Lately I want to take my belongings out of storage.
Lately I want to live somewhere where I can build a home.
I know these thoughts are ok but sometimes I hate them.
I hate the thought of being stuck.
I think, “I used to be wild and free.”
But no one is putting chains on me but me.
(This is me surviving.Walking, pacing, watching the sky change.)
I always tell people to embrace these seasons of coming and going, of no strings attached.
It’s not like I have a family to take care of.
It’s not like I even have a job where I am stuck in one place.
(But oh at times, how green the grass seems anywhere else.)
I am 26 and no more sure than I was 10 years ago.
But I am ready for life to not be about me.
So I tell myself I can follow my passion.
I can live in abundance…
Wait….. I do.
I do live in abundance.
I have so much beauty, love, people. I am doing what I love, too.
Someone from New England asked me last night if I just love living in Texas.
After 8 years I could say honestly that I do.
(Trust me, even forming those words is an act of rebellion to my vagabond soul.)
I used to count my days by the places I went.
I relished living out of a suitcase.
I dreamed of endless places and people and possibilities.
It was never easy but it was worth the freedom I felt.
Have I gotten so comfortable?
Have I fallen into desiring normal instead of living an adventure?
Those things that were so intertwined in the fabric of my being, being reminded over and over that it’s not only ok not to know, but I’d rather not, cause
“Life is better off a mystery.”
So I can be free.
Every day can be magical
It’s all up to me.
The morning came in subtly with shades of amber hues, contradicting the brilliant neon hues of the sunset.
And I think maybe some things come in softly and slowly and go out with a ferocious bang.
And vise versa. Because sometimes ends and beginnings blur together.
2011 felt like an ordinary year, but it wasn’t.
I took a motorcycle class, got my website hacked by a terrorist, found out my niece has leukemia, biked down a mountain in Virginia, and wrote more the I have ever written.
I have had many wonderful and weird and bad experiences this year. I am going to focus on the good. Because life happens in moments, I will reflect that way.
Dear Sparky and Mermaid, you are indeed shining beacons of awesomeness in my life.
Working for Pais Project was more than just a job. I loved it, even the difficult moments. I met some great people, learned a ton, and was able to be a part of writing the book, “The Cloud and the Line.” I was there for so many reasons, and when it was time to go it was bittersweet.
I love these guys. I had so much fun working with them. I don’t have a picture of everyone, but I loved my boss and coworkers as well as the people at Lakehouse Church. It was a good year in Arlington.
Vacationing in the Florida Keys with my favorite people was one of the most unexpected blessings and great adventures of my year. My dad was also there (he was taking the picture.)
What a magical place. It was a time of grace. The best vacation of my life. I am so thankful for Steve, who made all this happen.
I did a lot of cooking at my apartment in Arlington. My favorite part of living there was all the amazing Asian and Middle Eastern food. I walked to the Halal supermarket and bought fresh meat, produce and curry.
2011 was the year of really becoming a writer. I typed out a book for my boss at Pais, started writing freelance for SEO and Social Networking companies, and of course, co-wrote the “The Wizard of God.” I also won a poetry contest and was nominated for a Pushcart prize.
I had the privilege of road-tripping with my man up to New England to see my family. We spent a fun day exploring New York City.
I love this picture of my parents and my brother Robert.
Water wars with my nephew Tre.
Hanging out in Portsmouth with my beautiful sister Terra.
Boston! One of my favorite cities.
In the fall I lived in North Carolina for three months. It was a sweet time. I read a lot. I became pretty reclusive, but it ended up being a good thing. I wrote a book. I still can’t get over that.
I saw some great concerts in North Carolina including One Republic,
John Mark McMillan, Michael Gungor,
and of course, The Civil Wars.
We saw them right after we finished writing the book.
It was a great ending to an amazing year.
Steve, Becca and I at the Biltmore in NC.
I am thankful for this year. It has been challenging as all years are, but I feel like I have grown a lot and seen a lot of things come to pass.
There are mornings I wake up and immediately believe two lies:
1. That today is just another day.
2. That I am jut an ordinary human being.
I forget:
1. I am breathing. Life itself is a miracle.
2. I am a hero on a journey.
3. Everything is mine, because it was given to me.
I want to believe these impossible things before breakfast.
