O Antiphons

A few years ago I came across the O Antiphons. While I’d heard of them before, I confess I had never paid much attention, so for several weeks I did a deep-dive research on their history, their meaning, and the way Christians have incorporated them into their spiritual practices over the centuries. Most of you are familiar with the O Antiphons even if you’re not: we sing them in the the hymn O Come, O Come, Emmanuel. The O Antiphons are sung in Vespers during the last seven days of Advent and were first referenced in the 6th century. Together, they trace the history of God’s covenant with Israel from Creation to the Incarnation. Each one references an attribute of Christ, as prophesied in Isaiah.

My research compelled me to write an evening liturgy incorporating the O Antiphons for individuals and families to use during the last week of Advent. I have tweaked it over the years and am so happy to be able to share it with you. You may download the liturgy below which will answer some questions (Vespers – huh? Antiphons – what?), and also includes reflections I wrote about each antiphon and how they fit in both the story of Israel and the Church.

The liturgy is to be used December 17th (tomorrow) through December 23rd. Please feel free to forward this to family and friends who might be interested in using it.

I pray that the liturgy and reflections will be a blessing to you as you walk into the last week of Advent awaiting the coming of Emmanuel, God with us. 


Our first fight was about chicken.

The details aren’t important, which I’m sure will surprise you. After all, what could be more important when tending the vulnerable bud of a new relationship than chicken?

We were 18 and full of confidence in our inherent rightness on matters of life, politics, theology, and of course, chicken.

I wish I could say that we’ve matured since the Chicken Fight of 2005, but two days ago we fought about mail.

We are 33 and full of confidence in our inherent rightness on matters of life, politics, theology, and of course, mail.

The couple doing our premarital counseling gave us tips for “fair fighting” which we ignored completely. They told us things like “don’t yell” (we did), “don’t use sweeping ‘always and never’ statements” (we always do), and “sandwich complaints between compliments” (we don’t).

Wisdom rarely comes from advice but rather is the result of daily acts of stupidity slowly morphing into a deep and unspoken understanding.  

In our almost 12-year marriage, we’ve had 18 jobs and seven homes in three states; we’ve survived family crises, broken relationships, alcoholism, two ordinations, job promotions, and terminations. We’ve started a business, paid off debt, and collected some more. We’ve taken on home projects, and we’ve purchased cars, appliances, and a few degrees. We also threw three children and a few pets into the mix, just for good measure.

We’ve had a lot of opportunities to fight, and we’ve taken most of them.

Fight by fight, we’ve learned more about ourselves and each other. We know that I’m more likely to play victim, and he’s more likely to deny fault. I’m blunt, and he uses too many words. I see connections between this fight and that fight, and he sees each disagreement as an easily explainable and isolated event.

Since we have three kids and are rarely alone, we have had to perfect the art of text-fighting. Unlike an actual conversation, text-fighting allows more time to hone your biting response, or if you can muster it, one that is more grace-filled. But the downside to text fighting is that sometimes you have to communicate non-fight-related information mid-argument.

Enter parentheses.

So imagine us, text-fighting about how he always forgets the mail and how he never remembers to bring it in and how horribly insensitive and unfair he is for this mail-related atrocity, and he’s like I know I forgot it THIS time, but it was just this ONE time, and it’s completely explainable and not at ALL like all the other times I’ve forgotten the mail.

Back and forth we go, one beeping notification of moral superiority after another.

And then: (I’m walking into Trader Joe’s. Need anything?)
(Yeah. Apples and eggs.)
(On it.)

Other times it’s: (We need to pay the mortgage) followed by (I was just thinking the same thing. I’ll do it now.)

I text, he texts, I’m rude, he’s rude, then: (Oh my gosh, Case just said, “If you exist” instead of “if you insist.”) to which he responds (My heart. I miss y’all.), and I say (We miss you too.)

The unspoken rule in our text arguments is that anything spoken outside of parentheses is part of the fight while anything inside parentheses is a pause.

And sometimes a pause in the middle of the battle is a holy moment.

The parenthetical statements remind us that we’re connected on the big things, even when we’re divided on small things. The parentheses say, “My illogical infuriation about chicken stands (but our life together is invaluable to me).”

