A little more bold.

When I hear the word "bold," I think about one thing.

I love coffee. I'm drinking some right now.

I especially like it when the bitter nutty flavor is rounded out with a dash of swirling cream, preferably the hazelnut variety.

How do you like your coffee?

The worst is when it's too watered down. When the magic golden ratio of grounds-to-water got all jacked up, and all of the sudden I feel like I'm just drinking brown water. The. worst.

But I'm not unlike that brown non-delicious coffee. I don't like to be bold all that often... because a lot of times I'm afraid of leaving a bad taste in someone else's mouth. I don't want to offend anyone. I want to be liked.

But I want to be a little more bold. With what I do, with what I say, and definitely with what I write. After all, how many blogs about hair tutorials do we really need? Bold is better. Bold is best.

When was the last time you did something daring? Something even a little bit dangerous? And I'm not talking about skydiving or rocky mountain climbing. I'm talking about speaking the Truth when it's easier to be silent. Saying the whole Truth and not the half truth about who you are.

I want to be bold like that. I'm convinced I was created to be bold like that. The way coffee was created to be bold and it's not fully itself when it's all watered down.

Since Sunday I've been thinking about all of this. How can I be a little more bold?

So I decided to write a story. My story. And I want to share it with you. But I'm nervous about it—because it might leave a bad taste in your mouth, either about me, or about God, or about life.

But I need to be who I'm made to be. So tomorrow morning, when it's here... in print ... maybe you can grab a bold cup of coffee and just drink in the words. They won't be perfect, but they will be bitter and sweet on the same page.

The words might surprise you and change your perception of who I am. But that's the risk I take. They may make you cringe and turn away because they are strong. But I'm giving you fair warning... they will be a little more bold.

Neo-feminism, Steubenville and Jesus.

This week I read a well-written cover story in New York Magazine by Lisa Miller called "The Retro Wife." I also have read tons of news stories and blog posts and rants about the tragic Steubenville rape case. And I've come to realize that these two seemingly separate issues are inexorably linked. It started with New York Magazine, and a deck that read: "The Retro Wife: Feminists who say they're having it all—by choosing to stay at home." 

Four years ago, I was already that woman.

It went something like this.

I'm sitting in Dr. Benjamin's office, surrounded by a crowd of linen bound philosophers: Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, de Tocqueville, Machiavelli. Then there's me, a hopeful and anxious senior in college, ready and terrified of the stage that beckons me onward. It's calling my name, and so is he.

"So what comes next?" he asks dutifully, straightening a stack of papers and spinning in his swivel chair back toward a buzzing computer. He clicks away my transcript, and scrolls through his e-mail inbox. "Grad school?"

The suggestion is an old one. After all, the job market is hardly friendly, and I've already registered for the GRE, a command that came down from Colonel Carlton early on this year. But more school? Grad school?

"I don't know," I say slowly. "I don't want to apply just because there's nothing else to do. It seems like it could be a huge waste of money."

"Sure," Dr. Benjamin agrees. "It could be a huge waste of money if you're only going because there's nothing else to do."

"But," I continue, "if I don't go now, I'm not sure when I would. I hope to get married and have a family, some day too..."

Dr. Benjamin rotates back toward me, leaving his e-mail behind. "Would getting married and having a family keep you from going back to school?" he asks quizzically.

I freeze up for a moment, and wonder if I should say what I'm really thinking. I don't want Dr. Benjamin to believeI'm some bimbo who just came to college to find a husband, which clearly, from the light feeling on my left-handed ring finger, did not happen. I don't want him to lose respect for me. After all, I'm an intelligent student with a great GPA. I ought to have career ambitions. It's 2009. I ought to at least act like a feminist.

"No, no... you're right," I say. "If I figure out what I'd want to study, I'd definitely go back."

He looks a little relieved, and spins back toward his e-mail. But the words felt disingenuous coming out of my mouth. I know I probably won't go to graduate school. I know I probably won't want to. Because deep in my heart, I know what I really want. So I say it.

"I guess I always imagined myself staying home if I have kids," I say. His head juts backward and he raises his eyebrows in surprise, and immediately I regret what I've said. Great, now he thinks I'm an idiot. A disappointment to women who've worked to pave a way for me to do whatever I set my mind to. Surely now, he's looking at me and thinking I'm just a bimbo on the hunt for a man. But his words surprise me as much as mine surprised him.

"Good for you," he says sincerely. I'm shocked.

"Really?" I say, and laugh. "I've never said that to a professor, because I always feel like I ought to have these huge ambitions..."

"You know, I have to be careful when I talk to female students," he interjects. "I want to ask how they see family and relationships fitting into their plans, but I can't really go there unless you bring it up," he pauses. "I'm glad you did."

