Faith

STOP WRITING LOVE LETTERS

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

pb and j

G:

I used to write love letters to my ex boyfriend that had more cheese in it than the dairy section of Wegmans. Oozing with lengthy diatribes about the color of his eyes, perfect match analogies referencing food items most commonly used in sandwiches, and pathetic stick figure doodles of us walking down the beach holding hands with a sunset in the background.

He reciprocated by writing me a letter that said my brown eyes were like a fine mahogany wood. (Watch out, Pottery Barn.)

Who needs to ride a tilt-a-whirl after eating fifteen hot dogs and 3 cotton candies to vomit, all you need is a good love letter to purge your system.

I’ve read a lot of Christian books in my day that are geared toward single, Christian young women. It’s a common theme among them that it’s a good idea to write a letter to your future husband. Talking about all the ways you have been praying for him, all the things you look forward to, blah blah blah blah blah.

BARF.

If I could say anything to a young girl my age who is sitting in her apartment by herself on a Friday night, with a microwave dinner on her coffee table, with “Keeping up with the Kardashians” on her television, and a pen and journal in her hand, I’d say “burn that journal!” I don’t care if you got it from Papyrus and it’s homemade from a village in Indonesia. Why waste your time writing a letter to your future husband? Why take the time to put on a pedestal something that God has chosen right now for you not to have? Your letter isn’t a golden calf, but it’s still an idol. I think we too often fall prey to idolizing a future husband and spend time feeding into and building up this image of him. Writing him love letters of adoration, devotion, loyalty.

Don’t get me wrong, praying for your future husband is all well and good—and I know You honor that. The problem is what are we doing with this image of what may or may not be—are we surrendering it to You or are we dwelling on it, letting it become more than just a desire, but something we begin to worship.

What if we spent time—what if I spent time—writing down words of adoration, devotion, loyalty, and love to the one person who deserves my whole heart right now.

I don’t know the color of your eyes, or if you like to keep some scruff on your face, or if you even like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but I do know what you’ve done for me, and characteristics of who You are.

It’s all in the Bible—your love letter to us. Oozing with lengthy diatribes about battles fought and your chosen people and the Promised Land, perfect match analogies referencing Christ and his church, and the illustration of salvation found on a cross.

I should be writing love letters to you.

Your child,

m

IF G WERE LIKE “I DREAM OF JEANNIE”

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

jeannie in bottle

photo: simply-showbiz.com

G:

My favorite show when I was younger was “I Dream of Jeannie.” She had a colorful Arabian outfit, with a bouncy blond ponytail, and not to mention an awesome abode in a purple bottle filled with a bazillion plush pillows. Oh yeah, and she was a genie. She just folded up her arms and nodded her head and BAM—mini pony. BAM—yacht with a hot tub. BAM— a million dollars.

Sometimes, I want you to be Jeannie (sans the outfit exposing your midriff). Sometimes I just want to ask you for something and I want you to fold up your arms, nod your head, and grant me whatever I wish whenever I want it to happen.

After all, you are so much more powerful than Jeannie and 1960s television attempts at special effects (it was fishing line that made her bottle move, I know).

I know I’ve been guilty of having this expectation that as a Christian, You are going to bless me with whatever I want. I’d hate to add up how many of my prayers have been asking you for something. More money. An apartment with a washer and dryer in it and a garbage disposal (what luxury!). A new car. For my student loans to magically disappear. For this annoying person I don’t like to suddenly get a job offer on the other side of the country so I don’t have to see them anymore (I really wasn’t kidding about that one).

Gimme, gimme, gimme.

I was reading through Matthew and the scene where Jesus is in the garden of Gethsemane the night he was betrayed. I’ve heard these words before of course, but they really stuck with me this time. His prayer was: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). In a nicer way than I’ve done before, he’s asking for something from you. He didn’t want to have to go through what was going to happen and honestly, can you blame him? But yet, he follows it with something I hardly ever do—he submits to your will. In the end, he wants nothing more than for your will to be done.

It got me thinking of the verse, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4). I think we try to use this verse to justify our “I Dream of Jeannie” attitude— surely if I’m delighting in the Lord he’s going to give me everything I want! But what does “delighting” mean? If we are truly “delighting,” truly spending enough time with you to know you, to know your promises for us, wouldn’t the desires you have for us become the ones we want for ourselves?