Parentheses remind us that a bigger story is a play.

Our parentheses hold in tension the reality of our disagreement and the reality of our love.

Millions of Christians around the world are in the middle of Lent, one of the penitential seasons of the Church year. The point of Lent isn’t to lose weight or give up social media. The point isn’t to become a better mom or vow to have Instagram-worthy quiet times, journaling in quiet piety while sipping tea. The point of Lent isn’t for all Christians around the world to have a trial run of Calvinism, wherein we all decide for 40 days we’re wholly depraved.

Lent is parenthetical.

Lent is a time to hold in tension the reality of our security and the reality of our brokenness.

We are fulfilled. (We are barren.)
We are enlightened. (We are wandering.)
We are empowered. (We are confined.)

It’s a time to reflect on our lives, the highs and the lows of our human experience. It’s a time to ask ourselves the hard questions about our weaknesses, our temptations, and our sinfulness. It’s a time to face the sobering reality that we’re powerless to make ourselves well. The fracture between our natures, the sacred and the sinful, is too vast.

Lent reminds us that we need a Savior who integrates and redeems.

And so this holy pause of Lent becomes more than a time to fast, repent, recalibrate.

Lent is a time to remember that all of the “lifey” things that are part of our human experience are also part of our spiritual experience. Lent doesn’t say none of this matters; it says (ALL of this matters.)

Lent is a time to hold in tension the reality of our human failings and the reality of our redemption.

We are broken. (We are made whole.)
We are sinners. (We are made sacred.)
We are Lent. (We are Easter.)


On the eve of my 33rd birthday,  I went to the DMV to renew my license which was expiring. In my driveable years, I’ve never lived in a state long enough to have to renew. 

I got my learner’s permit and then my license in Florida. I studied for the written test like I was taking the bar exam. I had places to go, things to do, boys to make out with. I could imagine nothing more humiliating than failing a test and not getting your license except not having a boy to make out with, which I didn’t, because I wasn’t allowed to date anyone until I was 16. 

Sometimes this rule follower could get her parents to bend their own rules slightly. I wasn’t supposed to get my ears pierced until I was 16 either, but I, with the help of my grandmother, was able to convince them that 16 was archaic and a little too fundamentalist for our Episcopal blood, so I had them pierced when I was 12. 

For the record, the woman piercing my ears botched it and had to re-pierce one ear, but ran out of the right size earring, so I walked around for six weeks with mismatched silver studs. 

But driving was within my control, unlike piercing guns which, as it turns out, are now considered an archaic piercing tool. The irony. 

On my 15th birthday, I was at the DMV with my father 15 minutes before they opened. I insisted that we get out of the car so we could be the first in line. I passed the written test, the vision test, the hearing test, smiled in front of the blue screen, and spent the next 12 months begging my parents to leave the house as much as possible so I could drive them. 

In my 15th year, I again convinced my parents to bend their rules slightly and let me begin dating a boy. To ease their consciences, they told me we were allowed exactly one “car” date a month, and the rest of the time we had to hang out at either his parental-supervised house or my parental-supervised house. He was eight months older than I, so he already had his license, and once a month we were able to experience all the freedoms an unsupervised date at Longhorn Steakhouse provides. We always ordered the same thing: Two Flo’s Filets and side salads, hold the cucumbers for him, extra cucumbers for me. What a perfect match. I think the relationship fizzled before my 16th birthday, but the details are a little fuzzy, less the cucumbers, which for some reason have stuck with me. To my recollection, we never made out in a car, but I was still determined to get my license. 

The one rule my parents would not bend on was that I had to be an expert parallel parker before I could take the driving test. They didn’t care that the state of Florida didn’t have a parallel parking portion of the driving test. It was a Brust requirement, and I was deeply proud that I could parallel park before most of my friends, even those who already had a license. 

On my 16th birthday, I was at the DMV with my father 15 minutes before they opened, once again insisting that we wait right outside of the door. A white-haired man grabbed a clipboard and walk over to my dad who signed the “I give you permission to risk your life with my teenage daughter behind the wheel” forms, and he handed me the keys. The man had a mustache. It wasn’t just any mustache, it was the kind of mustache people who are destined to work at the DMV have. He was probably born with it. He looked hard, mean, intimidating. I think that’s why he was hired. 

