Blog – Page 3

How to Fail at Keeping it Together

April 16, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

If you’re fifteen minutes early, you’re on time. And if you’re on time, you’re late.

At least, that’s what I was told (read: forcefully screamed at) by every basketball coach I’ve ever played for. For seven straight years, this was engrained in me four to five nights a week when one of my teammates would arrive at 6:45 for a 6:45 practice.

Lucky for me, being early is one of those things that’s kind of just stitched somewhere deep down in my DNA. In fact, 26 years ago, when I showed up to the scene, I was two whole weeks early. My mama, daddy-o and older sister weren’t expecting me until the end of February, but I came barging in a fortnight ahead of schedule basically screaming, “Ready or not, here I come!”

I look at it like this: God gave me 14 days more than doctors and their fancy science predicted I’d get. He said, “Nuh-uh, she’s gon’ come today.” It’s sweet and all when you think about it. Two whole weeks to make an impact and to show up in big ways for people. But if you actually looked at any random sampling of fourteen of my days under a microscope, you’d quickly realize my extra days were used to jack this place up.

Here is the honest-to-God-but-also-kind-of-awful truth:

I am really good at looking like I’ve got everything under control. I am some sort of wacky skilled at pretending like I’m keeping it together. But the other truth is that that means I’m the World’s Biggest Faker.

I fail over and over and over again at actually keeping it together. (And if you’re curious on how you can do this too, here’s a little step-by-step guide.)

———-

STEP 1: Compare yourself to others.

The other day I was sitting in my cubicle thinking about how delicious my hair smelled. That’s a pretty weird thing to think about, you’re right, but I just switched hairsprays and I couldn’t stop sniffing my own hair. I spent most of my morning figuring out ways to subtly turn my head in a way that would effectively waft the floral scent right up to my nostrils.

Then I got up to walk to the bathroom.

I was feeling great and confident and like I smelled like a field of daisies when, in the lobby, some lady walked by me who had on this absolutely scrumptious perfume. She smelled way better. And I was jealous.

In an instant, I was deflated. I thought about how I NEEDED to know what perfume she was wearing and that only after I got it and sprayed the perfect amount on my body would I actually smell REALLY good. My hairspray no longer made the cut. I needed the perfume. I needed to smell like this lady.

Cue an intervention. Dear Diana, Stop comparing yourself to others. Love, Diana.

My most brutal self-comparison is usually done by way of Instagram (and not based off scent exchanges in the lobby of my building). I’ve gotten really good at looking at other peoples’ little square highlight reels and convincing myself that my life is not nearly as glamorous, fun, delightful or #blessed as everyone else’s. I look at pictures of peoples’ dinners and vacations and perfectly elaborate fishtail braids and think, “Man. If only I had that. If only I had that, then I will really be something. Then I will have arrived to the scene. Then I will be made whole.”

I have this weird feeling I may not be alone in this, so let’s cover something- once and for all:

Baby, you have arrived. You are whole and you are complete.

Actually, I lied. This one is worth saying over and over again: You have arrived. You are whole and you are complete.

Got it? Get it? Good.

STEP 2: Refuse to ask for help.

I was working for my current company for just about a year the very first time I cried at work. I was in the middle of a client crisis that I’d spent days and weeks and months cleaning up, only to realize that the entire project had to be completely re-done (in half the time) on account of an outside error. When my boss strolled by my desk to check to see how things were progressing, I couldn’t even look up.

“How’s it going, D?” he asked.

Silence.

“Everything okay?”

I finally looked up but still couldn’t speak. I just stared at him. I knew if I opened my mouth, I would instantly morph into a blubbering emotional mess and I feared I would instantly lose credibility as the office sassy-pants. (Update: I am still the office sassy-pants.)

“Why don’t you meet me in my office,” he said, kindly.

I walked into his office and before I could even shut the door the tears started flowing. I was overwhelmed. And I felt like I was drowning.

In this moment, I learned that I am the worst delegator known to man. Perhaps expository of some deep and underlying trust, pride and / or control issue (check, check and check!), I struggle to ask people for help.

The truth is this: After our constant need for Him, I think God’s best idea was us needing each other.

We need each other. We are not islands. We are not meant to do this life or any portion of it alone. I need you and you need me and it’s only after that is realized that we have even a fraction of the chance of keeping anything (our lives, our love, our sanity) together.

STEP 3: Let yourself get puffed up about how you’re doing such an all-star and notable job at keeping it together. Go you!

Please welcome my good friend Subtle Arrogance to the room. We like to call ’em SA for short. SA comes to us straight from one of my best weeks. It was one of those weeks when I went to bed each night, sifted through the events of the day in my head and though, “You did a great job today! You didn’t swear, didn’t leave any conversation feeling like you said too much or over-stepped boundaries AND you obeyed all traffic laws. Look at you keeping everything together!”

SA, you night owl! You stayed up around the clock that week – six days straight – stroking my ego into believing I was put together and had no need for self-reflection or open and honest accountability with my best gals.

Then? BAM! Like night and day, I woke up on Day Seven and was hit with harsh reminders of all the ways I’d been dropping the ball that week.

I woke up late.
I forgot to call my sister back.
I exchanged quiet time for a wine night with my friends. Twice.
I went over my monthly restaurant budget by $40. (This could maybe be related to the wine.)
I distanced myself from a hurting friend because I “didn’t have the energy to listen.”
I hung up on my mom in anger.

I’m pretty prone to these cycles. I know this by now. I can tell when I’m getting over-confident, when I’m becoming too self-assured or self-reliant and when I need to humble myself before anything or anyone else does it for me. But most times, I get humbled before I humble. And it tastes pretty sour each time, but somehow, it always ends up producing something sweet.

STEP 4: Believe you have to keep it together and make it your mission to do so.

Bottom line: The notion that you have to keep it together is just as preposterous as the idea that, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” (Um, have you ever had Nutella? Maybe a slice of cold cheese pizza?)

We are all messy. We are all messes. We all have scraped up knees, split ends and chapped, flaky lips. We are all imperfect and that is perfectly beautiful. So just breathe, boo. And let it fall apart every once in a while. (I promise to try and help you put it back together again.)

What trips you up in your quest to “keep it together”?
What do you think makes you think you even have to keep it together?

Lessons from Being Stuck (in an Elevator)

April 9, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

Last week I got stuck in the elevator at work. (Of all places to be stuck, right?)

I was on my way back up to the office after snagging an iced coffee from the inconveniently located Starbucks, just 300 steps from my building. (For people with self-control, this Starbucks is likely considered quite conveniently located. For me, its impact on my monthly coffee budget – yes, I have one of those!- is rather inconvenient.)

I was waiting in the lobby just outside the elevators with a complete stranger. A young man maybe just a few years older than me. He’d already pressed the UP button, so I did the same thing any other mildly awkward 20-something would do: I pulled out my phone.

When the elevator dinged and alerted us that it was here to pick us up, the doors immediately flung open. I wandered into the back left corner and when the man gestured to me and mumbled, “What floor?” I said, “Four please,” without even looking up from the glowing screen in my palm.

