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Beautiful. Just, beautiful.

“Death in His Grave” by John Mark McMillan

Though the Earth Cried out for blood
Satisfied, her hunger was
Her billows calmed on raging seas
for the souls on men she craved

Sun and moon from balcony
Turned their head in disbelief
Their precious Love would taste the sting
disfigured and disdained

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke with keys
Of Hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The Man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave

So three days in darkness slept
The Morning Sun of righteousness
But rose to shame the throes of death
And over turn his rule

Now daughters and the sons of men
Would pay not their dues again
The debt of blood they owed was rent
When the day rolled a new

On Friday a thief
On Sunday a King
Laid down in grief
But awoke holding keys
To Hell on that day
The first born of the slain
The Man Jesus Christ
Laid death in his grave

He has cheated
Hell and seated
Us above the fall
In desperate places
He paid our wages
One time once and for all

A few days ago, I wrote a little ditty (I’ve always wanted to say that) on being a female in youth ministry. Once I opened up that can, all kinds of other thoughts flew out and well, I think I’m onto something here. So there may be a slew of “on being a female youth minister,” and if that annoys you, well, this was your decision to read and it can be your decision to ignore (see how I did that?).

There’s another oddity that my husband and I have discovered in this short journey of ours: being a youth minister’s husband. It’s quite the rare combination. Not only do I feel like the odd woman out in circles, but he certainly does, as well. For example, the first Saturday of the month, the wives of ministers at our church get together to have fun, drink coffee/tea, and just get to know one another. When Kyle and I first came here, Kyle (jokingly) asked, “Do I get invited to that?” A couple of days ago, one of the wives (who is one of my friends) mentioned it in conversation (half-heartedly) and said, “I just realized, why haven’t we ever invited you?” Uh… because I’m on the other side of the fence? But not really, because I’m a woman? But not really, because I’m doing the same things your husband is doing that make you mad? And my husband puts up with the same thing you do? Now you see where the confusion comes in.

Kyle doesn’t knit, bake, play the piano, get pregnant, stay at home with little babies, decorate a house, host dinner parties, or all these other stereotypical things I’ve just placed on minister’s wives (and things I love/would also love to do one day–with the exception of knitting). I know that the pressure they feel is immense and something I cannot comprehend. But figuring out what this looks like gender-reversed has been quite the awkward challenge. And other women that are in similar positions as me have pretty much the same response: we don’t know, either.

So here’s to you, minister’s husband: I commend you. You are her support, encouragement, love, and undoubtedly one of the biggest reasons (outside of Jesus) that she feels so comfortable in her own skin. Thank you for being who you are.

And thank you, Kyle, for putting up with one of the most ridiculous human beings to ever walk this earth. That I know for sure.

I hardly write about my “job” in here (I use quotes because the lines of job/lifestyle/role are pretty blurry), mostly because I want to protect myself from only thinking about, writing about, talking about, and being about youth ministry. Not because I don’t love it, I love and cherish what I get to do on a daily basis. My role breathes life into me as I give of myself on a weekly basis, and I am continually grateful for the chance to do what I love.

There is a little thing though that I’d like to dedicate this to–to any other woman out there that is in ministry (or any profession largely populated by men, for that matter). It’s a fun/awkward challenge walking into rooms overly-populated by men. My first few “area youth ministry meetings” went something like this: men stare and I can only imagine what they’re thinking, “Is she… an assistant? Is she… lost? Is she… the wife of someone here? Is she… one of… us?” You doubt me, but this past time I asked Nick (the other youth pastor at CRCC) to watch and observe and he couldn’t believe it. Nailed it.

With all that said, there’s also another avenue in which this is a tough road to walk–and to any woman on this road I want to encourage you to let yourself be a woman. I have seen many women become intimidated by the role and feel as if they need to lead like the men they’re observing. That is simply not the case. I am a woman for a reason. That does not mean I am automatically meek, humble, gentle, patient… it means that I lead differently. I lead as a woman. I teach as a woman. I interact with leaders, as a woman. I cry at the drop of a hat, I prefer drinking coffee with students before nailing a kid with a dodgeball, I tell stories about show choir instead of high school football glory days. I’m a woman. And there is nothing shameful about that.

So here’s to you, woman in a man’s world. You must master the art of wearing the skin of a rhino and the heart of a saint. That’s a tall order.

Last year, for the first time in my entire life, I went a little crazy about March Madness. I was almost unrecognizable with the level of intensity and passion I put into a game I had never cared about. I also shamelessly paraded my bulldog around Broad Ripple (for you non-Indy people, an area right next to Butler University’s campus), and she certainly got the celeb treatment. Here are pictures to prove it (as if I need the embarrassment):

I think it’s time to be shameless again. Listen, when you’ve got a dog this great . . .