My dad, never one to be intimidated by men, mustached or otherwise, was determined to both soften the man up and soothe my nerves by making an embarrassing amount of Dad jokes. 

Now Sir, I brought a helmet for you just in case. You can find it in the glove box. Take note of emergency exits. Don’t forget to buckle up, Sir. I’ve seen her drive. 

It worked. The man loved my dad, and I hoped it would give me extra points. Mustache made incessant notes and marks on his clipboard, giving out disapproving grunts every few minutes. After the street portion of the driving test, I was told to pull into the DMV parking lot and drive around to the back of the building where he gave me a few more instructions and scribbled a few more notes, and then said You’ve completed the driving test. I’ll meet you inside.

He was out of the door, marching with Mustachey purpose before I could whine But, like, don’t you want me to, like, parallel park?

I met my dad back inside and told him I must have failed. He wrote notes the whole time, and I don’t even know what I did wrong. There’s no way I passed.

Mustache called us up to the counter and said to my Dad, Well, she passed. Perfect score. But I wrote a bunch of stuff on my clipboard just to freak her out.  

I’d never loved a mustache more.

We moved from Florida to Northern Virginia a few years later, well before my license expired. I was a senior in high school and knew I’d be leaving soon for college, so I never made it to the DMV. I lived under the mantra Oh, I have a valid license, it’s just in another state

There are two kinds of people in this world: people who go to the DMV to change their license within 7 days of a move, finding the six week grace period unnecessary (my parents), and people who go to the DMV when they get around to it (me). 

In my experience, when they get around to it people never get around to it until a minimum of six months after a move. 

I never had a Virginia license for the entire 18 months we lived there. My parents moved to Atlanta while I was in college, and I went to college in South Carolina. If you’re keeping track, I had a Florida license, a Georgia permanent address by way of Virginia, and lived in South Carolina nine months of the year. 

Finally, after at least a year of a Georgia permanent address, I decided I might as well get around to it and go to the DMV. 

Despite what the Department of Motor Vehicles would tell you, I’m generally a rule follower. I have my little quirks, of course, like driving over parking lot lines like every single person in the world other than my husband who meticulously drives to the end of a row, turns on his signal, comes to a complete stop, and then turns down the next row. I also hate turn signals. It’s no one’s business where I’m going, I tell my rule-abiding husband. But I always, always, return my grocery cart, because while safety techniques for operating heavy machinery are up for debate, being a decent human being isn’t.  

Upon further reflection, I obey rules I like. 

Interestingly, the DMV does not have a single rule I like, but I still never want to get caught doing something against the rules, so my heart was pounding and my palms clammy as I approached the clerk in Window Number Seven in an Atlanta DMV to explain to her my saga of many states. 

In some sort of compulsive confessional, I told her every last detail, including the Virginia License That Never Was, and told her how very wrong I was for never having gone, and how I promise I won’t do it again, and I sure hope Georgians are as friendly as people say, and I won’t be in trouble. 

I detected an eye roll and she snipped Just give me your paperwork, ma’am. 

Even at 20, I knew enough to know that her ma’am was utterly ridiculous as she was at least 40 years my senior, and meant with every ounce of Georgia makes me call you that, but you’re a child, and we both know it sarcasm she could muster. 

Since my apologies failed and no absolution was given, I turned to the ways of my father. I was determined to charm her when she told me to step in front of the blue curtain for my picture.

I bet you’re the best DMV photographer in here. That’s the real reason I waited. No one in Virginia could have topped your skill. 

Wink, wink.

Eyeroll, eyeroll. 

Take a seat, ma’am. I’ll call you back when it’s printed. 

After what she clearly considered sufficient punishment in the form of minutes, she called me back up to the counter. Please review your card to make sure your details are correct.

I looked down and saw my picture which looked like a hungover mugshot though I was neither hungover nor under arrest and next to it, a name. 

Not my name. 

By my picture, the 20-year-old with too-blonde highlights and early 2000s eyeliner:  Mu’inuddeen.  

Knowing I’d once again make my “friend” behind the counter angry, I started to tell her she’d made a mistake when I heard a man at Window Number Six say, Cleary she looks like a Mu’inuddeen, but I do not look like a Rebecca. 

