you are what you eat.

My family has weird eating habits. I mean, I pour the milk in the bowl before the cereal so the cereal doesn't stand a chance of getting soggy. And I also really like ranch dressing on pretzals. But that is nothing. That is nothing compared to my family. They seem normal. They seem like your typical eaters. But my mom thinks multiple tiny slices aren't the same as one regular sized slice. My dad thinks eating spicy food that makes him sweat to the point of delirium is a good idea. And my brother consistently punishes himself for eating poorly. "Why did I just eat four cookies. I mean, seriously...WHY??" It's been a big day for food with the Langleys. Here are some examples of what I mean.

A Conversation between me and my mom on the phone today:

Me: Hey, I'm done with everything and going to stop at Schlotzky's to get lunch before I come home. Do you want anything?

Mom: No, thank you though. I'm just going to have a piece of cake for lunch.

Me: Okay?

Mom: Yeah. I had a boiled egg for breakfast and I'm having a piece of cake for lunch. I'm just really trying to watch it lately.

Me: .............


An Account Regarding Dinner by My Dad:

Dad: My stomach is killing me.

Kyle: Maybe it's because you had about three pounds of nachos after dinner.

Dad: No. That's just not right.

Me: Well, what is right?

Dad: Well I just had a couple pancakes and some bacon for dinner.

Kyle: Please. Please ask me how many pieces of bacon he ate.

Me: How many? How MANY?!?!?!

Kyle: Eight or nine.

Dad: No. That's just not right. I had probably six pieces of bacon and three pancakes. And maybe two tablespoons of syrup. Then we went out and played some basketball and I burned all that off.

Kyle: Ok that's just ridiculous. That bacon was probably like a thousand calories.

Me: Two tablespoons? I don't know how I can believe that.

Dad. Yeah, okay, so I burned all that off and a couple hours later I had a very small plate of nachos. But I put a lot of jalepenos on it. That's what got me.

Me: Why do you make decisions that you know will end badly?

Dad: I don't know.


My brother, a year ago, during a diet?

Kyle: Yeah, so I'm watching what I eat. And I'm also on a very strict work-out regimen. And every day that I blow it, I'm marking on my calendar. So at the end of the month, I have to eat a brussel sprout for every day that I didn't stick to the plan. That's punishment. Because brussel sprouts are the worst.

Me: I have to call Cat now.

real life is better than flat and cardboard

That is a picture of me and Flat Alan. That's not regular type Alan. That's the real life flat version of Alan at his parents' house. This picture is currently the wallpaper on my computer. I don't necessarily sit in the back row in class, so several people have recently said, "What's wrong with that guy?" And so I have said, "He's flat. And cardboard. And also not a real person." This leads to a conversation where I take the liberty of telling the acquaintance everything about Alan until they wish they were deaf and had never said anything about the picture.

You see, I'll pretty much take any chance I get to tell people, strangers, friends, teachers, baristas, people robotically* hitting the "next blog" button on blogger...you get the point...about Alan and how wonderful he is and exactly how many days it will be until he gets back to the states from Afghanistan. Sometimes I giggle. Sometimes I tear up. Sometimes I talk so quickly and exhaustively that I annoy even myself.

*not a word?

I can't discuss a decade in a blog post, so I'm not going to. All that matters is that the 3D, real life son, brother, friend, soldier, student, teacher, adventure-man, comedian, mischief-seeker, runner, hope-inspirer IS COMING HOME IN FIVE DAYS!

Alan is exactly what my dad always taught me to look for in a friend: loyal. Alan is steady and constant. He is faithful to God, devoted to his family, and loyal to his friends. He is a good man. I am endlessly grateful for him. I am blessed by ten years of friendship. I am blessed to know Randy and Susan and Claire. I am forever thankful that Alan is who he is and that I get to call him friend.

Words are failing me right now. I can't figure out how to make combinations of words and punctuation that would most perfectly describe Alan, why I love him, how grateful I am for him, and how excited I am to see him.