Knowing you, you can do much greater things than Jeannie ever could (don’t tell Barbara Eden that).

So I’ll ask for you to sit on your throne, and wave our almighty and outstretched hand, and have your will be done in my life.

Your child,

m

HELLO MY NAME IS M, AND I HAVE SLEEP TOURETTES

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

sleep tourettes

G:

Within the past year I have diagnosed myself with a disorder I call “sleep tourettes.” It is a rare and mysterious disorder that affects its victim within the first hour of sleep in which said victim is aroused from slumber by a spider falling on her face or a large centipede hovering over her bed. The victim jumps up, curses loudly, turns on the lights, and does a dance not unlike those found in dark, strobe lit clubs in European countries with the addition of bedroom duvet covers attempting the worm. In the end, the victim realizes that the bug was, indeed, a dream and her cursing was all for naught.

Fear manifests itself in pretty [#$%]ed up ways.

In my attempts to seek a cure for my disorder, I’ve realized that fear has also weaseled its way into other areas of my life aside from nighttime terrors with more legs than anything living should have. There’s the good fear—the fear that keeps me from walking to the park at dusk via the highway underpass where words written in neon spray paint advertise activities I’d rather not take part in. And then there’s the other fear—the fear that keeps me from speaking truth to a struggling coworker because I’m afraid of how she’ll respond. The fear that keeps me from taking on a certain project or leadership role because I don’t want to fail and let people down. The fear that keeps me from using my gifts because I’m not sure they are that great to begin with. The fear that keeps me from following a nudging from You because I don’t know what the end result will be. The fear that keeps me from stepping from comfortable and content to stretched and challenged.

Fear that ultimately makes me miss out on potential blessings from You.

I guess you really knew what You were doing when you put “Do not afraid” in your Word more than any other phrase. You knew we’d be a people so scared to take a leap of faith we remain still.

The worst way fear can manifest itself is through inaction.

Just as you said to Joshua, you say the same to me: “This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9).

So why should I be afraid to tell someone Your truth? Why should I be afraid to follow Your will for me? Why should I be afraid of something with more limbs that a living creature should naturally have? You promise to be with me. You promise not to leave me. If I let fear take over and paralyze me, I could lose out on some amazing things You want for me.

And that’s pretty [#$%]ed up.

Your child,

m

I THINK THE TRAVEL BUG IS A COUSIN OF THE MUSTARD SEED

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

IMG_3607

G:

I think the travel bug is a cousin of the mustard seed. Third generation, twice removed.

A friend of mine posted a picture from a place I’ve never been, halfway on the other side of the world, the ocean the color of a blue raspberry lollipop. And that’s when I felt it. The itch on my skin, seeping into my blood stream, swimming the butterfly through my veins, full force. I stopped, sighed, clicked through another picture of scenery unknown, breathtakingly haunting.  I want to go somewhere new. I don’t want to be stuck in one place forever, turning into a fossilized version of myself until I erode away into nothing. But I can leave. I’m the Little Mermaid after she got legs. I can go somewhere new. I’m not scared.  I want the jaw-dropping thrill of discovering and uncracking the unknown, taking me to heights only astronauts can reach. A star, the moon, poor demoted Pluto. A place that is not comfortable. That is not known. Incomparable. I want to check out from the familiar as if from a bed bug infested motel— fast. I want to be anything, anywhere else. The grass is always greener in a foreign place. I want the travel bug to take me somewhere new, again, again, again. A thrill I cannot get at home. I never want to stop this itch on my skin, in my blood, this sugar ecstasy— leave my jaw unhinged.

It reminds me of my stay in a hostel in Nova Scotia, where I learned there’s something magical about sharing the kitchen sink with complete strangers and washing an Englishman’s dishes.  And eating breakfast with a family from Paris and discussing our undying affection for Nutella.  Makes me want Nutella, but I digress.  And there’s the campfire, sharing s’mores and stories, meeting people I would never have a chance to meet in my everyday life.  People who left whatever it was they were doing with a hundred dollars in their pocket and traveled the world, this being a one night stop on their grand, soul-seeking, mundane-life-retreating, journey.  I listened to their voices, their excited eyes illuminated by the warm fire’s glow, the words “Let me tell you about the time I sailed the seas with my trombone…”  Made me want to write a poem about it all.  No rhyme.  Free verse.  Possibly epic.  Made me want to pack up with a hundred dollars in my pocket and travel the world. Broke by the end, but rich with stories. Wanting more, always wanting more.

