5 Reasons The National Media Shouldn't Cover The South Louisiana Flooding

5.    Unbearable gastronomical jealousy. I cannot even imagine the anxiety of people looking at South Louisiana from a far and seeing the dark black vats of jambalaya, the deep silver pots of bubbling gumbo, and even three inches of red meat smoking on the grill (because, hey, the power's out anyway). We've had to feed our friends, our family, our crazy neighbor down the street who thinks their cat is the reincarnation of a former president, and we'll keep doing it until the jeans just won't fit anymore. We'll pack it in little styrofoam containers with a roll and walk it down the street. We'll force you to make a to-go plate even though you swear you have enough already. When you live with what the Cajuns call joie de vivre, you find that at even it's ugliest, life itself is a joyful albeit short event. No one has time for poorly seasoned food. 

4.    We wouldn't really make it a big deal anyway. The news would certainly come in looking for the scruffy fisherman who went out of his way to pull people from the tops of houses, loaded them in, and then braved murky river water to deliver them to safety. They would find the woman who's been at Celtic Studios all day, lifting cases of water, escorting elderly off of the helicopters that are landing nearby, carefully keeping track of makeshift spreadsheets so that word can get out about who is there...and who's not, and still finds time to hold a hand of a teenager who's lost everything in the water. They're certainly here, but they won't talk to you. They're busy. They want to get back to work because this thing's not over yet. There's no time to tell you how much this has impacted them, because people are still missing. You won't be able to romanticize their story and turn it into a screenplay staring Tom Hanks. And they don't think they're heroes, so they don't even know why they're asking. In a world where we glamorize vanity and self-righteousness then package it and then paste it on every manner of print, we forget what the meaning of honor is. Honor is about quietly and dutifully doing what you can for no other reason other than its the right thing to do. I get it; you need ratings. The thing is, this might be a once-in-a-lifetime event for us, but it is an everyday manner of being for our community. 

3.    There are other important things going on. I can see how having to report on Olympic divers getting engaged, Adele performing at the Superbowl and being self-conscious about dancing, and Britney's workout routine takes precedence over actual human life being lost (because BritBrit looks GOOD, y'all!). And I know the American people absolutely need to know the stupid-thing-of-the day that Trump said as well as the sketchy-detail-of-the-day coming out about Clinton. You have a lot on your plate. I also managed to hear that Jodie has given up on the Olsen twins ever appearing on Fuller House. Say it isn't so! 

2.    We're nosy and interfering. When you come down here, you're going to get invited into homes that only have a sliver of floor for an air mattress to spare. You'll have to stand while you eat your dinner. Someone will try to take your hand while grace is being said. You'll get asked, "Who's your mama?" more times than you can count. If you've ever had a bad breakup, they want to hear about it and then say, "they weren't good enough for you anyway." While still focusing on you, they'll be checking Facebook for people sharing where they think they're loved ones are. We'll ask what they look like so we can get a boat launched for an ghostly interstate exit now inundated with water. We'll get texts from an aunt saying a second cousin's neighbor needs a generator and a shop vac, and they'll start loading the truck. The teenager in the room might not be able to drive, but he'll take his bike and a hammer down the street to tear up the drywall. The whole house will rejoice when some lady Mama knew way back in high-school has word that her two elderly parents in an army headed to a shelter after 24 hours of no contact. After you leave, they'll know everything about you, and you'll go home knowing how to make two kinds of roux. 

1.    It doesn't further an agenda. Working together. Community. Self-Sacrifice. Love. Forgiveness. Healing. Service. Prayer. Friendship. These aren't things that the mass media seemingly wants us as Americans to embrace. I am a teacher, and in the voices of some my students, I hear that this country is a cold, unfeeling, broken place. Sometimes I watch the tv or surf the web considering their perspective, and I can't help but giving in momentarily to their despair. Violence. Divisiveness. Vanity. Me-first. It's everywhere. It's everywhere because you put it there. You shouldn't come here because you'll find a people at the very end of their ropes extending their hands to their neighbor. You shouldn't come here because you'll find tireless spirits ready to save a stranger regardless of their race, ethnicity, religion, OR SEC affiliation. You'll find shelters full of despondent yet grateful people who are coming to grips with the fact that their material world is gone, but the things that matter remain and cannot be washed away by the ferocity of nature. You'll find rows of 4x4 pickup trucks with boats being trailed behind them headed to the once busy city streets to conduct rescue not because of compensation and not because of order by the government but because of the unspoken creed that holds South Louisiana together as something more than just people living near each other. 