I was mid-sip of iced coffee and had already hit the manual refresh button four times on Instagram (to no avail) when the stranger spoke again.

“I think it’s confused,” he said.

I looked up at the electronic sign that let us know what floor we were on and realized it just kept flashing 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2 in a stock red color that now seemed rather ominous.

Naturally, my first reaction was to designate a pee corner. My second was to panic.

“Do you… do you think we should call 9-1-1?” I asked as I pointed to the little phone box built-in to the wall of the elevator.

Obviously, (because I am just a touch neurotic) my mind flew to the absolute worst (and kind of embarrassingly dramatic) places.

I worried about things like if I would have to share my drink with a complete stranger if we got stuck for hours, what I would do if we ran out of air (can that even really happen?) and if my family / friends would worry about me after not hearing from me for hours because, as evidenced by the compulsive need to “refresh” on Instagram, I had absolutely ZERO cell phone service in the elevator shaft.

“No, no, let me just see where we’re at first,” said the stranger, completely composed and stoically unaffected by the very thing that was causing my armpits to burn through my aluminum-free deodorant.

I tried to keep it cool, but I really just couldn’t. I was in all-out panic mode. And my new friend, was in Incredible Hulk mode.

The man legitimately pried open the two sliding doors of the elevator with the manual dexterity of the World’s Strongest Man. When the seal broke and the doors cracked, the elevator stopped oscillating between floors and came to a standstill. We were not quite on the first floor so there was about an 8″ step up out of the elevator.

Mr. Muscles stepped out of the elevator and started to take steps to safety (without reaching back to help me out). I mentally deducted Gentleman Points from the tally I’d been keeping in my head and quickly (and also, quite aggressively) GRABBED his shoulder with a death grip.

“I’m sorry. I’m just freaked out,” I said, as I used a perfect stranger’s shoulder to steady by step and hoist myself out of the pit I’d convinced myself I would die in just ten seconds earlier.

And then we walked up the stairs together. (I will let you decide if you think he spoke to me or not.)

When I got back to my desk, admittedly still quite shaky, I thought about how I’m sometimes kind of the worst. As much as I wish I could describe myself as a laidback free-spirit who thrives on just going with the flow… I can’t. Most of the time, my default mode is panic mode and if I’m being honest, I know that stifles my joy.

More often than not, I will let myself assume the worst before I collect myself and survey the situation to “stop and see where I’m at first.”

I went on to realize how in times of difficulty or in challenging seasons, I can let myself be defeated. Too often, I think, “This is going to last forever,” when the reality is that it only lasts for a little blip on my life’s radar. And when I let myself wade in this mindset, I waste so much time giving up that I end up tacking minutes and hours and days onto the amount of time it takes me to just move on.

I think we call this being an alarmist. Or dramatic. Or a worrier. Or a Negative Nelly.

Whatever it’s called, I know I don’t want to be it.

The reality is this: No matter how eternal it seems when we are in the middle of a mess (or stuck between floors in an elevator) nothing lasts forever. The light at the end of the tunnel your mama always told you about? She wasn’t lying. It’s really there.

This too shall pass.

How do you keep yourself from panicking amidst struggle?
How do you remind yourself – in the middle of messes – that this season won’t last forever?
How do you prevent yourself from getting defeated and giving up when things get hard?

Photo: Death to Stock Photos

Yeah. I probably shouldn’t have said that.

April 2, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

“I guess I’m realizing that the list of things I would do to make someone laugh is maybe just a little bit too short,” I said, only seconds after gushing about yet another instance where I said too much – just to get a giggle out of a group of co-workers huddled around a cubicle.

This was the third Friday in a row where I’d had this sort of exchange with my ever-patient, abundantly-graceful boyfriend, Tyler. Or maybe it was the fourth Friday. Stories that’d typically flowed as you’ll-never-guess-what-happened-today-at-the-office type exchanges were recently morphing into oh-my-gosh-did-you-really-say-that-to-your-boss confessions. I had this lingering suspicion that Tyler might correct me this time around, but instead, he listened quietly and prompted me gently with questions.

“Do you think they know you were kidding?” he asked.

“I mean, I’m sure they did. I hope they did.” I said, pausing. “Wait, do you think they did?”

Before he could even respond, I was filled with an anxious remorse and that foot-in-mouth feeling took over my psyche.

And all of the sudden, I was choking on my big toe.

Growing up, I was lovingly told (more than once) at the dinner table (usually after one of my sisters stormed off over some totally-not-funny-to-them comment I made) that I just didn’t know when to stop or that I didn’t think before I opened my mouth.

I can stand here before you twenty years later and say that that statement is probably just as true now as it was then. Only this time, I’m old enough to be unclaimable as a tax dependent and for my dad to say, “You have got to learn to kill a spider without crying, Diana.”

I don’t say any of this to shirk off responsibility for my words. I firmly and immovably believe that our words not only have the power to tear people down,

but that they also hold within them a force that can soften the hardest of hearts, illuminate the darkest hallways of our minds and breathe life into lungs that’ve had life knock the wind out of them.

It is because of this that I believe – more than anything – that we should choose our words carefully. And I struggle with this ALL THE TIME. But through self-examination (read: excessive journaling and collaborative “WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!?” sessions with trusted friends and my sweet mama), I’ve learned that my mouth gets me in trouble most at three specific times. Being aware of the three times when I am most susceptible to putting my foot in my mouth hasn’t solved the problem, but it’s put me on the path toward less crow-eating and, “I’m sorry for saying that,” type conversations. My future is looking kind of bright, you guys!

WHEN I AM TRYING TO MAKE SOMEONE LAUGH.

It seems as though we’ve already covered this, but let’s just recap quickly: sometimes, I lose my filter when I know I can win a good belly laugh in the conversation. I don’t know what it is, but I kind of feel like I am the epitome of that over-Instagram’d W. Somerset Maugham quote, “She loved three things: a joke, a glass of wine, and a handsome man.”

I love to laugh. But more so than that, I love to make other people laugh. Because of that, my don’t-say-that radar malfunctions nine times out of ten. Often times, I’ll leave a conversation feeling like I said too much or misrepresented myself by cracking a joke, taking a jab at someone or being maddeningly sarcastic.

WHEN I AM HURT BY WHAT SOMEONE SAID.

Perhaps this is the most natural of the three listed instances, but for some reason, I feel like I may be extra cutting in these scenarios. First, I must disclaim that this is not an “every single time” offense. There are certainly times where I am deeply offended by what someone said and I can brush it off with no problem. But, sister, if you catch me on the right (read: wrong) day? If the stars are aligned just perfectly and you’ve crossed me at a point where I’ve had it up to my eyeballs and just want to crawl into bed with a King Size package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a New Girl marathon? There’s no telling what words will push their way through my lips.