But yet, here I sit. In Pennsylvania. My jaw closed.

Yet the blue raspberry ocean reminds me of you. And the mustard seed. You made our jaws with hinges for a reason. Sure, we can and should be in awe of your creation, but you want us to be more in awe of our Creator.

I want the mustard seed of faith to grow from an itch on my skin to seeping into my blood stream, swimming the butterfly through my veins, full force. I want to go somewhere new, learn something new, about You, with You. I don’t want to be stuck in one place forever, resigning to apathy. I want to be the Little Mermaid after she got legs twirling the Bible around singing “Look at this verse, isn’t it neat?!” I want the jaw-dropping thrill of discovering and uncracking your truths, taking me to heights only astronauts can reach. A star, the moon, poor demoted Pluto. A place that is not comfortable. That is not known. Incomparable. I want to check out from the familiar as if from a bed bug infested motel— fast. I want to be restless for You. I want to sit around a campfire, my excited eyes illuminated by the warm fire’s glow, the words “Let me tell you about the one time I put my faith in our almighty God…” Makes me want to write a blog about it all. No rhyme. Free verse. Possibly epic. Broke by the end, but rich with a deeper understanding of You. Jaw constantly unhinged. Wanting more, always wanting more.

Your child,

m

RESPONSES I RECEIVE AFTER TELLING SOMEONE I HAVE MY MFA IN CREATIVE WRITING AND WORK AT A COLLEGE ADMISSIONS OFFICE

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

  1. Enjoy it now, the world awaits.
  2. My grandson is currently holding auditions for a trophy wife.
  3. If you work at a non-profit organization for over 10 years, the gargantuan debt you unwisely and unnecessarily burdened yourself with will be forgiven.
  4. Awwwwwww.
  5. If you take your MFA off your resume, employers will actually call you back for an interview.
  6. You’re tall. Have you thought about modeling? Someone has to wear those shoes in Payless commercials.
  7. My condolences to your parents. Do you have any siblings that show promise? I’d hate to picture your parents crying themselves to sleep at night, trying to convince themselves that you are actually adopted.
  8. I’ve heard that exercise helps with depression.
  9. I have some extra food in my fridge that expired on Sunday— I’ll bring it in tomorrow.

G:

Sometimes I wonder if I should have been a landscape architect.

That’s what my career aptitude test kept telling me in elementary school. Even after I retook it. Eleven times.

Except that I have no desire to plant shrubbery and also I hate bees. Bees are outside. And they fraternize with shrubbery.

I remember telling a teacher in the third grade that I wanted to be a writer. She responded, “No, really. I’m serious, M. What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Today, people ask me what I do for a living. I tell them I have a master’s in writing and also work in Admissions at a college. I see them sniff and waft the air, as there must be something in my scent that gives off the fact that my kitchen cupboards are naked and inevitably I’m asked over for dinner.

But there are probably worse degrees, right? Like Philosophy. Am I even really here? Is this blog even real? If someone writes a blog but no one reads it, does it even really exist? Or, history. Wars. And dictators. With moustaches. Writing at least has transferrable skills like… the ability to write. With a pen. Or on a computer. (Versatility!)

You remember what that one guy said in response to my job and degree, right? “Enjoy it, the world awaits.” Gee thanks. Pretty sure I’m already living in this world. With a lot of debt and nothing but a gallon of milk in my fridge.

But he’s right. By the world’s standards. To the world, I got a fun degree and am in a fun job where there are petting zoos on campus during reading day (it’s true). I’m not “there” yet—I haven’t embarked on the path to success yet. I’m in a holding pattern, I’m waiting on the runway, not yet taken off to reach the heights of the status quo.

I know I’m guilty of it. I’m guilty of wanting that job in a glamorous place, with a glamorous title, and a paycheck with multiple zeros before the decimal point and not after. I’m guilty of tying my worth into my degrees, into my job title, into the world’s standards of who I should be. Heck, I’ve never even put on Facebook that I have a master’s and where I work.