TL;DR? We got this, y'all. God bless. 

Thank you KATC, WBRZ, WAFB, KLAF, HOT 107.9 and more for everything. 

Crossing Oceans

My sweet blog. How I missed you. I've been trying to fill your missing void with marketing ploys disguised as personalized wedding websites, an array of Pinterest boards, losing whole days on etsy, and careful organization of  registries. How irresponsible of me.

Here is something I've leaned in the course of my engagement: 

 "You can't cross an ocean without first being brave enough to lose sight of the shore."

I am feeling reminiscent about my two weeks in Paris. On my own. The craziest, most amazing, most terrifying, most gratifying experience I've ever had.

 I could post hundreds of photos of the city of Paris or the Normandy countryside, but I chose this one. This is a picture of me at a small cafe in Paris. It was the typical cafe. Old men sat in corner with cigarettes in their fingers and low but passionate voices. There was a group of women tossing around a crevice of pink wine on the terrace. Some lone man was hunched over the bar, sipping his coffee in between a frustrated rub of his bald head.

I realized that I'm in Paris. Alone. Free to go anywhere in this magical city. I could walk down the Champs or visit the more posh neighborhoods for shopping, but I choose to be here. That's where I found Paris magic - in a small cafe where I could write in my journal, drink my espresso, and simply have no where to go. 

You might find a 20 something girl on a solo trip to Paris to be odd. But I know that this is how it had to happen. In a totally selfish way, Paris is and will always be all mine. All I had to do was cross that scary ocean, and she was mine. I can still close my eyes and see the walking path I laid out for myself every day to the river, to the metro, to the little store with the great big bottles of water. Every now and again I can smell Paris. I'm not sure if it's a piece of old clothing or the spirit of the city that are trapped in my skin. Paris gets beneath you. You never really shake it off. But first I had to cross the ocean to get there. 

I'm a terrible flyer. I hate everything about it. I hate the lack of elbow room. I hate the changes in pressure. I hate how people cut in line when exiting the plane. I hate how I always end up with ten mysterious bruises from trying to store my carry-on. I hate how that guy next to me is watching a really explicit movie on his Ipad. But it was part of crossing the ocean. I had to do it.

My engagement has been a lengthy, deep ocean that I'm only half way over. My shore that continues to fade into the blue is one of friends, total independence, melodramatic text messaging sprees, secrets, promises. 

For ten years, I've been the sketchy sidekick to fabulous ladies. In a matter of months, I'll be someone's wife. I definitely have been experiencing a mourning period of sorts for a piece of me I'm quite comfortable with. Not everything will change. That's just silly. But the other side of the ocean is marriage, an entirely new adventure I dreamed about but never thought about more deeply than the length of a Martha Stewart bridal magazine. 

No one tells you that so much of an engagement is letting go. Letting old ghosts go, letting go of old visions of what a wedding looks like, letting go of some of your principled stands for the happiness of another, letting go of those strange encounters when people go out of their way to hurt your feelings about your marriage. 

That happened. 

The letting go is the last step on this journey. It's the losing sight of the shore. I can still see my shore --with my old apartment, my friends sitting on the couch, my closet with shoes sprawled out on the floor from going out the night before -- but it's dwindling. I had to let go of my fears and inhibitions to find myself like I did in Paris, and now there are only a few more things to part ways with to cross my ocean. This time, unlike Paris, someone else is waiting on the other side. 

Birthday People

I woke up this morning and reflected on how my cup runneth over. Translation -- I didn't pay attention to the water level in the Keurig, and soon I had a puddle of coffee on my kitchen counter.

Today is my birthday, so I thought, how appropriate. Birthdays are such wonderful times to reflect on how lucky we are. I just wish the Holy Spirit wouldn't remind me of Biblical quips like overflowing blessings in such a messy manner.

Pardon the blue tape. I'm in the process of discovering the cruel life lesson that most everything on HGTV is a lie.

Sometimes I think that there are two kinds of people -- those who love their birthday and those who don't. We all know birthday people. They pick out their birthday dress weeks (maybe even months) in advance, watch their Facebook wall like a stock broker, judge the degree of professionalism in their presents' wrapping job. Birthday people are great. I would much rather attend a birthday person's soiree than my own. In addition that all this, birthday people make it a goal to ensure that their friends' birthday don't pass without some sort of fanfare. The notion of wanting to stay home or do something low-key is almost unthinkable to some of my best girlfriends. A phone conversation with a birthday person might go something like this:

"Hey! Just calling to wish you a happy birthday!" 

