting the library, lugging upward to 27 books stuffed into bags, ready to get home as fast as possible to eat my way through the feast of words at my fingertips. I used to be that kid that would read anything she could get her hands on . . . and then I went to college. 

I went without any fiction for one whole semester. I thought I would die, but I was determined to focus on studying and doing well in class instead of cramming every spare (and even not-so-spare) minute with reading. And when my sabbatical was over, my reading taste was a little different, a little more . . . refined. I don't just read anything I get my hands on nowadays. I search out good, solid books that are well-written. No offense to more contemporary writers, but I haven't found anything that really comes close to a tried and true classic novel. The Count of Monte Cristo, the Scarlet Pimpernel, North & South, and Mansfield Park (to name a few) are wonderfully written. I'm always finding new classics to add to my list of books to read. But I still find some newer authors that I very much enjoy. 

The thing is, I'm no longer content with the library. It's a wonderful tool, and I would have lived a most miserable childhood without it, but now I don't want to just borrow books. I want to own them. Hence the reason why I am sitting in Barnes & Noble right now, staring forlornly at all the wonderful books that are begging me to take them home with me. I have a database started that has a list of all the books that I will someday buy. But I am selective. I don't like books, I love them. And if I don't love them, I don't buy them. Also, I don't buy them when I don't have money to spend on them. Like tonight. If anyone needs an idea on what to buy me for the next birthday, holiday, or good hair day, just ask me what book I want to buy next. I must needs go now. I'm setting up residence in Barnes & Noble. I wonder how they'll feel about having a squatter in their comfy chairs.

Dream Big

I've been remembering more of my dreams lately. Do you remember your dreams? Don't tell me you don't dream. Because that's a lie, as I found out in Psychology. We all dream, we just don't all remember. You know why? Well, I do. There are 4 stages of sleep ranging from REM (lightest stage of sleep) to deep sleep (the . . . deepest stage of sleep). The 4 stages happen in cycles which happen in 20-90 min. segments. You dream in REM sleep, so if you wake up during REM sleep . . . you remember your dreams! Now you see, all that money for college really pays off sometimes, because I learned! It's pretty cool how that works... but I'm not here to talk about how much I'm spending to fill my head with knowledge. I want to tell you about my dreams. Well, one of them.

The one I had last night was slightly disturbing and very confusing. But the one two nights ago, now that one was a doozy. I dreamed that I won $10 million. TEN MILLION DOLLARS. I won't tell you how I won it. Ok, fine. Someone gave me a lottery ticket. Which -in real life- I would NEVER consider doing anything with. But I'm not responsibility for my dream ethics. So I get this random lottery ticket as a gift, I take it in, something something in dream world and BAM! I have $10 million dollars to spend as I will. First thing I did was pay my school bill because I love learning. Well, after I bought a stuffed animal. I was in a toy store, ok? I don't know how I got there either. Just another reason why dreams are weird. But then as soon as I bought my little floppy dog stuffed animal, I did go and pay my school bill. And then I bought an iPad. Because it was on my list of things I would buy if I ever won $10 million. It really was a wonderful dream, but I had to wake up eventually. That was a disappointing reality. I believe my wallet is holding $1 right now. $1. Not even $10.

But as I got ready and walked to class, I kept thinking about that dream. I wondered, what would I really do with 10 million? I know I would tithe $1 million. That would be an awesome way to help my church. Would I invest it? Probably. Would I try to be responsible with it, or would I take the most ginormous shopping trip ever all around the world? Would I really buy an iPad? I don't know. Would I still work?

Ah. There's a good question. Would I still work? Would I still go to school, even though I'm basically set up financially for the rest of my life? The answer is . . . yes. I love work. I love a job well done and the challenges and joys that come with being with people. I love school too. I might even get two or three degrees since I don't have to worry about money. That'd be awesome.And so, as I walked to class and mulled over the thought of $10 million, I decided that my reality was just fine. I have school, where I learn cool facts about dreams. I have work, where I get to learn all sorts of fascinating things (and occasionally make someone cry. Not that that is good. Because it's not. But it happened at work). I have wonderful friends, who I made even though I don't have any money. They're great. I have family. I have a church. I have Christ in my heart. 10 million dollars? That's nothing compared to what I've got.

m(r)

Who Needs Gaelic

Heartland 

(lyrics for Gaelic chorus)
A Thiarna, déan trócaire
A Chríost, déan trócaire
A Thiarna, déan trócaire
A Chríost, déan trócaire

The song above is from a Celtic Thunder CD. It was given to me last Christmas and during this Christmas break, it has resided in our car's stereo. I don't know about you, but occasionally my siblings and I like to sing along to songs in the car. You could say that we are training our vocal chords and trying to blend well, but that would be . . . a lie. Instead, imagine 5 kids -ages 7 to 20- belting out lyrics at the top of their lungs. Our lungs. Let it never be said that my siblings can't project their voices.If the volume wasn't enough to make you believe we were having fun, let me mention that part of the song we were singing was in Gaelic. We don't speak Gaelic. And when we can't speak a language, we make up our own words. It's quite effective. Sometimes we all don't make up the same words though . . . however, on this song, we all agree on the proper made-up words for the chorus. The true Gaelic lyrics are above. These are the words that we sing . .