I sigh in relief. I just admitted the truth about the woman I want to be, and the man in front of me wasn't condescending. Now this is feminism.

In the New York Magazine story, Lisa interviews a neo-traditionalist stay at home mom, Kelly Makino, and opens a new can of worms in the old world of feminism. The point? Maybe a woman can choose to stay at home with her children, care for her house and husband, and not be disregarded as a disappointing remnant of patriarchal oppression.

But the part that really sets Kelly Makino apart isn't that she's staying at home. It's that she's not a conservative, right-wing Christian—and she's staying at home. Lisa writes:

"Far from the Bible Belt's conservative territories, in blue-state cities and suburbs, young, educated, married mothers find themselves not uninterested in the metaconversation about "having it all" but untouched by it. They are too busy mining their grandmothers' old-fashioned lives for values they can appropriate like heirlooms, then wear proudly as their own."

As I read Miller's article, I remembered the conversation I had with my professor back at Furman, and in a way, I felt vindicated. I'm a young, educated, married woman (who hopes to be a mother), and New York Magazine finally confirmed that the fact that I want my family to be my top priority doesn't make me uneducated or "backwards." Even if I live in the Bible Belt. Even though I believe the Bible.

Thankfully, I didn't wait on New York Magazine's confirmation that I wasn't alone. I wasn't ashamed to say it four years ago, and now, there are other women who are are saying it too. Miller writes, "For some women, the solution to resolving the long-running tensions between work and life is not more parent-friendly offices or savvier career moves but the full embrace of domesticity."

But as I was reading, I realized that a woman can't just decide to stay at home without taking on some serious risk. There is a lot at stake when you choose to quit your job and chart a path that can eventually include raising children and caring for the domestic sphere. After all, when you leave the "working world," you become financially dependent—on someone else. On a man.

But dependence doesn't undo feminism. It simply requires integrity from men.

Neo-feminism requires integrity from men. It requires men to honor women. It requires a man to be faithful to his wife. It requires a man not to divorce his wife. It requires men that don't look at women as objects to be used, raped, and thrown away as objects of pleasure rather than creations of God's glory. It requires a culture of boys who don't treat girls like garbage.

It requires a new kind of man. A radical, counter-cultural man. It requires a man who is a feminist. It requires someone like Jesus.

In her response to Steubenville tragedy, Ann Voskamp wrote, "In a culture of boys will be boys, girls will be garbage." She pointed to Jesus as the Father of Feminism—the one who made women heroes in his stories, and came through the womb of a woman, and regarded women as treasures not trash.

Until we change the "boys will be boys" culture, girls will have to fend for themselves, fight to break the glass ceiling, and build their own wealth and empire so that if, no when, a man walks away to pursue some new conquest, we will survive, because we didn't depend on them in the first place.

It's this exact point that Lisa Miller makes to end her article and "press" Kelly Makino about her new way of life. She writes, in the last paragraph, "What if Alvin dies or leaves her? What if, as her children grow up, she finds herself resenting the fact that all the public accolades accrue to her husband?"

Neo-feminism requires more of women too.

It requires women who trust men. It requires women who respect men. It requires a woman to be faithful to her husband. It requires a woman not to divorce her husband.It requires a woman who believes that she is created by God, and valued beyond her resume.

It requires a new kind of woman. A radical, counter-cultural woman. It requires a woman who is a feminist and raises boys who are feminists.

It requires a woman like Jesus.

Living with less is still living with need.

How big is your house? Ours is 1,100 square feet, and when we first moved in, I thought we'd lost our minds. The home was built in 1948, so we have three four-foot closets that barely fit Patrick's wardrobe, let alone mine—and I've always prided myself on not being "that girl" with thirty pairs of shoes and six feet of hanging clothes. Still, when we moved in, we realized pretty quickly that our expectations for "storage" in our home was way out of proportion with what actually existed. As soon as the previous owner was gone, and I took a look at the empty closets and teeny L-shaped kitchen, I felt like an imaginary clock started ticking. We'll only live in this tiny house for a few years, I thought. Then we'll move on. 

Soon, though, our minds started changing. We started by doing a little purging. Those old ratty t-shirts? Sentimental, yes. Essential? No. Off to Goodwill. During the spring, we put away all our fall and winter clothes. During the fall, we put away all our spring and summer clothes. We added under-the-bed bins, subtracted unnecessary decor and pots and pans and additional auxiliary accouterments (see what I did there?). It helped streamline our life just a bit, and helped us get settled in what seemed like way too few square feet.

But can you imagine living in 420 square feet? 

