Canyons & Fireworks

Babies born in the eighties got the best childhoods as nineties kids. The mixtapes of our adolescence tilted holy and a little grunge, with bands like Jars of Clay, Audio Adrenaline, Third Day, and DC Talk. Oh, and Church! Evangelical Church didn’t just preach sermons; we had full-scale productions of Heaven’s Gates and Hell’s Flames —designed to instill a healthy dose of holy fear. My grandma sealed my theological fate with a T-shirt that read “Heaven Yes” on the front and “Hell No” on the back. She meant for me to be a walking altar call at my public school, but I just thought it looked edgy.   Many of us latchkey kids made up the gap generation in our families. Our grandparents had more than just one or two children, leaving wide spaces between siblings. By the time the first grandkids arrived, some aunts and uncles were still teens themselves—half babysitters, half playmates, all trying to grow up at once.   As a gap kid, I learned by watching. Every choice around ...

It’s happened again.  Busyness, pouring out, showing up, all work and no play — and bam , I’m burnt out. Nothing left to give. Despite my outgoing nature, I need to retreat. Phase one: do my nails. Phase two: an expensive trip to Marshalls. Phase three: excuse myself from some normal engagements. Phase four: tell my hubby I need a day out in nature with him. Quite frankly, I’m sick of myself. My workouts have decreased. My career demands that my phone always be by my side, and unfortunately, I’ve turned to social media far too much. Now that I work from home, I’m beginning to feel in a slump in my own space. My haven is muddied by my workday. All of these things combined have me looking at what needs to change. I need to lose weight. I need a new house with a legitimate separate office. I need more business prospects. My hair is thinning, and time is slipping. Gratitude fades, and desire screams. To make matters worse I feel terrible for complaining. So much of my life is th...