Need More Arrows and Nails?

Sometimes I wonder just how many nails I hammered into blocks of wood when I was a kid hanging out in my dad's workshop. I'm not sure why that was so fascinating to me, pounding nail after nail into scraps of wood that Daddy gave me as he worked on first one project and then another. I would stand for hours hammering away with my red hammer ... my red hammer with tape wrapped tightly around the handle. Daddy had carved my initials on the very end of the handle, I guess so that if any other little girls wandered into his workshop and used my hammer, they would know that it was mine. As much as I enjoyed driving the nails into the wooden blocks, what I enjoyed even more was choosing the nails I would use from Daddy's nail drawer. He had this huge drawer with a bunch of bins and dividers that separated the nails from each other ... and it was flipping awesome. There were so many different kinds of nails ... short nails, long nails, gold nails, silver nails, bronze nails, thin nails, chunky nails, nails with large round tops, nails with little tiny tops ... any kind of nail you could ever imagine was in Daddy's nail drawer. But the coolest, most awesomest, totally over-the-top incredibilest thing about the nails in Daddy's drawer? I always got to choose ... all by myself ... I got to choose the nails I wanted to use to build my fantastic wood and nail works of art.

Only once in my life have I stepped on a nail, and that was one time too many. I think the pain I experienced when that nail pierced my foot (it went all the way through ... ouch, ouch, ouch) may rank right up there with the time a piece of spaghetti got stuck under my fingernail. One thing I know for sure, however, is that I never ever want to step on another nail for as long as I live. Last night I shared what my dad told me many years ago about how painful the arrows of hurtful words can be when they are sent flying toward you by someone you love. I mentioned that I'd been hit by some of those arrows yesterday, and I've received a ton of messages today asking if the arrows came from someone in my family. The answer to that question is no, no, no, no, no, no ... the arrows came from a former friend. The words in the email last night stung, and they still sting today ... no, that's not right ... they really hurt, and I cried buckets when I read them. And today, I've been thinking a lot about arrows and nails ... a whole lot, in fact, and here's what I have to say.

The truth is that I've spent my whole life shooting arrows of hate at myself, and I've driven more than a few nails into my own coffin of guilt and shame. But apparently, I haven't done a very good job of it, because there are folks who think I need more arrows and more nails. So ... I decided that once again in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, I would help those of you who are archery experts and masters of carpentry tonight and give you some flaming arrows and super strong nails for you to shoot and hammer. Listen up, now, because these things are huge ... these things about me are really, really, really bad and warrant you slamming the lid on my wooden box, sealing it tightly with the biggest nails in your drawer and setting it ablaze with a fiery arrow.

I drink almond milk right out of the carton. I spit when I'm walking on the trail. I don't like cats; I've never liked cats, and I am certain beyond the shadow of any doubt that I came forth from my mother's womb not liking cats. Sometimes on the weekends, I don't take a shower unless I am forced to leave my house. (For the record on that truly despicable confession, I always shower before I go out in public.) I never pick up the poop from my dogs in the back yard (and I never will), dead rabbits, yes, poop, no. In the summer, I vacuum wearing only my underwear. I used to scrape the white stuff out of the middle of the Oreo cookies and put the cookie part back in the bag. I let dirty dishes pile up in my sink. I bite my nails, and I have since I was a kid. I'm pretty sure I was born a nail biter, and though I've tried everything possible including begging and pleading with God to make me not be a nail biter, I still am and I'm pretty sure I always will be. And even more, I think there must be some reason why God created me to be a nail biter.

There you have it ... those arrows and nails should give you shooters and hammerers enough ammo to last you for a while. I'm off to walk Oliver the wiener dog and then play ball with my old Julie dog for a bit and then I'll go to bed. Because that's my "lifestyle," you see ... five days a week, I go to work and do the best job I possibly can for my employer. Then I come home and eat dinner with my dogs, take Ollie for a walk, play ball with Julie, write a post for this blog, decide what to wear to work the next day and go to bed. And the other two days a week, I go grocery shopping, do laundry, mow the yard, clean my house, walk Ollie, play ball with Julie, write a post for this blog and go to bed. Except for the weekends when I do something completely radical and spend time with Meghann and Barrett or Brad and Shelby or Skype with Matt, Becca and C.J. or try to find a church to attend or do work that I brought home. Yep ... that's a dangerous and sinful lifestyle for sure.

If this post angers some of you, I apologize, and I'd encourage you to check out another blog or two instead of reading mine. Here's the thing ... I read blogs that I actually enjoy reading ... blogs that make me think, blogs that teach me things, blogs that are funny, blogs that inspire me, blogs that are real and raw and relevant. But my favorite blogs? My favorite blogs are the ones written by people who are just trying to do life ... just trying to help someone else along the way ... just trying to point others to the truth. Sleep well, friends, and remember that life is short ... really, really, really short, and we're all in it together so we should be good to one another ... love one another ... honor one another ... cherish one another ... as different as we all are ... as alike as we all are ... as His as we all are.