I’m guilty of thinking I’ve failed.

I know you heard me crying on the phone when I called my mom complaining about the four pennies I have stored up in my savings account.

She reminded me of your truth.

You don’t ask me to be successful. You ask me to be faithful.

My worth is not tied up in what degree I have or don’t have. My worth is not tied up in the title I have or don’t have at work. My worth is not wrapped up in the place I live, the car I drive, the numbers that show up on my direct deposit into my bank account. My worth is found in You—in who you made me, as your child that you created with certain gifts for a certain purpose (Jeremiah 29:11).

To you, worldly success means nothing. To you, my faithfulness is everything.

Your child,

m

MY LIFE IS LIKE GOING TO A SMORGASBORD

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

G:

I find my life is like going to a smorgasbord. I pile too much on my plate and then I’m weighed down by it all and before the end of day I’m halfway comatose and wearing sweatpants. Like dessert, there are just some things I can’t say no to, like a full-time job. Or dinner with a friend. Or becoming a leader in a bible study. Or taking graduate classes. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach—I always think I can juggle it all. Except quiet time. For some reason quiet time is like that questionable pudding, or any kind of vegetable, that you’re fine with passing on. I always seem to choose something else, choose doing something else, over stopping everything and quieting my soul before You.

You were pretty smart when you created the Sabbath—a day set aside specifically for rest. To recuperate, to recharge. I think the only person who observes it today is Chickfila. Which is great except when I want a small cookies and cream milkshake on a Sunday afternoon.

But I know I need more than just the Sabbath, I need quiet and rejuvenating rest with You daily.

If I don’t have that quiet time where I remember to focus my heart on you, to rely on you, I can’t handle the tiny roll on my plate let alone the main course and other side dishes. Quiet time is necessary to be able to restore my soul, by focusing on the Restorer of my soul.

So before I fill up my plate, I want to focus on you. Seek your guidance. If there are things I need to say no to, help me say no. While they are on my plate, I want to focus on you throughout work, class, dinners with friends.

At the end of the day, I don’t want to be half comatose with stress, the weight of my world on my intestines. I want to be able to say I relied on you to help me through it all by relying on quiet time with you. But I’d like to still be in my sweatpants, however.

Your child,

m

EXCUSES I’VE MADE TO PROCRASTINATE FROM STARTING THIS BLOG

Posted on by Meghan Mellinger

EXCUSES I’VE MADE TO PROCRASTINATE FROM STARTING THIS BLOG:

If I start now, I won’t see the first royal baby pictures of Prince George as it is soon to be revealed after the next commercial break on the E Network

Squirrel1

Just give me a few more hours to stare at my big toe

That one kid I knew in that one class in college during that one semester just posted pictures of his trip to his grandmother’s house on Facebook. It’s. Absolutely. Riveting.

Squirrel1

I’ve suddenly developed an interest in rhythmic gymnastics and must buy colorful ribbon immediately

G:

I’ve smelled some pretty bad things before in my life. Like my used sports bra when left too long without ventilation in my gym bag. Or some of that brown cheese from the fancy cheese aisle in the grocery store.

I’ve never smelled whale vomit before, but I’m pretty sure it’s a combination of that brown cheese fraternizing with my sports bra in my gym bag.

I guess you could call me Joan. Maybe Joanie. Possibly even Jonahette. You know I’m just a crazy, single Christian girl that has run in the opposite direction every time you’ve nudged me to start this writing project.

I know my disobedience is as shocking as milk coming from cows.

And no amount of ribbon can make me look remotely rhythmic.

I know you could have easily had me swallowed up by Shamu or a really fat dolphin, but alas, you’ve kept me on dry land to come to my senses. But I know I stand before you reeking of a stench like Jonah’s whale vomit after being barfed up by the whale. Like Jonah, I’m trying to right the wrongs and run towards you after spending so much time running away from your call. Like Jonah, I’m not sure if I’ll know what to say. Like Jonah, I know you’ve promised to meet me here and give me the words. All I have to do is show up.

So I’m trying, attempting, to obey. I’m showing up.

Thanks for meeting me here.

Your child,

m