"Thanks! Is there something wrong with your computer?" 

"Um, not that I'm aware."

"Oh. Have you been on your computer yet today?"

"Yeah, I'm at work. What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I just figured something was wrong with it if you were calling me as opposed to posting something on Facebook." 

(Awkward pause) "I thought I'd call you instead." 

"That's so sweet! When we get off the phone, can you do it then?" 

You know it's true.

The "don't" category can be expanded into subcategories of those who hate their birthday, who are neutral about their birthday, or who ignore it altogether. I fall somewhere in this category. I've never been one to get overly excited about the impending celebration. I don't enjoy being the reason people gather together, because then I spend the rest of the night worrying about whether or not everyone is enjoying themselves. With all my neuroses, the one in which I fixation on someone else's good time is by far the worst. I always seem to pick the restaurant with the worst service, or the bar with rap-only music policy, or just any place in general where ghosts of boyfriend's past seem to haunt.

Wedding planning is going to be a nightmare for me. Luckily, an impending marriage only exists on my Pinterest account, so I'm good.

Don't get me wrong; I love being with my girls. My cup certainly runneth over in the friendship category. We're typically the type of girls who garner unusual stares from other restaurant patrons for talking too loudly about our mildly inappropriate inside jokes, the type of girls who badger the DJ into playing Wayne Toups or Garth Brooks, and the type of girls who still text each other pictures of potential outfits for the evening despite living in several different cities. I love my friends because there's something different about them -- a spark, a spirit, a-little-something-extra. They possess all the graces that southern breeding would afford them, but are still able to break away from anything bland. Sometimes I feel that we are Ya-Yas in training. Not all people really understand sisterhood in their lives; I'm glad that I've been immersed in such a thing since I was thirteen.

In other news, I've moved over to a different "box." You know -- the box you check when filling out one of those surveys that refrains from being too age specific. I used to be mid-twenties. Now I'm  going to have to check the late-twenties box. So far I've gotten three separate messages expressing that the late twenties box is one worth waiting for, and it's barely 10 am.

Principled Stands

My father is known to take a principled stand or two. He's the type of person who won't subscribe to certain local services because of their overt bias, or who goes to the very early morning masses on the big holidays to avoid the three-times-a-year church goers, or who refused to let us watch things that portrayed Cajuns in a disparaging light because it was culturally insensitive.

St. Joseph by Gerrit VonHonthorst - 1620

Speaking of fathers, did you know that St. Joseph doesn't speak in any account in Scripture? Seriously. Don't believe me? Go ahead and stop reading, Google it, and then come back.

See? I'll admit that I didn't make this observation on my own. I've actually been thinking about this since a very astute deacon pointed this out to my school during a homily given on St. Joseph's feast day. I thought, not even a "yes" or a "I'm on it" or "don't us Israelites have a bad history in Egypt?"  Nothing. Just pure action.

Some Biblical scholars might dismiss this as being a small matter in the grand scheme of the Infancy Narratives. After all, people spoke to Joseph, and the Gospel writers clearly record his subsequent actions when he was spoken to. Plus there are many righteous people in the Bible who don't say a word. Maybe Joseph's is a classic case of actions speaking louder than words. All the information we need to call Joseph a "righteous" man clearly resounds through what he does to protect his family. But still, I think the fact Joseph is silent is one of the more poignant subtlties of the Gospels (Sorry John. You used a lot of pretty language too, but I still perfer Luke and Matthew.)

Joseph didn't need to leave us with a collection of sayings or teachings to convey the meaning of righteousness. Imagine how hard it must have been to muster the courage to do exactly what God was calling him to do. Marrying the girl you're engaged to who you discover is pregnant before you;re living together? That was surely the end of many friendships right there. It might have even caused a rift in his own family. But Joseph obviously wasn't one to break under pressure from lookers-on. He stood on his principles: that if God calls on you to do something, you listen.

I realize that it might be a bit of a leap to say that Mary and Joseph didn't have many friends; there isn't much contextual evidence of that. But I have a feeling that the climate surrounding an unexpected pregnancy today hasn't changed much since the first century -- the stigma, the ostracizing, the labeling.  This makes me appreciate Joseph more. Not only did he shoulder the task of taking care of a precious family, but he did it in the face of great scrutiny. Talk about a principled stand.

