Maybe you’re the dream I’m waking from

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28, New International Version)

One of the most amazing mysteries of my faith (besides the idea that God could become human and atone for all of my misdeeds) is encapsulated in that verse. I’ve marveled not only at God’s mercy but also his might since my first steps as a baby Christian. Both before and since setting out on this journey I’ve done things in knowing disobedience of God’s will. But even those blatantly rebellious acts have been worked to my best. Unreal… and yet so true.

I remember sitting through a lot of “girl talks” in those early days. In one such session, girls discussed how far was too far in a “Christian relationship.” I knew my newfound faith would challenge me to approach relationships differently, but I didn’t know the bounds.

I did know that, wherever that elusive line of physicality had been drawn, I had ventured far past it. I secretly hoped that, when I found the man with whom I’d spend my life, he too would have a “checkered past” and therefore would find my missteps easier to swallow.

Then I changed my mind—instead I longed for a man whose Christian upbringing would provide me with a family of faith unlike my own. The hurts I saw in my own family life would be healed in my interactions with his. Meanwhile, he would shine brightly before those I love in a way I was afraid I could not.

You could call me naïve.

My desires have long since abandoned both extremes. Now I merely desire a man who will strive to push my gaze heavenward. Whether he be a redeemed “heathen” or a genteel sort who has long embraced the umbrella of God’s grace doesn’t matter.

That’s the beauty of regeneration. Perhaps the man I will marry (if I marry) has made as many or even more physical mistakes than I. Perhaps he is as pristine as the day is long. It truly doesn’t matter if he falls to either extreme or lands squarely in the middle.

What matters is that Jesus has made him clean, as He has me. I’m not proud of what past I have, but I don’t view myself as damaged goods. Christ’s grace covers those and every mistake.

And He used them to bring me to Him. It’s strange, but He is a beautiful mystery.

Pink it’s the color of passion ’cause today it just goes with the fashion

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m afraid that, if you were to meet me as the books I have on loan from the library instead of the marvelous, witty and reasonably attractive model of humility I am, you would instantly label me an airhead or a bimbo. Try this list on for size:

Legally Blonde, novel, by Amanda Brown
He’s Just Not That Into You, dating self help, by Greg Behrendt & Liz Tuccillo
Isn’t It Romantic?, novel, by Ron Hansen
The Hell with Love: Poems to Mend a Broken Heart, anthology, edited by Mary D. Esselman & Elizabeth Ash Velez

Have you stereotyped me yet? The above list isn’t so much a reflection of my personality as it is a testament to the power of pink. Of these, three books prominently feature pink on their jackets. (The fourth boasts the word “romantic” in its title and a strip of flowers runs across the bottom centimeter of its cover. That’s practically the same thing as abusing the girliest color of them all.)

I may not be a bimbo (as one friend suggested pink wearing girls usually are), but I am gullible. Dress something—anything!—up in pink and/or modern design, and I’m convinced. I’m a marketing executive’s dream.

But I’ve lied. I’ve just given you half of my actual reading list. Also sitting in a “to read” pile beside my bed are the following:

Why Read?, nonfiction, by Mark Edmundson
Not Your Mother’s Life, sociology, by Joan K. Peters
The 5 Patterns of Extraordinary Careers, nonfiction, by James M. Citrin & Richard A. Smith
Religion on Campus: What Religion Really Means to Today’s Undergraduates, nonfiction, by Conrad Cherry, Betty A. DeBerg and Amanda Porterfield

I’m not sure if this half of the list exposes me as a more serious, thoughtful individual or as slightly schizophrenic. Like the first half, these titles offer well designed, clean covers, though they center on more meaningful topics. (And when I say clean, I’m referring to more than appearance. I noticed some library books reek of cigarette smoke. I actually replaced a few volumes that I would have carried home if not for the stench.)

But in a collection of essays that I just finished reading, Nick Hornby (my favorite author) suggested that you’re more than what you read. You are what you buy:

All the books we own, both read and unread, are the fullest expression of self we have at our disposal. My music is me, too, of course–but as I only really like rock and roll and its mutations, huge chunks of me–my rarely examined operatic streak, for example–are unrepresented in my CD collection. And I don’t have the wall space or the money for all the art I would want, and my house is a shabby mess, ruined by children… But with each passing year, and with each whimsical purchase, our libraries become more and more able to articulate who we are, whether we read the books or not.

