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.

Spotlight On: Women

Today is International Women's Day, and all around the world, people are celebrating the achievements made for and by women over the years. I was so thankful to take part in today by sharing the story of Nashville's own Jordan Duncan, and her work with FashionABLE and African Leadership to make a difference in the lives of African women with the Tennessean. If you haven't seen the story, go check it out!

I want to celebrate the women in my life too.

I'm thankful for my mother, the woman who made me woman. The mother of my physical and spiritual self.

For my sisters, the women who yelled when I stole their make-up, but cried with me when I first had my heart broken—the women I call when I don't know what to do with this recipe, or that friend, or that piece of furniture. The women I called and said, "I've met the guy I'm going to marry." The women who are mothers, and make me want to mother, too.

I'm thankful for the woman whose daughter was my first friend. With small hands and lives ahead, we clasped together, walked the yellow brick road, always knowing we both could be Dorothy and make it to Emerald City. But the journey is harrowing, full of song and laughter and tears and evil and good. We are friends, and we were friends, and we will be friends forever.

And for the women who were my teachers - the ones who challenged me, and taught me to read and write and push through things I didn't understand. The ones who let me cry in their classrooms because I felt alone, or homesick for a home I'd left behind.

And for the other girls who walked through some of the darkest valleys, and pimpliest days, and most confusion together while at West Point. The ones who walked up the up stairs, and down the down stairs, and wore pajamas on the last day of school. To the girls who wrote me notes, and read mine, too. To the girls who wrapped a locker, and told a secret. To the ones who practiced testifying against a man who nearly wrecked our lives. To the ones who helped me seek God. The women, who then longed desperately for love from each other, from our parents, from those boys down the street in Lee Area.

For the women I met in China. For  the way they showed me love, though our lives are separated by waters and continents and time zones and an entire hemisphere. For the quiet presence of a mango on my desk during my loneliest days, far from home—and the sweet, soft hand of the Chinese roommate who placed it there. For the conversations in moonlight about Jesus. For the taste of sour chicken on my tongue, and the warmth of steaming soup rising to my face. For the sound of dumplings sizzling on a dorm room pot.

I consider  the women who counseled me through heartbreak and four years of confusion and self-reflection while in Greenville. The women who rode buses with me across states to the base of the Rocky Mountains. The women who baked cookies and watched trashy TV, and cried when he told me he didn't love me. The women who told me truth and shared deep fears, and walked through exams and fountains, and miles and aisles with me. The ones who stood by my side in blue, while I wore white.

For the mother-in-law who accepted me, open arms into her family. Who treats me like a friend, not like an intruder.

For the woman who taught me to write, and told me not to be afraid of it. And who fills me with wine and fun on nights when things aren't perfect (which is most nights).

I have been served and cared for and prayed for by the women in Nashville. By women who walk with integrity, and do work they are passionate about, and set an example of loving husbands with intentional fervor. For teaching me about sex on a canvas, and gratitude, and purpose.

For these women.

And for the ones to come.

A round of applause for Patrick!

As Valentine's Day approaches, I just have to brag a little bit on my man. It's only natural. First of all, isn't he handsome? Now that we have that out of the way, let me tell you some great news. Remember how we went to Seattle earlier this year? Well, we weren't just there to hang out and eat oysters, ride ferries, and sip coffee in the rain (although we definitely did all of those things and they were awesome).  No, we were actually there so Patrick could take a class. During that class, Patrick wrote a "demo," or in other words, a really long-ass appraisal like a thesis that has to be utterly perfect. Then, at the end of our trip, Patrick submitted his demo to a board of reviewers, and we went home.

Then, we had to wait for weeks to find out if what he submitted was up to snuff. Just after Christmas, we found out he passed! Thus ended a five-year journey toward this big ol' promotion. Since 2007, Patrick has been taking classes, tests, and logging hundreds of thousands of experience hours to earn a designation in the commercial real estate field called "MAI," which technically doesn't stand for anything, but if you must know, it used to stand for "Member, Appraisal Institute." This past week, he finally received the official designation!

I'm really proud of him. Oh yeah. And he brought me flowers and a surprise for my birthday. What a stud.

Okay bragging over. :)

Twenty Six Years.

On Sunday, I'll be twenty-six years old. Twenty-six years you guys. That's a bunch. Half a card deck. The number of stories this cat fell from. Two-tenths of a mile less than a marathon. Twenty-six.

In some ways it feels heavy to sit down and try to write about my twenty-fifth year. I lost my job. I made up my own job. I ran a half marathon. I tried the paleo thing. We traveled to Seattle, NYC, Boston, Greenville, St. Simons, and more. It's been a rollercoaster of a year. But overall, I can safely say it's been been a pretty darn good 25.

I'm heading out of town for the weekend, but before I do—I wanted to look back over this year. When I looked back over calendars, blog posts, pictures, and more... I feel so incredibly grateful. Here are 26 reasons why.

26. For a husband who supported me when I came home crying, and said I'd lost my job.

25. For Clay Kelton's wife, who convinced me to go take the Johnson O'Connor test.

24. For our cute dog that keeps me company at home when I'm writing.

23. For Sarah and Abiola, who helped me finish my first half marathon.

22. For Ryan and Lindsay Doyle, who shared their story with me.

21. For Rhonda Smith, who invested in my life, and helped me discover my passions.

20. For Roger Lewis, who spent time with me and Patrick at West Point.

19. For having a home—even if this world isn't it.

18. For my sweet friend who will drive up from Atlanta whenever I need her.

17. For delicious food right on the farm, thanks to Hank Delvin.

16. For a lesson in sacrifice thanks to Miranda Whitcomb Pontes.

15. For advice about life, writing, and independence from Kim Green.

14. For a back porch to enjoy in the spring and fall.

13. For a family to visit who lives at the beach.

12. For family to visit who live just down the street.

11. For an impromptu trip to Boston that ended with this.

10. For a husband that would let me take an impromptu trip to Boston.

9. For the chance to see Seattle, and everything it has to offer.

8. For a church that teaches me more about God every week.

7. For fresh coats of paint, and what a difference they make.

6. For the chance to call Nashville home.

5. For the ability to write, and be paid for it.

4. For the chance to share my first short story.

3. For the return of Downton Abbey. (I don't know how this made it to number 3)

2.  For the sweetest marriage I could have hoped for.

1. For a Savior who doesn't care what I've accomplished, but has grace for me because of what he accomplished.

Today, as I sit at my kitchen table and look at the window and hear the birds chip and smell cookies baking in the oven—I'm convinced that I'm on the verge of something. What might 2013 hold that I never would have imagined?

Here's to twenty six more.