And the list continues:
4. All things worth having are a gift.
5. I already have everything that everyone is searching for.
6. Nothing is worth more than this day.
7. Epic stories are in me, waiting to be told.
8. I am loved extravagantly, I with all my counted flaws I stupidly keep track of in the darkened mirror.
9. Everything is finished. The struggle is believing that.
Speaking of number 7, all this feels like a fairy tale at times, a place like Narnia or Middle Earth or Oz, like falling deeper down the rabbit hole or taking the red pill.
Can I believe in what seems to be a story? Or is it that the stories tell a greater Truth that our world can’t grasp?
What is the reason these stories seem more alive than our “mundane” lives? Why do they resound so deeply within our broken frames?
Could it be because they are the way we understand The Story?
And so I bring you number 10:
10. God came as a human infant; bloody and screaming, into a dark stable reeking of manure. He grew, walked among us, healed the sick, mended the broken, tore down the old system of religion, ate with the whores and criminals, loved all. He was murdered and came to life, defeating death forever, giving us the greatest gift: himself (true life) to all who believe.
Because of #10, because I am a character in This Book, I can believe the other 9 impossible things before breakfast.
It’s my last night in North Carolina. I am sitting in the black office chair for the last time. I have practically lived in this chair for the past three months.
I written over 90,000 words in this chair.
But I didn’t do it by myself. Never in a hundred lifetimes would I have dreamed I would have written a novel like The Wizard of God.
The beauty of this book is that it is a collaboration.
It is the product of the stories of those who have been on a journey of looking for Jesus in the midst of some religious road blocks, of those who have found themselves as beggars welcomed in to eat at the King’s table. It’s a story of people, coming together and discovering grace.
And that is my story, our story.
Thursday night I finally saw The Civil Wars in concert. I wrote the epilogue of the book the day before, and it was a wonderfully timed celebration.
The opening band, Milo Greenecompletely blew me away. I was expecting some singer songwriter dude, but it was a full band. Four lead singers, each of them with incredibly unique voices, all of them playing multiple instruments, switching on and off, intertwining, harmonizing, to create this melodic audibly mesmerizing sound.
I whispered to Becca,
“Man, each one of them could be a successful act on their own!”
But I was glad they were not.
In a world that makes art a competition, it is nothing short of a miracle to see talented people with different voices coming together to make create a diverse symphony.
And then came Joy Williams and John Paul White. Never have I been so glad of musicians joining together.
In all the reviews and articles I have read about The Civil Wars, the one thing that strikes every listener is the marriage of their voices. Listening, watching them is something very hard to describe.
It was spiritual, the way their voices carried, lifted and lowered, danced around each other, settled.
Pure magic. A wild blending of talents that turns into something so free yet so smooth.
Ah, the beauty of creative collaboration.
When we partake in such things, I am convinced we are looking through a peephole into the another Kingdom.
That’s it, isn’t it?
What we want. Why we get the shivers. What feels right. The happy ending.
Togetherness.
Coming with our own voice, or own words, our own story, our substance one ingredient to make a delicious bread that will leave the world satisfied.
To know we are part to a body. We all long for it.
So much of art (I could replace “art” with “my existence”) has been about selfishness, arrogance mixed with self-deprecation, some sort of weird creative person self-loathing-elitism. (seloathistim??)
We call it individualism, independence, other words that sound responsible and American. Yet we end up in misery when we try to go at life alone. We call it being a moody artist, survival of the fittest or whatever, yet we lose so much when we compare, compete, push aside people to try to succeed so we can see our names shine in a fading spotlight.
I don’t think that’s joy. I think that’s misery and loneliness.
Joy is knowing we are a part of the whole. A unique, beautiful part, but a part none-the-less.
Joy is knowing we need each other.
It’s understanding we are all made of the same stuff, and the things about us that are different are not to be feared or hated, but celebrated and made into art.
It’s closing your eyes and being lifted by the sound of music and voices whirling into one, making sense of what emotions can’t spell out.
It’s sitting in a room with people and letting the spirit flow, letting each person bring a piece to a puzzle that’s larger than any one soul, to go on a journey that could never happen alone.
When I think back to my crazy three months writing a book in North Carolina, this is what I will remember, and smile.