All I know right now, is that I can count on my one hand the days until he returns. I am looking forward to needing less and less digits to count. I am also looking forward to the hug which will happen when I see him shortly. It might not ever end. I just hope that next time he is packing bags to go away and I am pouty and throwing all of his neatly stacked and piled clothes on the floor, making his skin crawl, the bags won't be going to the other side of the world. And if they are it will be because it's time for some more of Alan's Adventures...hiking, jumping out of planes, camping, conversing, writing, loving, and exploring our amazing and beautiful world.



for alan's adventures, click on the link over yonder...on the right side...where other blogs are as well.

where i get my smarts.

A text message conversation between me and my dad:

Me: Thank you, daddy.

Dad: For what?

Me: For being so wise.

Dad: What is the topic since my wisdom is multidimensional?

Love. Him.

with sweaty palms

I'm going to do something because it makes me really uncomfortable. It's making me anxious and tense, but here's what's going on. I have a bit of a difficult time just claiming an opinion on the fly. I usually like to read a lot, hear what other people think, reflect, and then bashfully admit to one safe person where I fall. Needless to say, it's not working. I need to be bold. And this is especially intimidating as I live in a community of theologically minded people and in a world of minded people. People think. People form opinions. Why can't I? Well the thing is, I do. I just feel so exposed when I reveal some of them.

So a good friend asked me the other day to engage in a conversation about the image of God. Blugh. HEAVY. And after all, it's summer. What about my brain's 4 month siesta? Well, Greek and all the other reading I have done has interfered with that anyway. And when he asked I told him that I would probably take awhile to get back to him. It helps talking to him about this because while he challenges me, he also loves me like a daughter, so it's not terribly threatening. So, when Genesis says, "Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness...," what does that mean? About five minutes after receiving the question, this is what I came up with...



Okay, this may be way off. But this is where I am currently with this. When God said let us make man in our image, I would say that God meant for the collective human body to function in the image as the collective heavenly body functions. In the sense that God's kingdom on earth would reflect that of God's kingdom in heaven. "Thy will be done on earth as in heaven..."

I don't know what to make of the specific creation stories and fall story in our Bible. I can't assume they are literal. That's too far-fetched for me. But I think they do provide us with this model of a world without sin. One where peace reigned and God's kingdom on earth was attainable. The fall story is almost giving us permission not to be perfect. But it doesn't give us permission not to try.

Therefore, as a collective body of Christ--if not the human race, then at least Christian people--should live their lives in an effort to reflect that perfect peace on earth. Where the perfect love of God exampled by the life, works, ministry, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ are the human norm. Where we live our lives as close to a God life as we can. Where we don't forget that people are different from us, but we don't punish them for it. Where we don't necessarily obsess over evangelism and witnessing to achieve converts. But instead, we love people as big as our human selves are capable of loving and we do it in the name of the life and love of Jesus Christ.

I think we (collectively) were created for the purpose of reflecting the image of God. But I do not necessarily think we are successful. I don't think it's a benefit of just being a person. I think it's a responsibility. But I think we are more capable of "success" if we see God when we look in the faces of other people. When we see beauty looking back at us even when it offends. When we settle for nothing less than peace.

Overall, I think we should be perpetually conscious of living as close to the example of Jesus' ministry in our lives--every day.



So there it is. That's what I'm thinking now. Call me a heretic. Call me ignorant. I'm not apologizing. Because I'm still working on it. But why not expose ourselves on our journeys to figuring it all out? Being in conversation is a good thing. So after a long time sitting on the bench, I'm ready to get in the game. This doesn't mean I'm officially the epitome of confidence and resolve in theological dialogue, but I'll have a voice. Even if it's hushed at first.

it's because of you

There is this episode of The West Wing that makes me cry every time I watch it. Weird? Probably. But during the episode, one of the more minor plots involves Donna, assistant to Josh Lyman (who is the White House deputy chief of staff). She has just found out that one of her high school teachers is retiring after 41 years and she wants the president to issue a proclamation for her. Something like "Molly Morello Day." By way of Josh, the president finds out about this and speaks to Donna about her teacher. Donna describes her as "one of those teachers." And because everyone has had "one of those teachers," this description carries a lot of weight. So while the president cannot issue a proclamation, he does surprise Donna by calling Mrs. Morello from the Oval Office. And the dialogue goes like this:

DONNA: Well, I...I just wanted to say. I don't know. I just. I just wanted to say. I don't know.
....
THE PRESIDENT: Tell her where you are.