This struck me yesterday:

When Job’s three friends heard about all this calamity that had happened to him, each of them came from his own country – Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite. They met together to come to show sympathy for him and to console him. But when they gazed intently from a distance but did not recognize him, they began to weep loudly. Each of them tore his robe, and they threw dust into the air over their heads.Then they sat down with him on the ground for seven days and seven nights, yet no one spoke a word to him, for they saw that his pain was very great. (Job 2:11-13)

It’s one thing to read the words and themes in Job and contemplate suffering and pain. It’s quite another to walk with people through it. Grief is something so big, indescribable, painful, numbing… that there are no words to justify it. And so often I forget that.

I feel like I’ve been attending a lot of funerals lately, and that’s because… I have. Death is everywhere and I cannot stop it–no matter how much I hate or wish it would go away. Death is always going to be apart of my life because I am a living, breathing human and until my heart stops beating and my soul goes to Heaven, I will feel and know the sting that death brings. And because I invest fully into relationships and leave very little room for barriers or guarding–I love deeply. And loving deeply hurts.

One of my former students, Tessa, died this weekend. Being a person that believes in something bigger than myself, I know this is not the end. But watching college freshmen grieve their best friend’s death sometimes makes it feel like death is the end. Trying to muster up words to say when a mother is holding her dead son’s hand certainly makes it feel sometimes, although I know otherwise, like there is no life beyond this. I know that the “why?” road is a dead-end one, and that when I get to Heaven, I will be so ecstatic that I won’t even remember all of the why questions, anyhow. And I’m learning that instead of asking why, I really need to ask, “who?” Who gave Tessa life? Who gives us hope? Who do I trust? Who created the sun, stars, and ocean? Who can bind up broken hearts? Who can bring comfort that surpasses human understanding? Certainly not me.

This year has been a rough one. I’m still trying to wrap my heart around it. I don’t know that I ever will. And I am going to ignore the longing in my soul to say cheap words to make this moment much easier to bear, when I know that right now, like Job’s friends, sitting in silence is the only real option.

Party up there for us, Tessa. I’m sure you are busy TPing houses, duct-taping Bibles, making pancakes, and creating a cool-kids-corner in Heaven. And we’re all jealous.

A few weeks ago, my mom dropped off a lot of junk from my old room in her house–mostly a collection of journals, yearbooks, scrapbooks, art projects, etc. I went down memory lane a little bit tonight (always a dangerous thing to do) and was actually a little bit surprised at what I found.

Before I got married, I pretty much saw life as pre-Jesus, post-Jesus. My life came to a dramatic halt when Jesus got a hold of my heart and it’s been a long, hard, beautiful journey ever since. But now, I look at pictures and see pre-marriage Anne, post-marriage Anne. Or, Anne Durham and Anne Wilson.

There’s this piece of marriage that not very many women talk about, and when they do, it’s difficult to define. It’s almost the “problem with no name” Betty Friedan so eloquently wrote about so many years ago, except that–it doesn’t feel like a problem, per se, just an experience that’s hard to identify. It’s the loss of an identity, but saying that makes it sound bad. It’s not bad–it’s just… a loss. A loss of a last name is only the beginning of it, of course. With that comes the loss of independence, the loss of freedom (in a good way), the loss of being… well, Anne Durham.

Not that Kyle forced me into taking his name, it was something I chose. I don’t want our kids being those kids that are constantly confused about why mommy couldn’t just be like the other moms and go with it. And on top of that, for me, I saw no reason to get married if I was going to continue on in my independence–I could do that well enough being single.

Good ole Solomon did say that the test of true friendship is like iron and iron–shaping and growing one another in the most honest (and brutal) way. And although I have not personally put the two together, I can only imagine that when iron meets iron, some sparks fly. Looking through pictures of “pre-married Anne” and “post-married Anne” tonight, I could actually see a difference in my eyes. Anne Durham, the one that thought she knew everything there was to know (and then some) about the world and people, the girl that accepted a year-long internship five states away before asking her long-term boyfriend (that she planned on marrying) how that would affect him, the girl who decided to graduate/get a full-time job/get married in the same semester (and saw no reason why that might be problematic), the girl who would’ve believed she could push a whole bus by herself if she had to, and well quite frankly the girl who ran 150mph through life just because she could.

And I wouldn’t have changed a single thing about that girl. But marriage did.

I know this will not surprise anyone, but I was pretty naive about marriage before heading into it. I didn’t think I was, of course. Even eight pre-marital counseling sessions later, I was still so oblivious. Life was all about me and my plan, my dream, my vision. I can remember thinking–while planning that whole graduation/job/wedding business, that I could handle it because a wedding wasn’t going to change much for us. Sure, we were going to now be living in the same place, which had never happened. Sure, there were quite a few physical changes about to take place, but lots of people go through that, right? Sure, Kyle and I had been dating for three years, what else was there to know (this makes me laugh out loud just writing it)? Sure, it’s no big deal to get married on a Saturday and drive two hours back to school on a Monday. Marriage doesn’t change that much, just my last name and well… just about everything.