This darling girl is my *almost* two-year-old niece, Sierra.
She is one of twin girls, born to my brother and sister-in-law Davis and Mindy.
The (Other) Lubys- Mindy & Davis, AJ, Julia & Sierra
Sierra is special, and though I’ve only had the privilege of meeting her once, she holds and special place in my heart.
Sierra, like my younger brother Robert, was born with Down Syndrome.
And like Robert, she was diagnosed with Leukemia before she turned two.
One of the Best Guys I know
Thankfully, my brother is a perfect picture of health, happiness and just plain awesomeness! He turned 22 a few months ago.
My family is praying and believing the same thing for Sierra.
What Sierra Thinks of Hospital Food.
Sierra started treatment about a month ago and will be in the hospital for the next seven months. Family and friends out in Northern California where the Lubys live, are looking for ways to raise money to help meet the hospital bills that will soon pile up.
So from today on, if you buy my self-published book, a 75 page collection of poetry, All Things Are Becoming New, all proceeds will go to the Luby family to help with Sierra’s medical bills.
It’s only $7 and available through create space by clicking the link above. 50% of that money goes straight to the print-on-demand company to actually make the book, and 50% will go to Sierra.
If you already have my book or hate poetry or just want to give more, you can do so directly through paypal by clicking here.
Thank you so much, and thank you for all your prayers.
Sierra makes such an impression on people… even after they leave pediatrics and head off to some other department, they are still keeping up on her status in the hospital medical record computer. Their reaction to seeing her is hilarious (for lack of a better word). After they have read about what’s going on and how her blood counts look they expect to come see poor sick little Sierra laying in her crib looking pitiful… instead they are greeted by a smiling, waving, up and walking around, trying to escape the room, Sierra. Thank goodness everybody has fallen in love with her… with my regularly-scheduled melt downs and freak-outs I’m certain we would have been kicked out of here by now if it wasn’t for her. She even melts the hearts of the other kids… there’s a little boy (he’s 3 years old) and I see him all the time when I go out into the hallway. He’s not in isolation like Sierra, so he goes outside of his room and walks the hallways… I always wave and smile and say hi to him… he stares at me and never cracks even the smallest of smiles. Today he and his dad were walking past our room, he looked in and saw Sierra waving at him and he smiled and waved and stood there and watched Sierra for the longest time. I wish she could go visit with the other kids, I just know she would make them feel better.
Click on the link below and for the twin ultimate cuteness! (You have the watch the whole thing, it’s so worth it when they start to laugh)
Today I had thanksgiving with a family I don’t even know. I was unsure about it before hand. I text my friend Mere and said it was going to be awkward. She said “Awkward makes for the best stories!” She is wise. So I decided to write about it.
It’s not like I didn’t know anyone. I know the grandma, my temporary next-door neighbor, a spunky lady with red wire-rimmed glasses nicknamed by her kids and grandkids “Ba-poo.”
I walked in and was immediately welcomed with hands, drinks, open arms, questions, jokes, a tour of the beautiful home and introductions and explanations of “who’s who” in the tangled family tree.
“TEXAS?! You’re from TEXAS!? Honey, come here!”
I was hugged tightly by a (Texan) daughter-in-law, finally feeling ok with saying that’s where I am “from.”
As usual, it’s not always simple to explain who I am and what I am doing here.
“Technically, I was born in California but I grew up in New Hampshire but I’ve lived in Texas eight years.”
“What part??”
“East… near Tyler… then near Dallas…”
“So what are you doing here?”
“Working on a book project…blah blah blah explain, explain la la la.”
“Oh like ghostwriting?”
“Umm sort of… kind of like a collaboration…”
This repeated many times throughout the evening.
I could barely keep track of who I was meeting, but I can’t keep track of my own life either and somehow it all works out.
A few drinks in and it didn’t matter. Then the food came.
Sitting at a table together, barriers come down.
It didn’t matter I didn’t know anyones dreams and desires, or even the favorite band of the twenty-one year old next to me or whether he believes in God. We both thought it is damn good cheesy corn casserole and in the moment, that’s what mattered.
It didn’t matter they had been through weddings, births, deaths, divorces, years and miles with each other and I came into their world thirty minutes ago, they accepted me as a human being.