And just like when Tom Hanks saved Meg Ryan from Rose, the angry cashier in You’ve Got Mail, my Arabic hero, the real Mu’inuddeen, had everyone laughing, even my ma’aming frenemy who gladly reprinted both of our cards and sent us on our way. 

I’ve now had a driver’s license in Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, California, and Kansas. 

We moved to Kansas six years ago, and due to encouragement (read: incessant spousal and parental nagging), I got my license fairly quickly after our move. 

But then we moved again. Kansas requires a change of address on your license within six weeks. I take “requires” to mean “friendly suggestion” so I waited. 

For a year.

Then a few weeks ago, I saw that my license expired on my birthday: June 5. 

On the eve of my 33rd birthday, I once again found myself outside the door of a DMV 15 minutes before they opened, although this time out of desperation, not excitement. 

Admittedly, 33 isn’t old. But it’s old enough to wake up early to avoid lines at the DMV. It’s also old enough to remember when you had to grab a paper ticket out of those thingamajiggers at the door and, as they called numbers, know exactly where you are.

But yesterday, I was given a printed sheet by some sort of DMV hostess who informed me that it was time to switch to a “Real ID” to which I said, As opposed to all of the fake government-issued IDs I’ve had in the past? 

She laughed sympathetically while I continued my old lady diatribe. Soon we’ll all have microchips.  

With people’s growing impatience, the DMV has devised a system where numbers jump all over the place so no one gets fussy. You know what makes a 33 year old fussy? Watching a system work inefficiently. 

Also not being able to see the numbers projected on the apartment size TV they have mounted on the wall because she chose a seat too far back, and her eyes aren’t what they used to be. 

I watched seven teenagers walk in for their written tests. All of them failed. SEVEN. I was horrified, appalled, disgusted, worried for my life. These people didn’t even bother to study for a test to prove they even understand how to drive in theory.  

As I relayed this story via text to my mom, I noted that I called them children. In fairness, they aren’t children, but since when do 15-year-olds look like they aren’t old enough to tie their own shoes? No wonder they failed the test. 

Speaking of failed tests, I now have a restricted license and have to legally drive with glasses because my lenses were the only way I could pass the vision exam. 

I drove home with my paper license (apparently printing them in the DMV is an archaic practice, kind of like studying for a driving test. 

We took the boys on a walk to the lake when I got home. As we passed the neighborhood pool three teenagers started cursing in the pool, or, what we grew up calling taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

Without blinking, I whipped my head around and yelled, Hey, y’all need to watch your mouths when there are little ears around.

My kids are still too young to be embarrassed by me, but my husband looked like he was enduring a slow death by humiliation. They’re lucky I didn’t tell them to take me home to their mamas so I could tell them how their sons behave when they’re away from home. 

I think he felt superior for one minute, thinking himself a cooler adult than I am, but when we got home, he referred to needing to take care of his correspondence. I told him the youths just call it emailing. 

He also calls nail files emery boards and scrubbing pads abrasives. 

Thirty-three isn’t old. But it’s old enough to sometimes prefer archaic models. It’s old enough to have lived enough life to learn some lessons, but also to know that you don’t have all the answers. It’s old enough to know which rules to follow and which to break. 

It’s old enough to know that it’s all just a blink. Everything but DMV lines. 

The Tornado

We don’t have a dog. That fact, in and of itself, isn’t interesting, but I was sitting on a dog pillow. We got the dog pillow from my mom, who also doesn’t have a dog. Its origin is unknown to me, but the dog pillow has lived a dog-free life in two dog-free homes – first hers, now mine.

We do not, however, live in a creature free home. We live with creatures who slobber, disobey, destroy books and the occasional shoe, and sometimes don’t make it to their designated potty area.

We have three sons.

We also have two cats and, up until a day before the dog pillow night, a parakeet who died inexplicably.

When the tornado sirens sounded, and our phones started shrieking with emergency notifications, I rushed the boys to the basement bathroom while my husband ran upstairs to get the two cats. He came down a few seconds later, enduring only a few cat scratches in the process, and we closed the bathroom door. I quickly realized that if I had to be trapped in a tiny bathroom for an unknown amount of time, especially after receiving a “TAKE COVER. YOU ARE IN A LIFE-THREATENING SITUATION” phone alert, I wanted to be slightly more prepared. I said, “Everyone stay calm. I’ll be right back.”