Perhaps I’m biased because of my own reading/shopping tendencies, or maybe because of my unshakable allegiance to anything Hornby writes. In any case, I much prefer this theory to judgment by library card. Take a look at my most recent purchases:

Searching for God Knows What, Christian nonfiction, by Don Miller
The Polysyllabic Spree, literature essays, by Nick Hornby
Cash: The Autobiography, musician autobiography, by Johnny Cash
Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs, pop culture essays, by Chuck Klosterman
Songbook, music essays, by Nick Hornby

I’m far more selective about my bookstore purchases than my library selections; in fact, these are the only books I’ve purchased since returning to Alabama in August. (Compare that to upwards of 100 books I’ve laid down the library card to obtain.) Buying a book is a commitment, something of a claim that “this is me.” The books on my shelf mark my territory: I see myself as something of a pop culture observing, music listening, God fearing Christian twenty something. Legally Blonde won’t merit repeated reads (20 pages in and I can see that the movie didn’t stray far from the book), and He’s Just Not That Into You makes its point without even opening its pages. I may judge a book by its cover, but if you’re going to categorize me, at least take the entire contents of my bookcase into account.

Daydream, I walk along on air

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

Somehow when I get in these daydreamy-romanticizing-life kinda moods, I find myself at Starbucks with $5 worth of food and drink before me. Never mind that I was on my way home to read a book and cuddle with my cat over a cup of coffee. I’ll probably still do that. But an iced toffee nut latte struck my fancy, and my stomach cried out for a scone. So here I am.

I have a notebook meant to be kept in my car for moments like this, when the urge strikes and I’ve got to transfer my thoughts to paper. It’s the perfect pad for this occasion—its cover proclaims “Chocolate, coffee, and men are so much better when they’re rich.” Alas, I sometimes carry that spiral bound to me inside to copy down the words I’ve inscribed, and inside my house is where it now resides. Today’s ramblings are just as at home on the back of my receipt.

I have nothing particular to say—that’s one of the drawbacks of unemployment. A quiet life split between the T.V., computer, crosswords and books doesn’t leave much to share. My pen moves now more from habit than need to communicate information.

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’m a sucker for The Bachelor and The Bachelorette—I’ll admit it. I don’t obsess over the shows, but I have been watching them since the initial season with Alex as The Bachelor. (He was a scum bucket, in case you missed it.) Years later, I find myself in front of the TV, eating up every minute of the two hour season premiere of The Bachelorette.

No, it’s not exactly something to brag about.

So I’ve been watching the series on and off (as my schedule has permitted) since the first season, but it wasn’t until tonight that I understood why. As I watched a bevy of attractive men flood a New York City apartment, it all clicked: I like the show because it’s like a fairy tale.

Okay, a modern day fairy tale, but a fairy tale just the same. Twenty five men—25 men!—attempt to sweep this woman off her feet. While they turn on the charm, she parades around the fancy apartments and the most exciting city on earth dressed like a model. (Does she have a make up person? I want a make up person!) Everything she does is like magic. Dates take place in Central Park, at fancy restaurants, in the most idyllic locales you can imagine.

I know it’s not real life. I know that, even if ABC would consider a conservative Christian girl prone to break outs, I would not really go on such a show. But for an hour or two each week, it’s fun to pretend…

Being Southern is a state of mind

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

While discussing various relations, a friend of mine credited the size of his family to his Italian heritage. I thought it an interesting observation—then I wondered what my heritage says about me.

When you can trace your ancestry back some 200 years and still find yourself in the southeastern United States, I’d say you’re pretty stinkin’ American—and dang Southern. We may currently reside in Alabama—but prior to that we were Georgians—and once upon a time we were Carolinians (of the northern sort—and that’s about as close to Yankeedom as we come!).

Okay, okay—I have heard rumors that our roots are some blend of French and English. We’re very Anglo. (Oh, and when I was young I told people we were part Swedish, ‘cause I thought it sounded cool. And part Cherokee, but that part is true, though miniscule.)