And don’t forget football. Nothing brings people together (especially in the South) like football. Though I feel estranged from that world, like a bored alien observing a foreign planet where men in spandex run around with a ball and people scream, I could at least relate to the fact the venue they played in was ten minutes down the road from where my old apartment was.
The conversation continued over touch-downs and three types of stuffing and two types of turkey and too much gravy.
“So what’s your book about?”
“Ummm…. well, it’s like… blah blah blah and then sort of like blah blah ‘loosely based’ on The Wizard of Oz.’ Mumble, mumble, na na. Yes.”
Or something like that.
Ok, so maybe I ate and drank too much to make sense, or maybe I never do anyway. Maybe I love the fact it doesn’t take a simple sentence to explain my life.
I got a bit misty-eyed when I looked around at the love this family had for each other, laughed hysterically at the anecdotes about other years when the cat’s tail caught on fire, and I stifled a giggle when the seven-year old said the blessing,
“And I pray for the pilgrims…. even though they are dead…”
Though I was far from people who really know me (besides my dear friend Becca) it didn’t matter. Because there is something raw and real and beautiful and maybe a little messy about sitting down at a table to eat with perfect strangers on a holiday that is all about friends and family, only to walk away feeling completely satisfied in my stomach and in my heart.
And finally, here are some points of gratitude as of lately….
Soundtrack of my life lately: Katie Herzig & Josh Garrells.
Watching Hulu with Becca after a long day.
Memoirs. Brennan Manning’s in particular.
Spinach. (I put it in everything, can’t get enough)
The miracle of writing one more chapter.
Spontaneous Sushi lunches with Steve.
Modge-Podge.
Watching the leaves fall off the trees as I walk around the neighborhood.
Laying on the swing-bench just to look up at the sky and breathe.
Yoga to wake up.
Jean-Thomas randomly calling throughout the day.
That I get to see The Civil Wars finally in two weeks.
That I get to go (home) to Texas in two and a half weeks.
Knowing this book will be completed.
Jesus… all He is… the beauty all around me He is continually opening my sleepy eyes to see….
What if Grace was so thick it hung in the air like a dense fog? With every breath you breathe in pure Grace, there is no distance, no lack, no barrier. You couldn’t take in a breath without filling your lungs with Pure Life.
I picked up this memoir by Kim Sunee, “Trail of Crumbs” partially because the cover was pretty, partially because it was on clearance for $5, but mostly because of the subtitle,
“Hunger, Love and the Search for Home.”
That subtitle could just as well describe the book I am currently working on, “The Wizard of God.”
Anyways, it’s a beautiful and intriguing life story. Kim was abandoned on a bench in South Korea when she was three, left with nothing but a fistful of crumbs to survive on. She sat there for three days until a policeman finally brought her to an orphanage where she was adopted by an American couple.
Fast forward many years. Kim meets a wealthy French businessman man who is charming and wonderful and gives her everything she has ever wanted. I was swept into the beauty of their life together, living in the countryside of France in a huge house surrounded by orchards and gardens. Kim cooks these fabulous dinner parties for traveling guests, exquisite combinations that made me long for new food and new places. Her lover bought her a building in Paris to open her own book store that specializes in poetry. There she meets fascinating artists and writers from all over the world. Her life seemed ideal. A fairy tale. She came from nothing, and was given everything.
And it wasn’t just money. He loved her too. Passionately, in a way that made all their friends jealous.
That would seem like the end of the perfect story, right?
No. she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stay. She left him and threw everything she had away.
Why? Two reasons stuck out in my mind.
After being abandoned as a child, and growing up in an American family that was emotionally distant, she traveled to try to “find herself,” find a place where she belonged.
She thought she could find herself in a man, in this group of friends who were built around her in France, but it wasn’t enough.
She needed the one she came from to give her an identity.
The other reason was, in her lack of knowing who she was, in her struggling with abandonment and rejection, when offered the wonderful gifts of not only a beautiful life, but the heart of a loving man, she felt like she didn’t deserve it.
It’s impossible to accept grace when we don’t know who we are.
She was left in this world with nothing but a handful of crumbs, and so that’s what she built her identity around. She tried to get professional help, but it never subsided the ache. The more her lover lavished expensive and beautiful gifts on her, the more empty she felt.