It’s hard for anyone to stay calm when the person screaming STAY CALM is actually red-faced, frantic, slightly squeaky, and in life-saving mode.

Even the cats look traumatized by my countenance.

I ran through the house quickly trying to grab things that sent the message “We’re not going to die, I’m almost certain.”

I grabbed one coloring book, one box of crayons, one cup of water, and the Dog Bed of Unknown Origin. I rushed back to the bathroom to more alerts warning me to “TAKE COVER. COMPLETE DESTRUCTION POSSIBLE.”

At least I had thought to get a glass of water. When homes are destroyed, you don’t have access to clean water, you know. The good news is I had one whole Tervis Tumbler full of water for five people and two cats.

My husband, who happened to come home from work early that day, was met at the door by a wife screaming things about a massive storm coming, and They’re saying it’ll cause multiple tornadoes, and Do you think my parents’ basement is safer than ours, and Maybe we should just load up the boys and drive to Arkansas or somewhere far away because there’satornadocomingandwedon’twanttodie. To really bring my message home I held up the phone to his wide eyes and said LOOK AT ALL THE RED, I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP.

He remained annoyingly calm and assured me Our house is safe, and Yes, Hunny, I do see all the red, and Let’s get your car in the garage in case there’s hail.

I huffed off and did what any self-respecting, emotionally mature, 32-year-old woman would do after an infuriating conversation with her husband: I called my mother.

She was no help either. Well, Sweetie, I’m certainly not going to tell you to stay home if you feel you need to leave, but I can tell you that we’re staying here, and you’re welcome to come ride it out in our basement if you feel safer at our house. I’ve got to run. I have stew on the stove.

I wasn’t sure what kind of sick, twisted world I was finding myself in where MASSIVE TORNADOES WERE COMING that could KILL US ALL and everyone was so calm.

But at least the damn car and stew would be safe.

Apparently my storm-induced frenetic behavior is a genetic gift. I grew up listening to stories of my grandmother hiding with her children under a massive desk during bad thunderstorms singing hymns.

Since my husband and mother were engaging in the deranged behavior of calm normalcy, I mustered all of the energy I could from my rightly-paranoid, very southern, deceased grandmother (who for the record, did not die in a storm) and prepared for the inevitable: destruction of life and home.

Any southern woman knows that in times of crisis the most effective coping mechanisms are to clean and cook.

Within an hour, my house was spotless, sparkling clean (even the toilets) and dinner was in the oven.

We ate dinner early and worked on a jigsaw puzzle. Every five minutes or so I asked my husband to check the radar, and every time he patiently reached for his phone I hissed Nevermind, you’re taking too long, I’ll just do it myselffff.

Miraculously, and to my great surprise, the Life-threatening Radar Red (trademark pending) was shrinking.

I told you, hunny. Nothing to worry about.

I shot him a look that said “TAKE COVER, ANGRY WIFE AHEAD” so he quickly started loading the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.

And then, sirens.

I gave him my very best, “I told you so but I’m not going to be too hard on you because our lives are now officially in danger, and I don’t want to be too mean” face and told the boys to go quickly to the basement.

So there we sat on the dog pillow, all of us huddled in a small bathroom, phones beeping, for 30 minutes until the warning was over, and we could leave the bathroom.

In a shocking turn of events, my anxiety-ridden mind betrayed me, and we were never in any real danger.

For hours, my social media feeds were full of friends reporting on their tornado warning coping techniques. To my great surprise, no one had plans involving frenzied cleaning.

I have so much to teach people.

Some huddled in basement bathrooms with their kids, using pots as makeshift helmets. They keep a bag packed with spare clothes, shoes, and money and grab their IDs when the alarms sound. Actual emergency plans apparently include less panic and crayons and more bottled water and foresight.

Several other friends talked about standing on their porches watching the tornado pass their homes in some sort of thrill-seeking (read: INSANE) spectator sport.

My mom said her stew was delicious.

