Autobiography

At a dinner party last weekend, a friend proposed a round of two truths and a lie. I immediately flashed back to college—but as he pointed out, some people at the gathering didn’t know each other so well. An icebreaker would be appropriate.

OK, good point.

My only struggle was coming up with a lie to suitably match my truths! And so now I present my own variation on the game: 15 truths and no lies.

 

1. I was named after a race car driver.
2. I have a scar from a container of deodarant.
3. I once performed in an NFL halftime show with the Village People.
4. I met Peter Gallagher at a Starbucks.
5. I was an extra in a movie starring Keri Russell.
6. Candace Bushnell, creator of Sex and the City, has discussed my love life (or lack thereof).
7. I’ve eaten barbecue with Derek Webb (or, well, he dipped bread in barbecue sauce and we ate ribs).
8. I almost died when I was 2.
9. I’ve interviewed a former Miss America, Daniel Wallace (author of Big Fish and other fabulous novels) and a member of Sister Hazel.
10. On the day I moved to college, my family owned something like 29 cats.
11. I’ve been to Walt Disney World 40-plus times (but I’ve never visited Busch Gardens).
12. I lived in Florida for 15 years, but with the exception of two nights in Ft. Myers, I’ve never been to South Florida.
13. I made my local radio debut when I was about 4, and was on another program when I was 17.
14. I have been on stage during a performance of a touring Broadway musical.
15. My name appears in three books (although I’m sad to say, it has yet to be printed on the cover of any!).

Here’s hoping I never have to play that game again, now that I’ve spilled my secrets!

My friend Philip often dreams of running away to some place more exotic than Tuscaloosa, Alabama—somewhere like Scotland, or North Carolina. I used to join in with daydreams of my own. Maybe I should earn another master’s at the University of Edinburgh, or live on bread, butter and coffee at a café in France. Perhaps my dream job and accompanying adventure awaited at a small town newspaper somewhere north of here.

 

Then one day I realized, I already ran away.

 

Six years ago I faced college graduation, the milestone I’d been so eager to reach that I rushed a four year degree into three. I had everything planned out: I had been accepted on staff with Campus Crusade for Christ. All that remained was raising support for training, then learning which Southeastern college campus I’d be placed on. It was the obvious path for a girl once dubbed the Campus Crusade poster child.

 

But it wasn’t the right path. One month before graduation I finally admitted that Crusade staff wasn’t the best fit for me—for my personality or my gifts. I was 20 years old, suddenly directionless and scared to death.

 

I now think it’s pretty normal to feel confused, aimless and depressed during that first year after graduation. At the time, I had dreams, ideas I’d longed to pursue since childhood. Fear (of failure, of bankruptcy, of an unkown city and a state I’d left 15 years earlier) and then my own comfort had held me back. I wanted to write. I desperately missed it; I had decided in fifth grade to become a journalist. But I wasn’t trained, and I wondered if I could satisfy this craving in my free time. Terror immobilized me, and I remained in Florida.

 

It wasn’t right. I knew it wasn’t. When a friend told me he didn’t understand why I had to leave, I couldn’t find the words to answer him. I didn’t fit there anymore.

 

And maybe I was wrong, or foolish. Maybe I was strange, thinking Alabama was where I could “find myself.” But I had to leave. One year after abandoning the path I’d planned so carefully, I left everyone behind and pointed my car toward Tuscaloosa.

 

It sounds so silly now. Millions of people go to grad school every year, like it’s the obvious next step. Now, I’ve moved back and forth through cities where I didn’t know anyone, or didn’t know anyone who wasn’t a blood relative. But then, I was 21 and holding to a firm conviction that this was what I had to do. Both Alabama and picking up a pen were my calling.

 

I can’t, won’t, paint all that’s happened since in rosy shades. There’s been loneliness, broken hearts, triumphs and family problems. But now, when Philip talks about running away to Europe, my daydreams involve month-long vacations instead of existential crises grappled with in some foreign land. I’ve found a place (the place?) where I fit, where I am the most myself. My heart is tied to this city.

 

Somehow, running away brought me home.

A friend and I exchanged a series of emails this week, seeking a time we could meet for coffee after falling out of touch for months. I told her I could meet immediately after work Monday or Wednesday, or we could consider weekends. She replied to say she has meetings both of those nights but was available Saturday afternoon or Sunday evening. “I have church Sunday night and plans until about noon on Saturday, but I could meet up after lunch,” I replied. We settled on a time and place, then questioned, when did we grow so tied to our calendars? 

Truthfully, I feel like it’s become even more difficult than that to negotiate space in my life for myself. I tend to have one week a month when I’ve got obligations every evening—usually fun stuff, but it keeps me away from home just the same. This month, I think I’m staring at my third consecutive week of mayhem.

 

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the need to create space in my life. You could argue it from a spiritual perspective (I will), but it’s necessary even without considering that. I crave alone time, hours spent with books, my journal, my Bible, my cookbooks. I love people deeply, but I have to couple my time with friends with alone time. It nourishes me.

 

On Sunday, my pastor talked about Jesus and our stuff—how it defines us, how materialism affects our lives and spirituality. What do you want for your children, he asked. Is your focus on academic success, material wealth, athletic prowess? Or do you long for them to love Jesus?

 

I don’t have children, and I don’t imagine I will for years to come. Even so, that question rang out like a challenge, a new call to examine my own priorities. It feels like there’s such pressure to be the fabulous young single—to frequent the hot new places in town, attend the big concerts, put in an appearance at the “see and be seen” events. I know people who have accomplished so much, whose job titles suggest glamour and importance.