I am not trying to psychoanalyze this woman specifically. The reason I write about her story in particular because as I was reading it I was struck with the idea that is perhaps the human condition.
We were born into this world with nothing, naked and screaming. We are often left with nothing more than a handful of crumbs, a few grains of rice, pieces we try to put together to make a life for ourselves, to create a home and a family, to find a sense of belonging.
A little boy in a slum in Chennai India, getting his one meal of the day.
Some of us find grace, find God.
We see He is not angry, we see He has given us good things. But often the more He gives, the harder it is to accept. That sense of debt that was established sometime in the losing of our innocence surfaces.
“Who am I to deserve this?”
The question can really be edited, cut in half, leaving the first three words for us to contend with,
“Who am I?”
It’s easy to see the brokeness, the tragic mistakes we’ve made, the reasons we were left with nothing.
“It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest and most uninteresting person you talk to may one day be a creature which, if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship…There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.”
So, what then?
Is there some simple formula? Do we do like this awesome girl and repeat in the mirror every morning convincing ourselves that we are really wonderful people?
I love this video. Yet, there are not enough magic words to overcome a lifetime of feeling we are unworthy.
There can never be enough people telling you how brilliant or fabulous you are, when your inner voice that tells says you will never be enough.
It is only in the opening of our ears to hear the whispers of The One who created, the only one with the right to tell us who we are. It is only in believing that we are free
To quote Lewis again,
“And that is enough to raise your thoughts to what may happen when the redeemed soul, beyond all hope and nearly beyond belief, learns at last that she has pleased Him whom she was created to please. There will be no room for vanity then. She will be free from the miserable illusion that it is her doing. With no taint of what we should now call self-approval she will most innocently rejoice in the thing that God has made her to be, and the moment which heals her old inferiority complex forever will also drown her pride… Perfect humility dispenses with modesty.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
We may see ourselves as having only a handful of crumbs, but there is a veil that has been ripped and beyond that, there is a feast we can sit down and partake in anytime we like.
Once we see this feast, once we understand we are no longer slaves but sons and daughters, we can invite the whole world to come, sit, and dine.
Most of the time I remember my teenage self as being super insecure, wanting to be anyone other than me.
Then I come across little gems like this:
I know that I have what it takes to be an author. I know I have what it takes to put my name on New York Times bestseller. I don’t want to be an author, I want to be the best of the best. Ever. I wont settle for anything else. I have been thinking what does it take to write a best-selling novel? A totally original idea. No one wants to read about everything they have already heard a million times. I need a totally original idea. Something that has never even be thought up or dreamed of by anyone before. That is what will set me apart. I need completely original characters, completely original plot and setting. I need to write something that will grab at the reader’s heart, soul and mind, forcing them to stay up through late hours of the night just to read one more chapter. It need to have a crazy twisted plot that will leave them shocked in the end. I need to write something that will make the reader laugh and cry and stir up something deep inside them that changes the way they view themselves and the world around them forever. Lately I have been asking myself, “What does it take to think this up?” It takes an extraordinary imagination, a certain randomness. It takes a certain perspective on people. Further more, it takes a willingness and self-discipline to sit long hours at the computer writing and writing and living and breathing this story to make it come to life. I figure if I write enough, I am bound to come up with something sooner or later. Brooke Luby will be written across the smooth cover of that certain book with the unknown title. I will do it. Sometimes I will try to imitate a certain writer, thinking since THEY have a book published, THEY must be a truly great writer. I need to learn to erase any writing style I have envied, any form I have been taught, then I will learn to think outside the box, then is when the true originality will flow and the 6 billion will see, feel , READ my soul but not completely grasp it because they can not. They may feel like they can relate, the may feel a connection, but there is one simple fact that will keep them from utterly grasping the words which they will soon all read- THEY ARE NOT ME.
Awkward!
I wrote that when I was seventeen, a few months before I graduated High School.