DONNA: Mrs. Morello, I'm in the Oval Office with the President of the United States and it's because of you.

Well, I thought of this recently because I am currently learning Greek under a truly great teacher. He is not only clearly incredibly gifted, but he is personable, pastoral, and kind. He is concerned for each of us. He is forgiving and understanding. He is deeply passionate about what he is teaching and his excitement makes it fun to learn. He is "one of those teachers."

And further, this has made me think of the truly great teachers I have had in the past. In high school, it was Mrs. Bayrd. Mrs. Bayrd taught AP US History. She was brilliant. She loved teaching. She loved her students. She loved history. She was the person who taught me how to really study. How to care about what I was learning. How to learn things in order to talk about them. How to learn things in such a way that would allow them to inform the way I think. We did not learn in order to do well on tests. We learned to know. She loved isms. Socialism wasn't socialism. It was socialism-ism-ism-ism. She spent two days lecturing on the dangers and filth of meatpacking. She loved coffee and cheetos and hated when people touched her thermostat. She was truly an institution of my high school. She was fun and playful and clever and entertaining. Her class functioned in an organized chaos sort of way and it was great.

In college, it was absolutely Dr. Davenport. He changed my world. I walked into Old Testament class on day two of my freshman year and learned very quickly that he meant business. He was the first to teach me the bible in social and historical context...rather than an emotional one. He taught me Hebrew. (Well he tried--definitely not my gift.) I never knew a semester at Lambuth without him. Actually, I never knew a day at Lambuth without him. He loved what he did. And he was so good at it. He wasn't there to protect us, but to present us with the controversies and the questions and the challenges. Dr. Davenport was the teacher for whom I studied. Not only because I wanted to learn, but because I wanted him to be proud of me. He sang cowboy music, went to synagogue every week, was an ordained Methodist minister, hosted a radio show, was passionate about interfaith conversation, opened the Center for Jewish Studies at Lambuth, and he wrote. When Dr. Davenport was lecturing, he was experiencing the material with us. He didn't just regurgitate. It always seemed like he was feeling the passage or topic as he talked about it. He always said that being a religion major at Lambuth should change the lens through which we look at the whole world. Our education in biblical studies and theology should inform the way we approach our daily lives.

Mrs. Bayrd and Dr. Davenport were two of "those teachers." They changed the way I learn, the way I approach challenges, my understanding of success and defeat, my approach to ministry and God. They changed my motivation and my curiosity. They changed me. And I am endlessly thankful for them. Where Donna said Mrs. Morello, I could say Mrs. Bayrd and Dr. Davenport. I am undoubtedly where I am (and partially WHO I am) because they invested in me.


"Mrs. Bayrd and Dr. Davenport, I am at Princeton Theological Seminary studying/learning in order to become an equipped youth minister, and it's because of you."

And I think everyone, wherever they are, could say, "Mr./Mrs. ________ , I am _____________ and it's because of you."

food, fireworks, and flags. maybe some founding fathers. but mostly family and friends.

I was talking to my mom on the phone the other day and she mentioned how sad it was that I would not be home for the 4th of July. I assumed this was for no reason besides the fact that my mom would prefer if I were always home. But she went on to say that to her, the 4th of July meant family. Well, this was curious to me because that was not a life lesson or value I would say she was intentional about instilling in me. The evidence of this was in the form of my response to her saying this, which was: "Huh? Since when?" Christmas-family. Thanksgiving-family. But the fourth of July? Er...

When I threw myself into memory retrieval mode, I could come up with a few pictures that could possibly work for the 4th of July meaning family, as far as my particular family goes.

1. Elementary age childhood fourths of July at Mimi and Papabobby's house.

When my cousins and I were all very young, I, wearing my signature outfit: light denim blue jean shorts which spanned from mid to upper torso all the way to my knobby knees, sparkling white keds, either colored socks (which matched a color in my t-shirt) or white socks with excessive lace, and a unicorn puff paint t-shirt. For the 4th, this outfit would only be modified by replacing my unicorn t-shirt with one from Old Navy that had an American flag on it. Solid.