This weekend I read a New York Times article entitled Living With Less. A Lot Less, by Graham Hill, an entrepreneur who lives in a 420-sq. foot flat with a bed that comes out of the wall and some kind of expandable dining room table that seats 12. (Fact checkers: please get on that.) Still, dinner parties for 12 aside, he makes an interesting point.

Can living with less make us happier?

He argues the answer is yes, and I tend to agree. In fact, I immediately sent out a tweet that encouraged his work.

The idea of being able to fit all of my possessions into one automobile, or one suitcase, or one backpack feels freeing and exciting. And the truth is, there is SO much that we don't need, that we've been duped into thinking that we do. (I for one, am the girl  currently obsessing over what countertops, appliances, and light fixtures to buy. Stainless Steel? White? Opaque? Oh my!) If I could throw six shirts, shampoo, and two pairs of pants in a bag, and hit the road for Indonesia...sure, I'd love to adopt that way of life.

But I started thinking more about what Graham was saying, and it made me question the whole idea. Living with less is still living with need.

Graham's argument comes to a crux with this statement:

Intuitively, we know that the best stuff in life isn’t stuff at all, and that relationships, experiences and meaningful work are the staples of a happy life.

He's absolutely right that the best stuff in life isn't stuff. And relationships are important for any full life. But in some ways, it seems that he's just swung the pendulum the other direction. At one point in life, he invested all he had in a large house with lots of possessions. At another point in life, he's investing all he has in experiences— racking up passport stamps and business ventures like badges of honor and fulfillment.  This is the "life is not how many breaths you take, but how many moments take your breath away," philosophy that, taken to the extreme, would make each of us drug, sex, and self-addicts, living in 420-sq. ft. apartments and forgoing any and all responsibility for the sake of our own wild adventure.

Not that there's anything wrong with adventure. But at the end of the day, just like material goods, the adventure will not satisfy.  Someday, your trip to Spain will be over. The relationship with Olga will end. You'll see the world and you will still want more.

"I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards. I made gardens and parks and planted all kinds of fruit trees in them... I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done, and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun." Ecclesiastes 2:4, 10-11. 

Thousands of years ago, Solomon wrote the same things in the Bible that Graham Hill just wrote in the New York Times. There's a longing in each of us for meaning, for fulfillment. But we're not going to find it on this planet. Not in stuff. Not in experiences. DEFINITELY not in work. And not even in the best, most wholesome relationships.

If we turn to the world to fulfill a desire that is other-worldly, we will be left wanting.

There is a way to find fulfillment. But you won't find it in the pages of the New York Times, or the Ikea catalogue, or your passport.

It's found in a deep, personal, and committed relationship with your creator, God—who created you as his possession, to experience the grace of his son, for the adventure of an eternal life.

With that knowledge, I can enjoy my home, whatever the square footage. I can enjoy my trip across the globe, wherever it might take me. But I do not need it to provide my happiness. I do not need it to fulfill my life.

And that is real living.

Thriving in all Circumstances: One Thousand Gifts

I don't know how my sister, Leigh does it. She's a mother to three children under 6, wife to a military husband who's been on three combat tours, and a certified Crossfit instructor who had the privilege of training George W. Bush (okay, so maybe they just worked out in the same gym one day, but still, that's pretty cool). In these busy times, Leigh and I don't get to talk as often as I would like, but if there's anything she's good at, it's remembering birthdays and always sending a thoughtful gift to celebrate. (I really wish I was better at that).

This year, when I turned twenty-six, she sent me a book.

So when Leigh told me to read this book, and when she subsequently wrote a blog post that brought me to tears—I paid attention. I started reading.

What I found in Ann Voskamp's book, One Thousand Gifts, was a challenge to live with gratitude. Not for what could be, what I feel like ought to be, but for what already is.

This is hard. My natural state is to be complaining, wishing, wanting, needing. While cooking dinner the other night, I found myself frustrated with the pants I was wearing, itching my legs. I was angry at the simmering beef that was cooking too quickly—it burned before I could finish chopping the onion to add. There were breakfast dishes still in the sink, and crud on the floor—that ugly tile that I want to demolish anyway—and before I knew it, I was just angry. At dinner. At life. At the fact that everything is hard, dinner is never easy to make, and the house will never be clean.

And then I think about my sister. And about how she has twice the family that I have, and twice the dishes and twice the laundry and that means she has twice the frustration and anger, doesn't it? If life is already this hard to manage—I wondered, how will I ever be a mother without becoming an alcoholic, rageaholic, shopaholic, or divorcee? How is it even possible?  In her reaction to this book, Leigh wrote words that cut to my soul.

"My heart claws for something, ANYTHING to make this motherhood journey more graceful, clear, predictable, and if possible, that I remain largely undisrupted. Regrettably, there is always more. More laundry, more groceries, more dishes, more clutter. More spit-spray on that bathroom mirror. All this endless hassle-work when our souls are screaming for rest, solace, order.  (When you think about it, everything under the sun constantly moves toward disorder, and we can only do so much to subdue the process.)"