A man selling coconuts
We need some coconuts
That man is selling coconuts
We need some coconuts

Go ahead. You know you want to listen to the song again and sing our lyrics. It's okay. We haven't copyrighted them so it's perfectly legal. Try 'em out! I think it'll be fun for you, even if you don't have the whole experience that includes singin' in the car with an amazing ensemble like mine. You can't have everything, you know.

If you happen to like the singing that it's the audio clip, you can hear more where that came from at http://celticthunder.ie/ or you can just head to youtube.com and type in 'Celtic Thunder'. I love them. Just ask if you want to know my favorite songs. I'll definitely share!

m(r)

Life Lesson from a Movie

One of my favorite books is North & South by Elizabeth Gaskell. It includes struggle between two characters, two different classes, two different worlds basically, and those struggles are only resolved through the compromise and change of the characters in the story. The problems don't just magically go away in a happily ever after, they stick around and compount until the people involved focus on reason and communication and do something about it.
My mom and I sat down to watch the movie version -which is just as wonderful as the book. This is only, oh, the 6th time that I've watched the four hour mini-series in the last 2 1/2 years. It's that good. The great thing about it, whether I'm reading the book or watching the movie, is that it's still just as good or better every time I experience the story. Last night as I watched the main character, Margaret, step into the dank, industrial town of Milton at the beginning of the movie, I felt excited because I could just taste the possibilities. You see, I know the plot. I know the experiences and changes that will happen to Margaret through the course of the story - I should after having seen it so many times. But . . . she doesn't know. She has no idea how her life will be turned upside down. She doesn't know that John Thornton even exists, and she definitely doesn't know he'll fall in love with her. She's not prepared for the sorrow she's going to face. She doesn't know where her happiness will come from, or if it will come at all. She doesn't know. I know though. So every time her story begins, I'm reminded that as much as I like the character of Margaret in the beginning, I love the Margaret at the end of the story much better after she has gone through tough decisions, mistakes, misunderstandings, sadness, growth, happiness, love, and change.
I tend to imagine myself as the early version of Margaret. I'm heading away from home again, just as she did. It's a little nerve-wracking, I'm a little apprehensive, I don't know what's coming next, and part of me just wants to stay home. I will most likely make mistakes, and experience misunderstandings, tough decisions, and -who knows?- maybe some sorrow. But you know, there is the chance of some happiness, growth, and maybe even love, depending on the choices that I make. That's the beauty of possibility. I can choose to stay the same, or I can choose to allow myself to change. When I come to the end of the next section of my life, I want to be different. I want to be more like the final Margaret. I want to have grown because of the things that God's put into my life. How exciting is that?! Hallelujah for possibility and change!
I love North & South. I guess that's why my parents bought me the book for Christmas. *fist pump* Now I want to go read it . . . again.

m(r)

Sideways Advice

Have you ever heard someone giving advice that wasn't meant for you or your situation, but you used the advice anyway? This is what I call 'sideways advice' (actually, I just thought of that name this very minute, but I think it works). It's not eavesdropping. It's not stealing, because good advice is meant to be used. Sideways advice is capitalizing on a situation and also a sign of someone with a teachable spirit who is always willing to do some changing. 

I was in the car with my mom and another sibling, when, in the course of talking and instructing, my mom told my sibling that we all come to a point when it's time to put away childish things and become an adult. Now, this advice was not meant for me. My mom was in no way telling ME to grow up and mature. But it got me thinking, as some things do, and I couldn't get that thought out of my head. Maturity is putting away childish things. 

I've always considered myself to be pretty mature. As a little kid I was pretty quiet and somewhat intelligent, so I watched other kids and figured out what wasn't smart to do (5 yr old me KNEW that boys were not good role models. They were dumb.) and I watched older kids to figure out what was smart. I did that all through school and even gained some real maturity of my own. If you wanted to apply a phrase to me, it would probably be mature for her age. I'm 20. What do most people think is the stereotypical twenty-year-olds doing these days? Either someone who's hangin' in a basement playing video games, or a party kid at college. Most people don't seem to expect much from teens/young adults these days. So, yAy, I'm mature compared to that stereotype. Big stinkin' deal. All my ideas of my own maturity are being put under the telescope of what is real maturity. 

So maybe I am more mature than some of the other people around me, but that doesn't mean I've arrived. I wrote a list of things I want to weed out of my life. They aren't bad things. They're just childish. I'm trying to clear those things out of my life, just like I cleared all the toys out of my closet when I was eight. I don't need them anymore. My tendency to add a little bit of rhythm to my walk when I have a song in my head, the exorbitant amount of time I spend watching movies, my need to check my facebook notifications multiple times a day, my unnecessary sarcasm, my inability to be completely serious because I always want to say something funny, my random outbursts of emotion, and my recollection of all things relating to High School Musical. Whew. I add to the list whenever I think of something else. It's not always fun to be mature. But I can't stay stuck in childish things forever. At least maturity is a good goal. 

Sideways advice can change your life . . . I see it changing mine. 

m(r)