The good news about these sorts of word vomit moments is that they are almost immediately followed with an emphatic, “Oh my gosh! I am so sorry for saying that!” It’s almost as if the last syllable of the word, “jerkface” leaves my tongue and I’m instantly on to the apology portion of the breakdown. The bad news? Once the word “jerkface” leaves my tongue, the damage is already done, so it’d really be best if I could dog train myself to quit while I was ahead.

WHEN I AM OVERWHELMED OR TIRED.

I’ve always joked with my mom about how the most terrifying thing to me about parenting is the loss of sleep. From an early age, I was one of those nine-hours-of-sleep requiring types. I wasn’t really ever the six-year old who woke up early on her own accord to watch cartoons quietly at seven in the morning before her parents woke up. And while I’m not much of a late-sleeper these days, if I don’t go to bed early and get a solid eight hours of sleep, I’m pretty much useless the next day. (Note: I can get by in survival mode on six hours, but you really want to try and avoid me at all costs.)

My mom can always tell when I’m stressed. She says when we talk and I’m under pressure or feeling overwhelmed or lacking sleep, I’m sometimes short with her, a little bit whiney and just kind of cranky and unpleasant. It’s in these moments when I’m vulnerable to verbally snap, “putting someone in their place” when I just don’t want to be bothered by their cheeriness.

While being aware of my tendencies hasn’t cured me of my blabber-mouth syndrome, it’s certainly helped me put certain checks and balances in place so I can ensure I’m doing all I can to be careful with my words. The process of becoming aware of these patterns, as well as recognizing a need for change has been both humbling and refining, but it’s a process that I am overjoyed to enter into as I seek to be intentional and graceful with my words.

Have you noticed patterns surrounding when you’re most likely to hurt someone with your words?How can you work to not hide behind these tendencies but, instead, put checks in place to ensure you are careful with your words and using them to speak life?

Photo: Death to the Stock Photo

What I Really Meant (Through the Years)

March 26, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

As the phrase, “For real?” comes out of my mouth when my barista tells me he accidentally made my drink with a doubleshot of espresso, free of charge, I don’t even think twice about it. I never stop to thank him for not saying, “No. No, for fake, Diana.” The words just come out my mouth like second nature and I expect the ears and brains receiving them to understand them as normal.

The truth is, I’ve acquired catch prases and staple sayings over the years that are absorbed into my vocabulary. While perhaps meaningless or out of the ordinary to you, these words are just as common as “yes,” “no” and “thank you,” for me.

And I’m sure you’ve got some too.

In fact, I recently wrote an article for Delight Ministries in which I detailed a silly saying I threw up to God in order to determine the answers to some of life’s most dauanting questions. “Wave the wind if….” I would say before inserting some sort of question about if my parents would let me spend the night at a friends, if I would marry JTT, or if my little sister’s cold would go away. I’d run over to the window to stare at the trees for God’s answer. If they moved, God was waving the wind and my answer was positive. If they stood stagnant, God wasn’t doing any wind-waving and I’d have a firm, “No.” (You can read the article here.)

The tricky part is with these sorts of staple saying is that I almost never stop to think why I say the things that I say mindlessly. In a sort of first step to self-reflection, the below is a look at some of my most-used phrases over the years.

1989-1992

Most of my “cool sayings” were not actually sayings at all. I “spoke” through things like Similac-induced diaper blow-outs, teething tantrums and blood-curdling wails that typically peaked around 3 AM. During this phase, my parents probably wished I spoke more but were (likely) later quoted saying, “Those were the days,” in reference to these years.

1993-1995

This was a span of time where I uttered a ton of, “Why, Mommy?”s and “Do I really have to wear the leash?”s. During this time, I was also the proud owner of a speech impediment that caused me an inability to make the leading “G” sound in any word. This led me to say things like, “dwape” (grape) and “dood” (good). Coincidentally, this is also the time span in which I learned the art of the “white lie,” most notably used each time my parents asked me if I washed my hands after using the bathroom. (I have since recovered from this subtle form of dishonesty.)

1995-1999

A healthy combination of “Don’t roll over, I’m right behind you,” (most commonly used when I forced my mom to sleep with me until she was too pregnant with my Baby Emma to fit in my twin bed) and “I don’t want that,” (uttered anytime any food other than a chocolate SnackPack was put in front of me).

2000

I was 11 and finally starting to accept that, although Emma emerged into the world needy and attention-recquiring, she was actually pretty darn adorable. I was convinced, if anyone could, I could get her to talk, so I kept repeating my name over and over again, in slow motion, right in front of her little round ginger head. Eventually, she got it. Only, for her, “getting it” meant calling me, “Dah-nuh.” Close enough, Em.

2001

Memorized every preposition in the Enlgish language to the tune of “Yankee Doodle” for a No-Homework pass in Mrs. Katehis’ Language Arts class. Needless to say, my parents heard a lot of, “About, above, across, after, against, among, around, at, before, behind, beside, between, beyond, by, down…”

2002

Coyishly living out Judy Blume’s touted coming-of-age novel, Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret. I also refer to this year of my life as my brief “hood” phase. I said things like “a’ight” in AIM conversations (where my screenname was FubuBooBoo55) and referred to myself as a “baller” in, regrettably, a totally serious way.

2003

Got made fun of for clogging the toilet at Bible camp. Everything else that happened this year was a giant blur. Next.

2004

Freshman year of high school. Received three detentions for being scared enough to leave school during a bomb scare. I also think this was maybe the first year I felt self-concious about my appearance. When you’re a ripe (and notably undeveloped) 14-year old walking aroud with seniors who are 17-years old and legitimate women, the hallways of a high school can be staunchly intimidating place. (It’s possible my confidence was also knocked by the Great Toilet Clogging Incident of 20013.) I think I probably did a lot of backtracking these days. Probably said a ton of, “Totally. I mean, what I really meant was…” when met with any sort of opposition to an opinion. There was probably a very short list of statements I wouldn’t restructure once questioned just to sound cool.

2005-2006

I must’ve asked the question, “If you could be any fruit in the whole numerical alphabet, what fruit would you be?” at least 60,000 times in a span of these two years. There is a story behind this, friends. One day, and one day soon, I promise I will tell you, but for now, just enjoy how much sense this doesn’t make.

2007-2011

I am fairly certain that everything I said during this period of my life was pretentious and rather “know-it-all” of me. I was 18, 19, 20, 21 and 22-years old during these five years and looking back, I was rather inapproachable when it came to giving me advice, gracefully correcting me or offering me any form of feedback that indicated I could be doing something better. I probably had a lot of favorite phrases during this time – some of which were likely even truth-filled and wise in their own right, but the delivery was lacking all things humble.

2012-2013

A ton of, “Why God?” and “I feel like the rug’s been pulled out from undeneath me.” These were things I said over and over again. Out loud in prayer and to friends. It was all I could muster. But do you know something? I was met with grace and love and peace right smack in the middle of the chaos and looking back, I wouldn’t change a single thing. (You can read more about this here.)