I feel that way. And it's just me and Patrick. And I feel that way.

How do I ward off depression and frustration and thirty more years of "this is not enough?" Voskamp eloquently explains that there is only one response that will make any difference. It's the response of King David and Daniel and Jesus and Ruth and anyone who's ever been called close to God. The response is gratitude.

The dare is simple. Write down 1,000 things you are grateful for that are right here in  your every day life. Purposefully, carefully chronicle the gifts that already exist here and now. Leigh shared the start of her list here. She said the practice has changed her life. And I deeply want it to change mine, too.

So here I go.

• sugar crystals like glass shards on a ginger cookie
• red haunches stoic in a bay window
• sun bathing an orange velvet chair
• cream swirling through black coffee, spoon led
• bitter, fragrant fresh cinnamon
• a pregnant blank page and blinking cursor
• rushing drips of his morning shower
• smell of warm rain on grass
• sore muscles from work in earth

The beautiful thing about gratitude is that it focuses my eyes on details that every single day I let pass me by. As a writer, I need this discipline to be observant. As a woman, I need this discipline to be grateful. As I human, I think I need this discipline to survive without becoming bitter, angry, and hardened.

Thank you, Leigh, for this book. Thank you Ann, for writing it. Thank you God for giving us words and "pens as eyes," and people to share the gifts we find like hidden secrets, whispers of heaven on earth.

So grab a pen. Ann dared Leigh. Leigh dared me. Now I dare you.

On how God told me to write a book... and it happened.

Have you ever had a burning bush moment? A moment where heart pounding, feet tingling, you feel the presence of God and sense that what you're hearing is audible and silent and hidden from the world, but apparent to you? I've had one of those moments, and it happened in January, sitting in church, hearing a sermon about Ruth—a message about losing control. The turning point in Ruth comes when she presents herself all gussied up to Boaz, hoping that he might take her as a wife. But then he turns around and basically says, "wait, I need to take care of a few things." Ruth is let waiting, wondering, and completely out of control. She has no power to determine what happens next—it's all in his hands. And behind the scenes, without Ruth's knowledge, Boaz orchestrates everything necessary to redeem her and her husband's land. Though she didn't know it, there were conversations happening outside her earshot that changed her life.

And during that sermon, I felt something stirring in my heart that couldn't be called anything but crazy. TOTALLY CRAZY. It wasn't a voice, it wasn't a literal burning bush. It was this still, quiet thought that entered my heart in the  midst of a song. You need to write a book.

"Sure," I thought, responding to the thought. "I've always wanted to write a book, and I think I will some day." But my best efforts to kick the "book-writing" can down the road were thwarted. The thought kept pestering, breaking through, and finding its way to the pages of my journal where I was keeping notes. It was as if someone was whispering in my veins, Let go right now and be ready to write a book. Like Ruth, forget control and money and your schedule and find out what's been happening behind the scenes on your behalf. 

I've never left church so confused. At the grocery store afterwards, filling our cart with apples and turkey and sausage and orange juice for the week ahead—I told Patrick what I felt I'd heard that morning. He looked dumbfounded. What would I write about? I didn't know. Would I quit everything else and just start writing something? I didn't know. Would it take six years or six days or six months? I had no answers.

A few weeks went by and I tried to forget that I thought that God had called me to write a book. "You are so vain," I told myself. "You just want to write a book so you can be rich and famous. God doesn't call people to write books. People write books because they are conceited and want the world to think they're smart."

Yikes. I stuffed down these self-deprecating thoughts and insults, and smashed down the burning bush moment with them.

Unbeknownst to me, during this time a publisher was making a call to a non-profit in Michigan. Over one phone call, they asked the founder if he thought he could compile a book. Then, that founder called a friend in Nashville and asked if the friend knew any writers. Then that CEO called me.

It had been two weeks since that heart thumping, God-fearing moment in church. My phone vibrated and flashed an unknown number from Michigan. It was Brad Formsma, the founder of I Like Giving. He introduced himself, then asked me a simple question. "Claire, would you be willing to help me write a book?"

I said yes.

I'm telling you this story because I wonder what's happening in your life right now. If God is moving in my life, he's moving in yours. Because he loves me, and he loves you, and he's up to stuff! Perhaps even really big, mountain-moving stuff. And what if we cram it down and ignore it? And what if we label it coincidence instead of calling? We need to tell each other how God is moving. Because telling stories is a beautiful form of praise. We need to hear each others stories—because it reminds us that he is real and good and love. I need your story to keep me believing.

So, will you tell it?