But mostly I’m just Southern, and from what I’ve heard, it shows. Save for my Yankee sister, my family exhibits a Southern drawl. (I don’t hear it, but others insist it’s there.) I’m a diehard football fan, and that was actually a factor in both of my college selections. We can cook, we can eat, and we’ve got that hospitality thing (and its accompanying sets of rules!) down pat.

The weirdest thing anyone has noted about my Southern heritage is my appearance. I didn’t know you could look Southern—I’m not sure you can look Southern! But apparently something about strawberry blonde curls and fair skin screams Southern belle.

Who knew?

You ask me ’bout creamer, you ask me ’bout sugar…

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I’ve just made a startling discovery:

I like black coffee!

No great story or opportunity for a little writing exercise here. It’s just a bit of info I thought those who care about my coffee drinking habits would care to know. I brewed too much coffee and filled my favorite mug to the rim. Instead of dumping my precious Sumatra in the sink, I decided to sip it down till there’s room for cream.

It ain’t half bad.

Maybe the black coffee takes the edge off a stressful week. Now that my master’s project has sucessfully been defended and I’m set to graduate in two weeks (!!), I have a moment to relax.

Odds are I’ll be writing before the end of the weekend. But in the meantime, why don’t you entertain us all with a description of your favorite coffee mug?

(Oh–mine is an oversized pink mug with a heart shaped handle and the word “amore.” printed near its base. It may have competition soon with the arrival of my Christmas mugs–but at least they’re all from Alisa. She’ll remain the clear winner!)

I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

Posted on by Carla Jean Whitley

I was listening to The Joshua Tree while I was getting ready this afternoon (yes, I’ve been lazy this weekend) and I thought, “If I were ever to run a personal ad, that would have to be my headline.” And then I realized how odd that thought was. Why on earth would I ever run a personal ad?

Every so often I realize I’m dissatisfied with my life. It seems to happen on a cycle of sorts… maybe it’s every two years. I’m not sure. In any case, I wake up one day with “Why Georgia” sentiments on the mind, and it takes a lot to shake it.

I think it might be ’cause I’m a little bit crazy.

This sense of dissatisfaction took root during spring of my senior year at FSU. I made several attempts to shake it: I convinced a couple of friends to skip class and go hiking in Georgia with me. (For the record, that remains one of my favorite days of my life. I was very satisfied.) I decided not to accept the job I had lined up and started applying to grad school instead. (Ask me sometime about my GRE experience. It was one of the most disgusting moments of my young life.) I spent a summer in California. And eventually, I picked up and moved to Alabama.

It was a good move. I was ready to leave Tallahassee. I don’t know why, but when it’s time, you know it. Though the transition to Alabama was hard (I still don’t think I’m settled there), I knew it was where I needed to be.

Well, I’ve got the itch again, and I don’t know what to do about it. Quite frankly, I don’t know that I need to do anything about it.

We’ll just call it senioritis, though I didn’t know that was an option in graduate school.

In any case, I’ve found myself longing for FSU over the past couple of weeks. More accurately, I’ve been reminiscing about FSU in the Spring of 2002. I have no interest in moving back to Tallahassee, thankyouverymuch. I actually like Birmingham very much, despite its pollution and my lack of employment.

You know what I think it is? I miss the community. I remember my final week as an undergrad… it was filled with precious moments with what were then dear friends. My only all-nighter of my college career took place that week, and involved BBQ ribs, fountain swimming, Playdoh, popsicles, John Mayer and Risk. I passed the hours the following night at a coffee shop while I wrote, curled up between two friends on an old couch. I remember calling a close friend to cry while I was on my way to a graduation party. I was surrounded, both literally and figuratively, by people who loved me.

That’s not the case anymore. I can’t downplay the importance of long distance friends–many of my favorite people live far, far away. But neither can I ignore the value of friendships in the city where I reside.

There’s no easy solution. I don’t even know if I’ll be in Birmingham for longer than a month or two. I’ve got to keep pushing, even though I don’t really want to. And maybe eventually I’ll find a few people who appreciate my special brand of crazy. 🙂