It’s funny how that happens, right? How when we’re going through something, our speech can sometimes reflect such hurt and brokenness – so much so that the words of admission almost taste sour coming off your tongue? The truth is that it’s only through these honest(and sometimes sour) expressions of vulnerability where we can begin to be healed.

2014-current

Most-used by an embarassing landslide? Sentences that usually start or end with “I’m sorry.” Because sometimes, my words cut and my actions hurt. Recently, I’ve been learning that sometimes the most mature and wise thing you can do is humble yourself with an apology. To a friend, to a co-worker, to your mom or dad or sister or brother. To anyone.

I’ve learned that saying I’m sorry doesn’t mean I’m weak or that I’ve lost or that I can’t find my way again. Apologizing means you care enough about the other party to admit your short-comings and take the first step toward rebuilding that which your words or actions started to tear down.

Even when humble pie tastes like a rotting tomato covered in maple syrup and ranch dressing, say sorry. The aftertaste isn’t as bad as you think.

—–

What are some of your staple statements?
What have some of your most-used words and phrases taught you about yourself and your beliefs?
How can we challenge ourselves to gracefully speak words that are honest and authentic?

Photo: Creative Commons via Upsplash

From the Middle: A Commitment to You

March 19, 2015 by Diana Carter 1 Comment

A few months ago, I wrote a post about how I was in the middle of a rich and good and abundant season in life. I wrote about the ways I was wrestling to keep my head above the blessings, about how I was struggling with feeling like I wasn’t grabbing enough of it, about how at the same time, I didn’t want to have a white-knuckle-grip on even a single molecule, for fear of it getting ripped away or evaporating into the atmosphere.

My cup was overflowing and I kind of didn’t know how to handle it.

For lack of any sort of flowery or poetic or verbose way of saying it: Life was so good that it almost felt too good.

Not even a month later, I was wrecked with anxiety.

But the thing was, life was still really, really good.

The week before making a this-has-been-planned-for-three-months trip home to New York with my boyfriend for Christmas, I could barely function. I remember inviting my friends over a night or two before Tyler and I were set to roll out of Charlotte and make the 12 hour drive up the coast. What was supposed to be a jovial send-off turned into a I-am-trying-so-hard-to-keep-my-mascara-on-my-eyelashes confession. I was actually supposed to make them dinner but instead, about an hour before they showed up, I asked them if it was okay if I didn’t cook. Naturally (and gracefully), they agreed to forego dinner plans and just come over for a little girls night.

Picture this.

Three girls in their mid-twenties basically eating wine for dinner on a big grey couch in a small grey living room. The conversation has a natural and expected flow: One says something funny, the other two giggle. One says something sad, the other two shed sympathy-drops. (For those of you who don’t know, sympathy-drops are not real tears, but instead, invisible ones females sometimes expel when a close friend shares a particular emotional story. Again, you can’t see them, but you know they’re there when a female dabs her tear ducts or delicately wipes the thin skin under her eyes with a single finger.)

And then, one girl, visibly distraught; a fidget factory with a face so contorted it looks like she might have a bowel movement at any time, moves the conversation to a more serious place (yes, very far away from bathroom humor). She confesses that she’s fighting hard to keep her head above the marker that says, “Paralyzed by Anxiety.” She effectively wards off the meltdown that most of us refer to as the “ugly cry,” but only narrowly escapes its grip as she dives into the, “I just don’t know what is wrong with me,” part of the confession and expresses her deepest frustration that she can’t help but be consumed by inexplicable worry. All the time, lately. Worry.

She goes on to refer to her inability to eat real meals when anxiety grips her in this way. She talks about the chest tightness, the difficulty sleeping, the inability to focus on her tasks at work. All of the textbook symptoms of anxiety, in a way that kind of feels sterile.

When all that’s left to say is said, the two non-emotional-breakdown-having girls do all they know to do: they pray. Together, they go before their big, big God and they ask Him to break down these pesky and persistent walls. They lift their friend – weak and burdened and discouraged and ravaged – up before the Lord and they ask Him to floor her heart with His all-consuming peace.

In an instant, the posture of the room changes and instead of looking in at the state of the heart and the mind, the deepest parts of their beings were focused on His unending goodness.

And friends, I am sorry that this is the first time you’ve heard this. The truth is, I have this habit of writing from the edges – not the middle.

I am sorry that I waited until I was on the other side of that season of anxiety to write about the battle.

I am sorry that for every time I’ve preached honesty and vulnerability, I’ve shyed away from writing from the thick of a struggle.

I am sorry for the times I’ve screamed from the mountains and said, “I am not perfect!” but did it with a heart that said, “Hey everyone! Come see how good I look!”

The point is: I want this space to be my big grey couch in my small grey living room. I want to share my struggles with you in a way that invites you to be just as vulnerable and just as okay with those of your own. I say this not to breed complacency or apathy, but to cultivate community. My goal is always to create a deep, thriving, honest, open and grace-filled community and I believe that that can only come from the rawness that is our mess. I want to look alongside you and you alongside me.

Today and always, I vow to write from the middle.

As an act of commitment to vulnerability and an act of obedience to community life, I promise you – right here and right now – to stop waiting to have my act together before I sit down and write about something. I commit to write before I am delivered from the desert and to tell you real-life stories of His richness even in my wandering.

I want to hear from you! Tell me about your messes!

How can you vow to live life from the middle?
How can you aim to create authentic community in your life and in your relationships?

Photo: Creative Commons via Trekking Rinjani

Three Ways to Let Yourself Be Messy

March 12, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

“The thing is, I know I’m not perfect. And even more so, I know you know I’m not perfect. But for some reason, I always want you to think I’m perfect.”

I sat across from my friend just outside her kitcken, in the airy living room of her picturesque condo. It was her birthday and we were catching up over spinach wraps and red wine. I told her all about the ways I felt like I was being stretched and grown and kneaded into a more refined version of myself, but that the process of getting there was a struggle.

The truth is, I think I used to live under the pretense that I only had messy parts, but that as a whole, I was a pretty put-together person.

I would survey the situation of my life and conclude the following: I live on my own in a city 700-miles away from the familiar streets of my childhood, I’ve been working the same steady job for almost four years, and I only have ugly-full-body-heaving-snot-fest-cry sessions on the floor of my apartment every couple of months. I would look at all the areas of my life that I saw as lacking – my desires to do more, the fact that the plans I had for myself in college had not even started to manifest themselves in real life, the way my hair gets jacked up and frizzed in the Carolina humidity – and I say, “These are just parts. You are not messy,” and remind myself that I was doing okay.

And, friends, I am here to tell you that I am. I am most certainly doing well better than okay.

But, lately, I’ve come to the conclusion that I am messy. Not just the parts, but the whole.

In waves of anger, I’ll let a harsh word slip through my lips. When I am hurt, I will retreat and put up concrete walls. When I am feeling spoiled and bratty and entitled, I will pout when things don’t go my way. I lose patience. I get frustrated. I cry at my desk at work. I struggle to make time for all of the important people in my life on a day-to-day basis and, sometimes, when I look at the To-Do’s piling up and down and all the way around in my planner, I kind of just want to climb into my bed with a Choose Your Own Adventure paperback and find my way out of adulthood.