I love my Iphone. It's my best friend. If you've ever met me, you'll know it rarely leaves my hand. I think that technology is a beautiful thing, but I do think it's acclimating us to reach for things that make life easier and faster. For instance, if my weather app doesn't load faster than five seconds, I feel like my head's going to explode. Sometimes I think that it's important to remember Joseph -- we need to be reminded that doing the right thing might be the most uncomfortable, unpopular, or under appreciated act, but it's still worth doing.

TL;DR? Principled stands are hard. In fact, our culture at present is seemingly teaching us to strive for the exact opposite. I'm so lucky that I have a father in my life who, like St. Joseph, is someone who still believes in principles.

Happy Father's Day!

Fanny Packs

Imagine my surprise when the conversation on the lake's dock turned to fanny packs.

My friends and I spent the weekend house sitting a quaint white house tucked far behind an overgrown field and overlooking a still grey lake. The water was quiet which came as a surprise being Father's Day weekend and all. We were secluded save for the infrequent jet ski humming by.

One of my favorite things about being on the lake is being able to watch the rain roll in over the horizon (unless, of course, you are out in the middle of said lake while the lightening strikes are coming down just over the trees). Even though we chased the shadow of the dock's roof with our folding chairs, magazines, and liquefied strawberry daiquiris, we could see the veil of rain creeping closer. The impending storm was somewhat welcome; it's June in Louisiana, and it's hard to enjoy the view when ever crevice of your body is sweating.

"Don't let your arms fold at the creases," my wise friend advised.

We went over the usual: trading stories about the most awkward wedding experience, idyllic descriptions of our perfect match, and lamentations over the fact things at present were so drastically different from our college years. Ever since graduation, jobs have taken me and my friends different places. Relationships took us even farther than those. Which brings us to fanny packs.

Sometimes I find myself sad that things are very different from four years ago. I've been a young adult almost longer than the time I spent in college (meaning the pretext "young" might be retiring in the near future). And just recently the dust has begun to settle on the many marriages and pregnancies that I've witnessed in the last two years or so; the historically accurate themed parties have started to become few and far between, the week night outings tend to conclude at a reasonable hour, and friends are becoming increasingly hard to reach on the weekends because of families blending.

A weekend with your four girlfriends used to not be considered such a rarity. Now it is.

So we began to think about the way that our lives are gradually moving away from one another. Not to wax too poetic, we talked about it in the only way that didn't seem to hurt so much. Maybe relationships are like items your can find in your closet, we posed. For instance, some friends are like the bedazzled Fleur-de-lis hand bags that, while are not every one's taste, you appreciate them for their sparkle and pop. Some friends are like wayfarer sunglasses: timeless, can fit in with a variety of styles and occasions. Some friends are like fanny packs: admit it -- as much as you can't stand them, they are one of the most practical, efficient, and begrudgingly valuable things out there. Not everyone wants to be seen wearing a fanny pack, nor are there only a handful of occasions in which fanny packs are needed; but you are certainly happy to have one.

At any rate, relationships, like many things in life, have there seasons and purposes. The hard thing is being able to take a hard look at your closet and see everything for it's purpose. The hard thing is being content that certain relationships entered your life, impacted you, and are transitioning into something else completely. The hard thing is having to hang certain things up in order to make room for the other things you need.

Maybe this a big reason I'm still single. There are some articles of clothing I cannot for the life of me stand to put back into the far reaches of my closet.  The mature adulthood thing doesn't exactly fit the way it fits my friends.

Ok, I know this is not a concrete analogy. Do I have any of my faux leather animal print pants I bought in the wake of a movie called Coyote Ugly? No. I hope those things found their way back into the abyss from which they sprung. Do I ever think there will be an occasion when I would need said faux leather animal print pants? Dear God, I hope not.

I'll get back to the original paradigm: I'm thankful for a closet where every thing's always there for me. Even a fanny pack.

An Open Letter to St. Anthony

Image by Kevin Dooley under Creative Commons license

Dear St. Anthony,

Being the patron saint of lost articles, I have kept you busy over the years. I didn't even really own a wallet until I graduated college (well, that is if slipping your credit cards and driver's license into your cell phone case doesn't count, which I don't think it does). Seriously, all of my friends have grown wise to letting me borrow -- scratch that -- touch anything of theirs; I'm thankful you have always kept me squarely in your sights.