My memory of this is choppy, but I remember being shy, anxious, and uncomfortable...because it was parade time. And I was always shy, anxious, and uncomfortable. The grandkids-me, my brother, and my five cousins-were to line up oldest to youngest and march. Our persons were decorated in red, white, and blue. We had Uncle Sam style hats and tiny American flags. And we marched in the driveway. I don't remember anything else. There's a serious chance T.J. got something extra cool to hold because he was the oldest. We may have gotten a sparkler each. We may have been singing a song. There may have been stereo provided musical accompaniment. Who knows. Probably my parents and my aunts and uncles. So if they read this, please shed some light on what happened. Because as I'm recalling it, it is sounding totally weird. But completely hilarious.

Also at Mimi's and Papabobby's, we once painted patriotic bird houses. We were each given one, that I think Papabobby made, and we all had red, white and blue paint. We could decorate it however we wanted. I distinctly remember internally turning this into a competition. I'm sure no one else cared. But as far as I was concerned, mine had to be the best.

2. Non-family teenage fourths of July.

"Mom, could you please take me to Crockett Park so I can see the fireworks? And please do not be the first parent there to pick me up because that is HUMILIATING."

This was probably a routine until I could drive. At which point I drove myself to Crockett Park and was NOT the first to go home.

I'm not sure what Kyle did during these years. I'm guessing where I said "to Crockett Park so I can see the fireworks," Kyle would have said, "to the big tent in Nolensville so Jordan and I can buy millions of fireworks."

3. Last summer (2007) at the lake.

17 people. Most crowded house ever. AWESOME. Not because of the holiday. But because of family and friends. Because we got up early and decorated that golf cart to the MAX. Not because any of us are particularly patriotic, but because as far as we were concerned (namely me), it was a competition. And I obviously love competitions. Even embarrassing ones. Further, it was fun being with probably the most consistent person in my life in terms of peers. Shelley has been a constant. Always effortless. She's seriously like family. Throughout the 12 years or so that we have known each other, we have not always been best friends (although at times we have), but she has always been there. And so has her family. I love them like my own. So to combine the deep-rooted friendship I have with Shelley with the current depth to my friendship with Cat was totally incredible. Add to Shelley and Cat, my cousin Ashley, and I would say I had my most ideal girl group ever. In addition to this was a house full of fun. A campfire with s'mores and my little brother singing his songs, and a group sing-along that couldn't have sounded more unfortunate but felt so good.



So yeah, that's pretty family. But I'm not sure we've been consistent. Mine and Kyle's teenage years put a pretty major hole in mom's family fourth of July idea. But I would argue that we made up for it last year. I really hate that I am not there this year (like a lot), but until we make that happen again, I have a pretty cool very family fourth of July to hang on to.

I will not rant about how I totally don't understand the trends in celebrating the fourth of July. Just know that I think it's pretty off. The shirts I have seen in the past few days around town will have to represent my disgust enough:

1. Miss Independence
2. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Boys
3. Mom's Little Sparkler

I found out today that Princeton (township, not University), held a reading of the Declaration of Independence. Now that screams 4th of July to me. But until that is a time-honored tradition, I will stick with mom. And just let the 4th of July be family and friends. I can be okay with that. Well, more than okay. That'll work nicely. But I wouldn't be the most mad if when planning next year's fourth of July at the lakehouse, mom and Mrs. Blume could pencil me in at the campfire. I'll be reading the Declaration of Independence. Kyle can do guitar accompaniment and background vocals. Deal? Cool.

who wants an ice cream?

On May 24th, my grandfather died. Before I get too deeply into this, I want to introduce him as he was to me. His name was Bob Langley (my dad's father). But to me, he was Papabobby. I think the entire family has shaken the nickname except for me (and maybe my brother). To most, he is just Bobby. But not me. To me, he was and will always be Papabobby.