But I can’t. And neither can you.

We will always be messy, always be imperfect and as much as we try to fight against it, there will be days when we just can’t keep it together. We will drop the ball over and over and over again in the same old and tired ways. And do you know what? The neurotic, OCD-gripped perfectionist in me gets really skirmish when she tries to swallow that truth.

Instead, I am choosing to remove myself from the stance of defeat and to give myself permission to be messy in these three ways.

1. I will be willing to apologize.
Just because I am messy and always will be messy doesn’t mean I can go about my life with complete disregard for other people; be it friends, family or strangers. The truth is that, yes, I will disappoint and I will let people down. But it doesn’t have to stop there. Apologizing and admitting our shortcomings to people often helps create a space where others feel the comfort and freedom to do the same. When we pave the way with honest humility about our junk, we lead others to do the same.

2. I will stop comparing my struggles.
Real Talk: Traffic gets UNDER. MY. SKIN. I could be sitting in my car going 50 MPH and singing along with NEEDTOBREATHE or Hillsong United and have a big smile plastered on my face. The second I get backed up in traffic? I am instantaneously in a fierce battle; fighting the good fight to keep the 25 years of New York moxie from Mike The Situation-ing out of my mouth. But traffic might not do that to you. Bottom line: My struggle looks different than your struggle – and your struggle looks different than mine. When we get “struggle envy,” we misplace our compassion and isolate ourselves from community. Embrace your messiness and meet others in their own.

3. I will laugh at myself – and sometimes, the situation too.
There are some days when I just need to stop taking myself so seriously. Some days, I just need to laugh at myself and utter a, “Sheesh, D. Lighten up.” Remind yourself that carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders will not accomplish anything but a bill from your chiropractor. Sometimes, when appropriate, we need to laugh in the face of our perceived failure before it roots itself somewhere where we’ll water it. Train yourself to react with laughter instead of meltdowns and I promise, the world will seem like a brighter place. Lose another make-up brush to your toilet because you always forget to close the lid when you get ready in the morning? Laugh it off! Accidentally type “asses” instead of “assess” in a company-wide e-mail? Laugh it off!

What are some practical ways you can give yourself permission to be messy today?

Photo: Creative Commons via Jess Pec

The Sacrifice of Obedience (+ an exciting announcement!)

March 4, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

I grew up playing basketball for a highly-competitive regionally ranked AAU team based out of Long Island, New York. From ages 12 to 18, I spent four nights a week in a gym running wind-sprints, doing ball-handling and shooting drills, blowing through plyometric circuits and getting my tail whipped by a former Division I football coach with fifteen other elite players from around the Island. On weekends, my dad and I would pack up his truck with Air Jordan 11s, ankle braces, uniforms and warm-up suits, and we’d trek up and down the east coast with the rest of our team to tournament after tournament. There were some weekends where I’d play eight games in two-days, hardly having time for to digest a full meal before I was back out on the court fighting through screens and finding my spot on the baseline of our two-three zone defense.

I prided myself on how tough and how focused and how dedicated I was.

I have a vivid memory of one instance where I refused to come out of a game when my nose was bleeding after getting rather forcefully elbowed in the face. I knew if the referee saw any blood, he would make me sub-out, so I sniffed and sniffed and sniffed for a whole quarter until I was literally cringing because of how much blood I was swallowing. (Gross. I know. But I’m much more refined now, I promise.) Eventually, my coach clued in on what was going on and subbed me out of the game. Furious, I blew my nose, took a swig of water and checked back in at the next whistle.

Sweat plus sacrifice equaled success. And nothing could keep me from succeeding in the game that I loved.

On the other hand, the amount of time me and my teammates spent in the gym and traveling on the weekends didn’t leave much margin for socializing with anyone who didn’t wear a basketball uniform. I can remember one weekend when we were about 17 and our individual high school social lives had somehow peaked. It was the beginning of October and it was each of our senior years. This particular weekend, we were just outside Philadelphia at a Blue Chip basketball tournament and despite going to different high schools, we were all missing the same thing: Homecoming Weekend.

I remember sitting in a hotel room, our entire team sprawled out over two not-quite-queen-sized beds as we took turns lamenting the fact that we were missing the premier social event of our Fall semesters. Gluttons for punishment, our fingers tip-tip-tapped on the keyboards of our Nokia bricks as we texted our friends back home. While we would be going to bed at 9 PM to get to the gym for warm-ups at 6:15 AM the next morning, our friends would be leaving the football games to go to the after parties.

Our 17-year-old brains sat there processing the weight of the sacrifice we were making as we packed our game bags for the next morning. And it a little bit sucked.

—–

A couple months ago, Stephanie May Wilson published her first book, The Lipstick Gospel. I’ve followed Stephanie’s blog for years and from the moment she Tweeted about the book, I was excited to get my hands on a copy. And so I did.

I was already familiar with her story because of her blog, but reading Stephanie’s book reaffirmed everything I knew to be true about her heart and more. The realness with which she wrote about the way the Lord gripped her heart was something I both craved and thanked Him for. (If you’ve not read Stephanie’s book, you can grab a copy over on Amazon here.) But reading Stephanie’s book did more than just solidify the way I viewed her and her heart.

Reading Stephanie’s book was one of the hundreds of straws that broke the camel’s back.

(In this analogy, of course, the “straws” are things and people and circumstances that propelled me toward pursuing the dream of writing a book that God stitched into my heart years and years ago. The “camel’s back” is every single lame excuse for why I shouldn’t write a book that I’ve held onto with white knuckles up until this point.)

And so that poor camel’s back broke and those pitiful excuses shattered under the weight of the straw. And through a silly series of events that truly only God can be behind, I am proud / eager / anxious / excited / relieved to announce:

I am officially working on writing my very first book, set to be released in 2016.

And you know what else? Carl and Stephanie Wilson will be the ones coaching me through the platform-building, blog-owning and book-writing stages of this whirlwind process – and I couldn’t be more thrilled or thankful! Both Stephanie and Carl – the models in the swoon-worthy shot below -have already exhibited such excitement over the project, doled out much grace and been a concrete source of encouragement and accountability as I take some big steps toward big dreams.

But, friends, can I be honest for a quick New York minute?

I know this road is going to be bumpy.

I know this road is going to demand things of me that I’ve never given before.

I know it will be uncomfortable.

I know it will mean saying, “No,” to some things as I seek to remember the thing(s) that the Lord has led me to say, “Yes,” to. I know that some of these things will be easy to turn down. And I know that some of these things will feel like they’re having to be pryed from my very hands. I know that this step of obedience will force me to relinquish the concept that I can be all things to all people.

I know that this step of obedience will require great sacrifice.