A week after we got married, in between drives to Cincinnati and Indianapolis, I can actually remember sitting in one of my favorite coffee shops in Northern Kentucky thinking to myself, “My life is actually going to be different when I go back.” That sounds so silly when I say it aloud, but seriously, I thought that. Thinking about coming home to a husband instead of an empty room, planning out meals so that we could spend quality time together at the dinner table, and well just about every circumstantial/intentional/life-changing/superficial decision changed for me.

I am no longer the girl that can drop everything and move within a day. I am no longer the girl who can visit people in different cities on a whim just because I can. I am no longer the girl who can lay out options 1, 2, 3 of what to do with my summer: Africa, North Carolina, or Cincinnati and legitimately consider trying them all at once. I am no longer the girl who can come home to a house full of girls and walk to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant just because it’s Tuesday. I am no longer… Anne Durham.

But, I will tell you what I am…

I am the woman who gets to love the most amazing man I know. I am the woman who gets to dream and pray for a life that will glorify the Lord of our hearts. I am the woman who gets to share my life with my best friend. I am the woman who gets to sit across from the dinner table and share my deepest secrets and laugh until I pee my pants… all because I am sharing a meal with the one my soul loves. I am the woman who gets to encourage the man I married on a daily basis. I am the woman who gets sharpened in the most beautiful and painful way I’ve ever known because I chose to share my life with someone that does not think the sun shines out of my rear (and tells me so). I am the woman that is loved like Christ loved the Church in a real, visual way… because I gave up Anne Durham for Anne Wilson.

Marriage is a sacrifice. No one forced me into this covenantal relationship, I chose it and I chose it gladly. No one forced me into loving Christ, He chose me and I chose Him back. I didn’t know what I was giving up at the time. When I chose Jesus, of course I was naive. I thought life with Christ meant that problems go away… not that your eyes become more aware of the world’s pain and that your heart becomes more vulnerable to it. When I got married, I didn’t realize what it meant to be one, and what that really meant I was giving up. Yes, it’s hard. Every relationship worth having is hard. But I wouldn’t choose that girl over this woman any day, even on the hardest of days.

“What is real?” asked the Rabbit one day.

When they were lying side-by-side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly except to people who don’t understand.”

-Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

It’s been a long time since I’ve blogged/updated/ranted/expressed myself through written word, and so today, I will confess, this will not be poetic or lovely but simply a medley, a mixed bag of information of the last month or so. I completely understand if you check out now.

We were grateful beyond reason this year to spend so much time with people we love… family, friends, students–ah, it’s been so good. Kyle had his first experience of “teacher break,” which–who knew, by the way, that teachers look forward to winter break more than students? Affter the first two days of pure slothdom/recovery passed, he couldn’t sit still and ended up doing house projects, playing basketball, reading up for his J-Term class, and hanging out with people he normally wouldn’t be able to. I had a bit of a lax break, as well, as the office at Chapel Rock was open sporadically and as a youth ministry we take it easy in December, which is nice. We had all kinds of people over throughout the holiday–college friends, Chapel Rock friends, Covenant friends, westside friends, our families… man it was good. And once again, I was affirmed of our decision in taking the house plunge. I love hosting and all that entails.

Kyle is teaching his first J-Term class right now. Covenant does January a little different than most high schools–teachers are allowed to pick a subject (with very little limitation) and teach it for 3-hour blocks during the day for two weeks. Some students choose internships with companies during that time, some get to go on mission trips, and some choose classes they want to take. Kyle is teaching a class on the Civil War, so as you can imagine he is loving every minute of it.

And as for me, I am getting ready for the new year… planning, creating, dreaming, exercising, and all of that. I have been seriously lax in the health department, and whenever I think about how disciplined I used to be about exercise I want to kick myself. It’s not about weight, it’s about being healthy (I keep telling myself that). And because of my history, it is necessary for my mental and emotional sanity that I spend time with my endorphins. Therefore, to motivate (and guilt) myself into exercise, I signed up for the Mini-Marathon in Indy this Spring. Yes, you read that right. I (not a natural runner) will be panting my way through jogging 13 miles this May.

There you have it, there’s your Wilson Update for the new year. No official resolutions (although my dream of meeting Ellen Degeneres is still on the list) or crazy stories. Our hearts were filled to the brim, we ate way too much, and are now getting out of the holiday-funk that both of us set into without routine. So here’s to a new year! I promise something meaningful next time…