Even on paper, he was a pretty incredible man. He was a college athlete--both basketball and baseball. Throughout his career as a student, he studied basically everything there is--degrees in physical education, aeronautical engineering, and business administration. He had a 20 year career in the U.S. Air Force, during which he served a year of combat in Vietnam. He was a professor at Tennessee Tech University where he also created and coached the women's tennis team. He retired from Tech after around 30 years. Aside from all of this, he was a brilliant craftsman. He built furniture in the barn behind my grandparents' house. He looked at a picture, scaled it, and perfected it. Their home is filled with pieces he made--and so is ours. From my cradle as a baby to hall tables. He was truly gifted. He was a very talented tennis player. In fact, that is the thing that people mention first when they are remembering him. If I could describe him (and Mimi, my grandmother) they were just active. They were always going. He was building, she was gardening. They were playing tennis or golf or traveling with their friends or to see us. But back to him. There is this beautiful cabin near the barn and behind their home. And he built it. And it is warm and cozy and filled with Christmas to me. It is family and fires and Boy Scout popcorn and art and ghost stories and blankets. It's home. And he made it.


When I think about him, I have a few images that make me giggle a little. One is him standing in the kitchen when we would arrive. Acting casual like he didn't know we were coming. And the second I walked through the door, he was digging in the pantry looking for ice cream cones. And he would say, "Who wants an ice cream?!" And you always wanted an ice cream. Even if you didn't. A person just didn't turn down an ice cream cone offered by Papabobby.

The other one for me is really beautiful. When we would leave after a visit, he would walk out to the car with us while we packed it up. Then he would hug us and everyone would get in. But dad would immediately roll down the window and Papabobby would stand at the window and talk for just a few more minutes. Then he'd tap the window frame and dad would hit the gas. We'd drive down their long gravel driveway. And I would turn around the second he was behind us. Because he would stand there and wave and watch us leave until he couldn't see the car anymore. And I would watch him until I couldn't see him anymore. I loved that. I hung on to those goodbyes with everything I had.

While I was at their house during the days leading up to the funeral, I spent a lot of time with my younger cousin, Ashley. Ashley helped me through it all a lot. She's great. And she has so many memories of him that I don't have. Or that I have forgotten. So it was so comforting to exchange and to laugh and to cry with her. Because he really was so cool. She reminded me of an ice cream trick Papabobby always did. We would finally have our ice cream in hand ready to enjoy and he would say, "Hey let me check that and make sure it's good enough for you." Now this was really just a sneaky way to get some ice cream from his grandkids. We totally bought it. And felt so indebted that he was willing. What a sacrifice to eat ice cream that might be yuck. Ha.

I was telling Dad about this and in reflecting on it, he thought it, paired with another Bobby-ism were definitive of the man he was. This checking of our ice cream is silly but symbolic. It was so important to him that we were all (his wife, his kids, his grandkids, his friends) were always taken care of. We were always happy and accounted for. He looked out for the people he loved. He took great responsibility in his family. Papabobby loved.

The second thing that represents Papabobby is his term for tests. As a professor, he described tests as "Opportunities to Succeed." "Class, we will be having an opportunity to succeed on Friday. Study up." How infuriating. I can't imagine what an irritating thing this was for his students. But so endearing. I would have been friends with the students who thought it was endearing and precious. But for him, success was so important. But I would say more than success, hard work was important. There was an expectation that people work hard and earn their success. And even if they don't succeed, they should have done their best along the way.

In having this conversation with my dad, it became so real to me that my dad is the man he is because of his father. That is obvious in a biological sense. But Papabobby raised dad very specifically. Papabobby was a member of the Air Force. He was educated. He was an athlete. He was a church member. He loved. He sacrificed. He expected. And because of the incredible, disciplined, caring, concerned, funny, loyal, faithful, sweet-toothed, athletic, passionate, educated, devoted man my grandfather was, my dad is all those things. Granted, they look a little different. Where Papabobby inhaled ice cream, dad breathes Hershey's kisses. Where Papabobby flew planes, Dad has a devastating fear of heights. But aside from those things, they are both incredible fathers, husbands, friends, and teachers. And because my dad is so filled with the love and lessons of Papabobby, and has used his own father to inform the way he raised me and Kyle, I am proud that I am who I am because Papabobby was first.