And while some of those things – those good things that I have to say, “No,” to – have already been revealed to me, some of them haven’t yet. Some of them will come up and I will want to run head-on into their goodness, but I will HAVE to remember that I can’t. I will have to remind myself that deciding I want something more than I’m afraid of it means that every decision I make is made in service to that pursuit. And when it’s a Godly pursuit? When it’s a pursuit of a passion that’s been impressed upon your heart by the very same fingers that formed you? You take it seriously.

So – here’s where I need you to kick my butt, okay? Here’s where I need summadat sass to roll off your tongue and smack me in the face every once in a while if, of course, you’re willing.

I need you to hold me accountable.
As often as you think of it – ask me how the blog / book writing process is going. Check in on me. Stephanie, Carl and I will work together to design a regular editorial calendar of sorts for my blog – so if you don’t see a blog post on here for a while, ask me what’s up. I not only appreciate accountability in this – I need it.
I need you to give me your feedback.
If I write something that doesn’t seem to jive with what you know me to stand for – or what you think I stand for – let me know. If I write a series of posts that resonate with you and then I completely shift gears to a different style, voice, topic or direction – let me know. I want to write things that bless you and I want to strive to find the balance between writing what I know / remaining true to the voice God’s given me and writing about things that need to be written. (You can always give feedback in the comments section of each post or reach out to me in the CONNECT tab above.)
I need you to encourage me.
Friends, this isn’t a plea for endless affirmation, but rather an admission that I can’t do this alone. I know that for as many good and rewarding and encouraging days as I will have throughout this process, there will be an equal (if not greater) amount of discouraging ones. I know some days will feel lonely. I know there will be days where I have to swallow blood and miss Homecoming and I know on those days – when the sacrifice of obedience feels like it just isn’t worth it – I will need you to remind me that it is.

I couldn’t be more thrilled to finally be doing something I’ve dreamed and prayed about for so long. It’s my sincerest prayer that you’ll follow along in this journey and that, together, we can fall deeper in love with the creative heart of a graceful God.

Photo: TOP //Creative Commons via Unsplash (Pixabay) MIDDLE// instagram.com/smaywilson

25 Things I Learned in my 25th Year

January 27, 2015 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

Next Tuesday, I will wake up, stretch deeply beneath my faux down comforter, shimmy out of bed and my feet will hit the floor for the first time as a 26-year old. And while I am both categorically and historically one of those girls who winces at the idea of aging – 25 has definitively taught me that growing old is a luxurious blessing that we are never guaranteed.

To be honest, 25 was monumental for me for a long, rambling list of reasons.

It marked my first birthday out on my own; in a new city and in a completely different life stage. It was the year that brought things like car insurance payments, my sister’s engagement, a bigger apartment and the continued need to turn to a faithful God as I fought to navigate out of one of the most devastating seasons of my life. Twenty-five was the year I spewed the words, “Dating just isn’t on my radar right now,” into the universe only to arrive at a coffee shop on a humid spring morning and meet a game-changer some two months later. Twenty-five was full of enriching community – delightful dinners with friends, tear-filled confessions spanning thousands of miles, movie premiers and apartment hunting. It brought both sorrow and joy, giving and taking, emptying and filling back up again.

Twenty-five was good. Really, really good. So, here’s to you, two-five, and to the joyous recalling all of the gold you glittered like breadcrumbs along the way. Just to name a few, 25 taught me:

1. There’s a difference between condemnation and conviction. It’s as subtle as a sniffle and as crucial as a kidney transplant, but there’s a difference. Condemnation guilts, shames and destroys. Conviction gives grace, produces change and breathes life. (Pro Tip: Know the difference and build your life on the latter.)

2. Organic milk is worth the price. For some reason, organic skim milk lasts longer than normal skim milk – and that alone is golden. I haven’t learned why, but it’s saved me some chunky gulps of coffee and for that, I’m indebted.

3. Emotions are never wrong. But we cannot act on them. Emotions are indicators, like the “Check Engine” light on your car. It doesn’t always mean something terrible is going on, but it’d be fortuitous to plug in one of those little diagnostic computers and explore what’s causing that light to flash each time you crank your car. Let yourself feel things; good things, bad things, ugly things. But don’t let those things – or any derivative of them – be your compass.

4. Just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t do it. Baby, the day you stop doing things scared is the day your vibrancy is completely sucked out of you. You can never stop doing things scared. I want to say this again: You can never stop doing things scared.

5. You cannot use the “Broil” feature on your oven to “speed up” the amount of time it takes to cook things. Broil burns. Broil burns bad. Plan ahead. If it says, 350 for 40, give yourself 40 minutes. You’ll want to trust me on this one.

6. It is very easy to confuse a righteous desire to “live above reproach” with a worldy preoccupation of being too concerned with what people think about you.

7. Human beings are amazing little creatures. They will surprise you. They will wait at your door with their dog just to make sure you get in at night because your neighbor is a creep. They will send flowers to your office a week after life, as you knew it, crumbled beneath your feet. They will spend their 25th birthdays sleeping at your apartment after your surgery and they will set their alarms for every hour through the night so they can make sure the Percocet hasn’t worn off and you are still sleeping soundly. They will bring you movies and blankets and ginger ale when you have strep throat and are feverish on your couch. They will snuggle you when you’re contagious. They will check on your apartment when you are out of town and they will come over at 10:30 p.m. just to kill a bug. They will hold signs at your marathons, call you at 4:59 a.m. to make sure you’re up to run, support you as you go on missions, pray for you when you’re hurting and shovel grace and love and mercy and kindness on top of every single one of your flaws. Keep them. Scoop ‘em up and hold them close. Thank God for them every. single. day. and make sure they know you do. They are the point. These manifestations of a Greater Love are the point.

8. On some level, even though we’ve been told since day one to do the exact opposite, we judge books by their covers. All of us. A lot. Let me be super clear here and say that in this analogy, books are people. We judge people based off shallow things and we build truth around lies we’ve contrived in our heads. We need to try our best to eradicate this practice from our day to day because every single person you ever encounter desperately needs you to give them the benefit of the doubt.

9. Always pay the top floor premium. Even if it means you have to cancel your gym membership. (You may think it’s no big deal to live below someone when you sign the lease to your first apartment, but give it time. The thumps and bangs and stomps and creeks will drive you crazy by week two. You live and you learn, right?)

10. I am a part of an extremely small subset of human beings who make up the statistical anomaly of “Americans who do not like bacon.”

11. Just because you have an opinion (and a right to hold one), doesn’t mean you should share it. In arguments, in conversations, on Facebook, during election years. There is tremendous wisdom in knowing when, where and how we should sacrifice our right to be heard – or even, our right to be right – for the sake of loving someone else well. Learn that. The world needs more ears.

12. There is power in confession. Let yourself be vulnerable in your weaknesses even if it terrifies you. Disarm the notion that there are certain struggles meant to be waddled through alone. Confession breeds community and community breathes life into parts of us that flat-line in isolation.