I admire my own inner tenacity, despite my “slight” narcissism and bad punctuation. (Which I, still struggle with: even though I’am super amazing! )
When I was packing to move a few months ago, I found a CD with the title scrawled in sharpie, “Writing & Stuff to Save.” It was a treasure trove of memories from my Senior year of High School; terrible half finished stories about suicidal teenagers, notes of advice to friends, and lots of really bad poetry. I had some good laughs. When I read the above statement, I giggled at how ridiculous it was, but I was also surprised at my boldness. Then I realized maybe I have lost something along the way.
Maybe in my desire to avoid pride, I’ve avoided seeing myself as the hero I am meant to be.
Maybe in my “maturing,” my attempts to see the world for what it is, I lower my expectations so I am not disappointed, putting to sleep the dreams of my childhood.
Sure, maybe that girl cared more about her name being out there then the beautiful and sacred process of writing , but she knew without a doubt what she was born to do.
At times I still know, but at times I let “practicalities” speak, damning voices of reason.
After all, I am 26 and I have no degree in literature. I’ve never even taken a college course. I still can’t spell. My grammar sucks. (As if you haven’t figure that out) I haven’t been published anywhere in print. Any attempts to be published have been rejected or ignored.
Of course, I haven’t tried that hard.
But right now I am working on an amazing book. I like to say that it’s one part retelling of a classic story, one part prophetic commentary on the church, and one part cookbook. It’s not my original idea, rather a collaborative effort that I am convinced came straight from God himself.
(Whoa, that’s a lofty statement. Not really. Even atheist artists will admit inspiration comes from something outside of their own minds, that they are simply willing vessels telling a greater story.)
So, this book may not make it to the New York Times Best Seller List, but at the end of the day I go to bed satisfied. I know despite the hard work, despite the times of not believing who God has made me to be, the times I participate in this awkward dance jumping between self-loathing and narcissism,
I am doing what I love.
I am living my dream, and it’s a gift to be able to do so.
So yes, maybe I can learn a thing or two from that funny seventeen year old still rattling around inside me somewhere, wanting desperately to fit in and stand out at the same time, really just wanting what we all want: to be loved and happy.
Maybe I can tell her she is ok, she will be loved, she will live an adventure.
She will write things like no one has ever written, simply because,
Here I am again. This is too familiar, but each time I go through the same old worry, same old freak-out, same old resolution and finally, a sense of peace. The future feels blurry, and in my humanness, blurry feels scary. I have vague impressions, colors and smudgy lines. Words and songs, faces, images. But the actual tangible time line in my head is at a stand still. The “logical” preparatory part of my brain shuts down, otherwise anxiety will set in.
When people ask me the “whens,’ “whats” and “hows,” I don’t have an answer. I’ve learned to just smile and say “yes,” to try to choke out all the “what-ifs” churning, taunting, trying to control me, to rob my peace.
I can’t let them.
I laugh at my 21 year old smug self who figured by the time 26 came around, everything would be so sure.
The older I get, the more I realize it never is.
Because we equate sure with plans, with actions, with what fills up our 9-5.
I wish I could erase these ideals that say in order to be happy you must have some sort of “stability.”
Again, stability is equated to career, finances, house.
In that sense of the words, I have nothing sure, nothing stable.
How many times have I uttered, “I have no idea what I am doing with my life.”
But saying this doesn’t have to be tragic. Maybe it can be… releasing.
Maybe I can remind myself for the billionth time, I can find joy in the unknown.
The unknown is where I start to live.
The world is open. It is my playground. Anything is possible. Anywhere is possible.
Stability, sureness, they revolve not around my source of income or where I lay my head at night, but the people in my life, the relationships.
And ultimately, my Savior.
I forget this, and it’s like forgetting what I look like, who I am. And so, I need to be shook up. I need to run out of time on my lease, run out of money, wonder what I am going to do next. I need to go on a road trip having no idea what my life is going to look like in a few months. I need to walk forward, love, let my passion (not my worry) carry me.
I need to give everything to projects I fully believe in, things I know deep down in the core of my heart, “If I don’t create this, I am cheating myself. I am cheating the world.” I need to spend my time and energy cultivating meaningful relationships, whispering thank yous to my creator, laughing with no fear of the future.
Then, and only then, I will be free from the “what-ifs” and the lame cultural ideas of success and stability, from the lies of what happiness looks like. Then I will be free, with an open road, an open heart, I’ll have room for so much more beauty and meaning in my life.
)
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