I even invoked your intercession just last week as our school bus full of teenagers bobbled down the streets of Mobile, AL in search of Spring Hill College after a hot, sticky, three hour drive. If we're all being honest here, it was a cry of frustration more than an actual prayer. If we're all being really honest here, it was more of a passive-aggressive dig at the bus driver who kept ignoring the GPS and my attempts to help. But you answered anyway and led us straight to our destination.

You are also the saint who has a special place in his heart for the lost themselves. I know you have petitioned on my behalf many times; even when I didn't seek it or deserve it. Please stay by my side, and strengthen in me the graces of responsibility and temperance.

In short, thanks for not clicking "hide" on the news feed that is my life.

Dee

PS: I could still use some help in finding my Kindle Fire power cord. I've included a reference picture below. No judgement?

Beastmode ~or~ The Tragedy of Always Being a Bridesmaid

Have you ever heard of the term Beastmode? Well, if you haven't, I have a picture that might help you understand what this phrase means. I was looking through my friend Jay's wedding photo album while drinking my coffee this morning and dirtied my screen with spittle after stumbling upon this gem.

Courtesy of Angela Groce - Unveiled Radiance Photography

Is this the face of desperation? Is it the result of being wrapped up in the presence of true love for a weekend? Is it the spirit of being caught up in friendly competition during an age-old tradition? Or is it the moment a single bridesmaid realizes that if you can't have the satisfaction of an engagement or marriage like your cohorts, you might as well walk home with a consolation prize. 

Of all the weddings I've gone to over the years, I've never wanted a bouquet so badly. I'll admit, part of my determination came from my competitive nature. But this wedding comes at the end of two years of non-stop weekend nuptials. My wedding schedule is starting to look as thin as the crowd that gathered to catch the bouquet. Once upon a time I was one of fifty girls clamoring in pile of taffeta and hairspray as the flowers sailed over our heads. Now I'm one of six - or less - while the married couples look on with emotions that range from tickled to horror to pity. 

Look at that reach. Years of tennis lessons made that extension possible. Check out the height: the pure determination. It looks like something that should be on a Sports Center highlight reel. 

My friend Jay is one of the best people you'll ever meet. She was my first "new" friend in college. I sat next to her during the car ride home from my sorority's bid day. She's such a trooper. I once left her in the Lambda Chi house to fend for herself against the philandering of a stout boy they called Shmooey while I tossed my hair and batted my eyes at another chapter member. I so wish that eighteen-year-old girl would have had the good sense to remember the old adage: nothing good ever happens after 2am. 

The Bible verse above reminds me of my friend. Jay is the model of Southern grace. She drinks sweet tea, wags her finger at impropriety, and makes certain that everything she says is anchored in something positive. Think Gone With The Wind sentimentality minus the overt racism. Even in the face of great struggle, Jay maintains the picture of feminine dignity and strength. 

Gentleness and quiet are just a few of the things I am working on this summer. Some people might confuse those virtues with submissiveness or an inability to stand on your own two feet as a woman. I tend to disagree. Turn on any reality show, and you see women screaming at each other.  Sometimes I think this is what is being packaged and shipped to our young girls as an example of strength and resilience. We're showing them that being gentle means being weak and being irrational equates to being strong. Case in point: Did anyone see this viral video of a dissatisfied Dunkin' Donuts (video contains strong language) customer who went on a tirade after not getting a receipt? 

 But Gentleness allows us to think wisely about things before we make snap decisions driven by emotions. Gentle women don't easily back down because they know exactly who they are and what's worth protecting. Gentle women might be the fiercest of the bunch.  

I did an activity with my seniors this year in which we had to pick a spirit animal. Sometimes I think about spirit animals when I think of my friends. Jay would most definitely be a stag: gentle, regal, and strong. My students came up with a couple of really good animals and matching analogies for themselves: wolves, bears, falcons, butterflies... When the question was turned to me, I was shocked that I couldn't think of anything. A couple of good suggestions were thrown at me after I offered a couple of key words about my personality: restless, snarky, overemotional, a tad flighty. I got everything from a honeybadger, to a narwhal, to an awkward turtle, to Loca the pug that can't run (google it NOW).

Courtesy of Angela Groce - Unveiled Radiance Photography 

This weekend made me thankful for all the strong women I have in my life. Most anchor me, temper me. I have a lot to learn from them. Maybe if I learn how to tap into that gentle spirit that they have shared with me, I won't be so anxious to reach up and snatch the bridal bouquet while then yelling, "Booyah" into the camera.