13. When you “lightly oil” something you are about to sear on a cast iron skillet, the oil could potentially cause a lot of smoke. In fact, there exists a possibility that so much smoke could be generated by this “lightly oiled” something hitting the scalding hot surface of the heat-conducting iron, that you may have to evacuate your apartment and eat your (charred) dinner on the front steps. Your neighbors might see you on the steps and see the smoke billowing from your door and windows and they may very well express genuine concern that the building is on fire. Don’t worry, it isn’t. But, if the smoke situation gets out of control, once it’s cleared (read: in 3 hours) you probably will have to shower and wash all of your sheets to rid your nose-memory of the smoky musk. (Word of advice? Maybe just never use a cast iron pan again.)

14. You cannot throw around the word “deserve” when you’ve built your life on the abiding promise of grace. Grace abolishes the concept of getting what you warrant and ushers in a breeze of continual newness through unwavering mercy. Spoiler alert: At the end of the day, you cannot set up a tent in both camps. Choose one. Choose grace.

15. If your gas tank is filled by $36.03, yielding to your OCD-need to end on a whole dollar amount and attempting to make the pump ring up to $37.00 will 100% overflow your tank. Learn this the first time you do it, not the third.

16. Our parents get it. If you’re like me, you probably spent a good portion of your life up until this point believing that they never understood what you were going through, but we were wrong. Like really wrong. Our parents get it. They got it then and they still get it now. And you know what else they get? Us. If you’re blessed to be able to do so, spend time investing in figuring this one out on your own. Talk to your parents. Ask them questions and then really listen to their answers. They get it. I promise you, they get it.

17. New things – new risks – are really, really good. Like blind dates or camping or long bike rides or symphonies. Take the leap. Try something new. Trust not the outcome but the One who rolls the dice. You never know what (or who) is on the other side waiting for you to arrive.

18. If we could see where our enemy weeps, they would no longer be our enemy. Remember this when you want to react; when your blood is boiling and your ego is bruised. People need love most when they deserve it the least. (See #14.)

19. We are created and loved by a God who is knee-deep in the business of turning chaos into order. On this side of eternity, your defeat is never final. Darkness always seems like it is going to win, until it doesn’t. Chin up, buttercup.

20. Rose colored glasses are real – and at some point, we all wear them. People will tell them you have them on, but you will call them crazy. For a while, these glasses paint the world a really beautiful hue – but eventually, you’ll start noticing the coral tint for yourself. Don’t freak out – just take the pink off when you’re ready. (Note: Only you will know when you’re ready.)

21. I am still very, very allergic to Tide liquid detergent and most scented body washes.

22. Seeking counseling is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign of strength. We need to work hard at erasing the stigma that surrounds this word, this practice and the notion of needing help to work through things. Talk to someone and sort through your baggage. A friend. A mentor. A counselor. A pastor. Leave no stone unturned as you look to get to know yourself and find out what makes you tick.

23. People don’t care about how perfectly planned and organized your life is. People care about how available you are to them. People care that you show up. Be flexible. You can do laundry, get groceries, clean your apartment or wrap Christmas gifts tomorrow. People need you today.

24. If I could choose three celebrity roommates to live with – completely platonically – for the rest of my life– they would be: Jimmy Fallon, Bill Murray and Lauren Conrad. (Honorable Mentions: Neil Patrick Harris and Fat Schmidt)

25. Wisdom is a byproduct of a life well-lived, but it is not bound solely by the number of days your heart’s been pumping or the depth of the creases around your eyes. Wisdom comes from Above and knows no age restriction. Some of the wisest people I’ve ever met have been less than a half century old. Some even younger than me. Don’t discredit others because of their age. Wisdom comes to those who ask for it and seek it intently. Remember this when you’re in need of some.

Twenty-six, you’ve got some big ones to fill. Bring. It. On.

An Honest Battle: Enough and Too Much

November 18, 2014 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

“I’ve never really struggled with feeling like I wasn’t enough,” I said as I pulled a pillow onto my lap.

We were sitting in the coldest room of the colonial mansion on the church’s property and the thick floorboards creaked beneath the tattered floral couch as if they ached to confess their own depths and fears.

I’ve got stories. Oh, this old house – it’s got stories too.

I sat there on the middle cushion of the worn sofa and she sat across me and watched my eyes dart over to the curved built-in bookshelves behind her. I fought hard for the words that would follow the self-given accolade and made the very best effort to refuse sweetening the bitterness of the next truth.

“But I think, for me, I always worry that maybe I’m just a little too much.”

The aesthetic of the room intercepted the confession almost ironically. I pictured prayer warriors and word laborers tucking themselves away for hours between the four walls that surrounded me. I pictured the built-ins filled with pages upon pages of Chaucer and Austen and I imagined the children – seen and not heard – losing themselves in adventures on the road to Cantebury. I could almost hear the giggles of the little girls as they gulped in line after line and dreamed of being pursued by their one-day Mr. Darcys.

—

If you were to sit down with anyone who knew me between the years of 1990 and about 2004, they would probably let out a little chuckle when you asked them to give an honest evaluation of the type of kid I was. They would never use the phrase “seen and not heard,” and instead might choke out words like, “mischievous,” “boundary pusher,” and “wild child.” It’s not that I was bad, it’s just that I was kind of a little monkey.

I was the kid who, if you shut your eyes for six minutes on the couch, you’d wake up to find surrounded by empty SnackPack containers while finger painting chocolate pudding landscapes on your kitchen table. I was known for sneaking into the fridge to spoon margarine into my mouth and, coincidentally, that same mouth was once washed out with Palmolive dish liquid after it uttered a certain profanity on a cold winter day in 1993.

I eventually won myself a leash (or “harness” as my sweet mama likes to euphemistically call it) when we were in public places because, like most kids, I would bolt off and hide in the clothing racks in department stores. The only distinction between me and “most kids,” was that when my mom would walk around and try to entice me to come out by saying, “Alright, looks like it’s time to go. I guess I’ll just leave Diana here,” I wouldn’t come out. I wouldn’t chase my mom down screaming, “Wait! Waiiiiittttt!” with tears in my eyes. I would actually bury myself deeper and deeper into the cotton. I was fully prepared to spend the night in the rack of thermal shirts at Macy’s.

I once wrapped my entire hand around the trunk of a cactus in Pathmark somewhere between the ages of four and seven after I ran away from my mom in the dairy section and attempted to “speak Spanish” with the Spanish-speaking people by making up my own language. (Mom, if you’re reading this, I applaud your decision to leash me and my cacti-grabbing, pudding-smearing baby hands.)

I was exiled to “Siberia” by my third grade teacher for repeatedly being too chatty during his lessons. I got up from my chair and watched him drag my little desk adjacent to his before sitting back down. I looked out over the classroom and grew envious of the conglomerate of desks that I could no longer be a part of. I quickly grew frustrated that I couldn’t just zip my lips like everyone else; ashamed that words sometimes just poured out of me like a leaky faucet.

In middle school, I wasn’t allowed to sit in the first row of the church van on youth group trips because I was too loud and, quite frankly, never stopped talking. I had a second row limit and even then, I was gently hushed from time to time in between Five Iron Frenzy and Orange County Supertones jam sessions.

Needless to say, growing up, I was a little bit of a firecracker.

On the flipside of the wild child coin, I’ve been told that I simultaneously had no problem positively entertaining myself. I was content to sit on the floor in the living room reading – and, often times, I’d fold pieces of construction paper into booklets and pen tiny novellas about being a kid-spy or finding hidden treasures. I have memories of all of this too. I can recall many days I spent lounging on the carpet reading The Babysitter’s Club and, to this day, I have journals and journals filled with scrappy handwriting and Crayola-scribbled storylines.

It’s not that I required much attention, I just always needed to be watched because there was a fifty-fifty chance when you hadn’t seen me or heard me in a while. I was either somewhere causing mass destruction or I’d passed out reading on my bed. (God bless my mom and dad.)

On some level, you just never really knew what you were going to get with me.

—

“Too much?” she asked, “Like as if God poured too much of something into you?”

I looked at her and knew she was speaking truth. I knew what she was getting at and, more than that, I knew she was right. I fidgeted again, played with the corner of the pillow and re-crossed my legs on the couch. I’d reached the point where I was ready to just let it out. And so I did.

I shared about my struggle with scripture, about how, sometimes, I felt really guilty about not having a meek and quiet spirit. I told her how I never felt like I was particularly gentle and how I knew that the Lord not just required, but wanted those things of us.

“I just… I sometimes don’t feel very Proverbs 31ish. I feel like I am too much of other things to ever be praised like she is.”

Too bold.

Too sassy.

Too fiery.

Too loud.

Too driven.

Too opinionated.

Too harsh.

Too silly.

Too independent.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve let my mind build truth around the lie that I am too much.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve let myself believe that I am an undesirable handful of a woman.

It’s not an overt belief. If anything, it’s one of the ones that is a sneaky little goon. The belief that I am too much to handle isn’t one that’s taken the driver seat in my life – but instead, it’s poked tiny microscopic holes in the tires on one side. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the air seeps out and the car is steered by the inadequacy. If not corrected, instead of heading straight and driving like it should, the car veers off to one side and, eventually, will get stuck making circles.

It’s simple math, I think.

The fear of being too much is a direct by-product of the belief that you are not enough.

(And the converse is true too.)

If each of us is whole – and we are – then we are at a round 100%. Each of us has parts and pieces and things and personas that accumulate to our 100%. All of our parts – the good and the bad – make us one whole person. If we say we are too something, we indirectly confess that we are not enough of something else. Conversely, if we say that we are not enough of something, we are acknowledging the fact that too much of something else is taking its place.

All of it. R-u-b-b-i-s-h. Rubbish, baby.

You are always more than enough and you are never too much.

It’s simple math, I think.

—

“Don’t you believe that God gives us people who can handle all of us? The good and the bad?”

I thought about it for a good six or seven seconds before responding and I arrived at, what I thought was, an answer that would surely debunk her.

“Well, sure. But certainly not by their own strength. I don’t think anyone could really handle me without knowing God and tapping pretty heavily into His grace.”

Boom. Roasted. I thought.

“Diana. You are absolutely right. And that is the whole point.”

The point isn’t you. The point is being you.

The point is that you – only you – reflect our Creator in the way that you do.

The point is that no one can point others to His glory like you do.

It’s cheesy and it sounds like only your mom could ever say this and mean it – but you’re the only you. You’re not just the only you now – but you’re the only you that ever was and ever will be. You, insert your name here, are it. You. Are. It. There’s a Creator who made you deliberately and intentionally and purposefully the way you are.

All of that sass? That moxie that you try to cover up and stifle when someone shoots you a look, as if to say, “Whoa. Tone you down.” The way you’re intensely passionate about that one thing? The things that ignite the blood in your veins and fire you up in a way that no human ever could?

It’s a fierceness that was placed inside you for good. For His good, it was knit into your big’ol stubborn heart. For Him. For Him. For Him.

The point is not you. The point is being you. For Him.

All of it. Every last drop of it.

You are more than enough and never too much. You are never too much and more than enough.

Don’t sell Him short. Don’t rob the world of the only you it will ever know.

You are more than enough and never too much. You are never too much and more than enough.

Photo Credit: Wee Bird via CreativeCommons

An Anxious Soul, Redeemed

November 13, 2014 by Diana Carter Leave a Comment

There are parts of me that wander.

There are parts of my mind that take it upon themselves to get up out of the cozy armchair of peace (a place they are welcome to establish permanent residence) and tiptoe down the blurred halls of my brain. They careen in and out of the lace of meninges; moguls on a mountain, and avalanche into things hidden. And independent of logic or rationale, these parts are all but forthright in their quest to discovery. All at once, bits and pieces of uncertainty and fear, of shame and guilt, of self-doubt and insecurity, are excavated and exposed by the very parts that are my own.

And this is where the panic sets in.

Like the wax of a candle just blown out, with one swift exhale I am cemented by a headlong anxiety and every fiber of my being is stiffened.

Save for a quiet shaking, in every sense of the word, I am paralyzed.

There’s really no rhyme or reason. There’s no trigger, no conscious decision to have a mini-panic attack at 3:12 p.m. on an idle Tuesday from the inside of my cubicle. I don’t sit at my desk each day and think harried thoughts in between submitting proposals and dialing into conference lines. (In fact, most days are filled with abounding peace; intense fear greeted with instant consolation to create a near perfect unanimity.) Yet sometimes, in the lulls of responding to e-mails and following-up on client requests, the question marks that loop around my little life seem paramount—and the lack of answers, the lack of a life mapped out rattles my soul and evaporates my joy.

These are days when solitude is a distant memory and deliverance seems beyond the bounds of divine possibility.

—

There are parts of me that wonder.

There are parts of my soul that look at life (not my life, but life) from all angles—and en masse, they are able to see both the intricacies of individual blessings and the 30,000 foot view of this Earth we traipse around. Like a sponge, they swallow up every ounce of absolute beauty; licking their fingers until the very last dewdrop is absorbed into their vitality. And with obtuse disbelief, they scribble page after page of questions—all seeking to understand how anyone could miss this.

And this is where restoration sets in.

Like the hull of a capsized ship in a final waltz to the ocean floor, I am sinking with a freeing joy and every aspect of my past is put to rest.

Save for nothing, in every sense of the word, I am renewed.

There’s really no logical explanation for redemption. There’s no logical concept, nothing begging me to understand why God, in His all-consuming power, would blanket me with His grace and free me from a season of emotional restlessness as I watch Wipeout with my little sister. I don’t deserve His love. (In fact, most days, I’m the virtual opposite of what God calls me to be; a trifecta of selfishness, insecurity and fear stage a spiritual coup and, with my tacit permission, rob me of my true identity in Him.) Yet sometimes, in the fleeing quiet (or if I’m looking up, amidst the howling of a storm), I am graciously hushed by the constant and unadulterated goodness of God.

These are the days when panic is a distant memory and God’s continual deliverance speaks total stillness into my soul.

About me

a little bit socialite