I drove my hail-damage-free car to a doctor’s appointment this week. I think you might struggle with anxiety. With insight like that, it’s no wonder medical school costs so much.

Speaking of medical school, does barometric pressure kill parakeets?


To the women who climb the corporate ladder, to the women who wish they could potty without an audience, to the women who show up when no one else does, to the women who birth babies, to the women who raise the babies of others, to the women who haven’t found their voice, to the women who live in suppression, to the women who are abused, to the women who are free, to the women who work behind the scenes, to the women who feel celebrated, to the women who feel forgotten, to the most educated of women, to the least educated of women, to the women who fill in the gaps, to the women who are weary, to the women who are refreshed, to the women who came before, and to the women who are yet to come: I am proud to stand by you. At the top of this list is my Momma, who showed me who I am, and what it means to be a woman.

And to the men who see us and celebrate us, who stand by us as equals, not above us or beneath us, thank you. You are a unique breed, and I’m also proud to stand by you. At the top of this list is the man who has championed me since birth, and the man with whom I’m raising three more. They have always seen who I am, even when I haven’t.

And to the woman who had to write this post on her phone in the bathtub because it’s the only quiet moment she’s had alone all day, be kind to yourself. You’re doing more than you think you are.

Happy International Women’s Day.

On Casseroles

There are two defining entities to which 90% of my idiosyncrasies can be attributed. (The remaining ten percent can be blamed squarely on my parents and their genetics.)

There are rules I follow, phrases that shoot through my mind, habits I hold that are irreversibly ingrained in my subconscious. No amount of therapy can fix them, no amount of distance can lessen their influence.

I grew up in the South, and I grew up in the Episcopal Church.

Of course even if you didn’t grow up in one of these subcultures, I’m sure you have idiosyncrasies of your own; they’re just probably a bit more normal than mine. But don’t feel sorry for me. I actually relish my cultural and liturgical quirks.

If you grew up in the South, there are certain rules you know and follow.

Alcohol: There are exactly two drinks that are socially acceptable before the five o’clock cocktail hour: mimosas and Bloody Mary’s. Anything else, and I s’wanee, you’d better make your way to the Episcopal Church at 4:00 on Sunday afternoons for the meeting of (whisper) alcoholics. The coffee will be hot. Exceptions to this rule: both men and women are allowed to drink beer in the afternoon if, and only if, you’re on a boat or fishing on a dock. You also don’t bat an eye when your dinner guests show up at your house with their Tervis Tumbler of bourbon half empty. “Open carry” refers to both sidearms and cocktails, but again, only after five o’clock.

Table Manners: All Southerners know how to properly set a table. For your entire life, if you go to someone’s home for dinner and find the fork, knife, and spoon on the same side of the plate, you shudder a little bit inside. If you’re a female guest of honor, you will instinctively know your place is at the right side of your male host. The male guest of honor is seated to the right of the hostess. Children and other guests are carefully scattered around the table at the discretion of your hostess, but ages and genders will be taken into account to have a balanced table. The beginning of the meal does not begin at the end of the blessing, but rather when your hostess lifts her fork. If you’re hungry, you hope your hostess isn’t extra chatty. You know you never pass the salt shaker hand-to-hand, but rather place it on the table beside the person who asked you to pass it. Should it fall over during transport, you’d better remember to throw a shake over your left shoulder. Elbows never belong on the table. Ever. Ever. Acceptable topics: The weather, your recent trips, and sharing “interesting information” about mutual friends. (Note: This means gossip, but only done tastefully. The understanding between tasteful and distasteful gossip will be acquired with age and experience.) Unacceptable conversation topics: Sex, bathroom humor, politics, and distasteful gossip. Exception: Politics may be discussed only if you know your host and hostess share the same party affiliation.

Thank-you Notes: When invited to someone’s house for any reason, you must call to thank your host within 24 hours if you want to avoid writing a thank-you note. If you miss the window, a hand written note is required. When you write the note, you know exactly which stationary to use. Your choices include formals, informals, casual (which is decidedly different than informals), and fun. It’s not uncommon to be told during baby showers that one of your gifts is being released from the expectation of thank-you notes, but you’d never actually take your hostess and her guests up on that offer; you write them anyway. That offer is never extended during bridal showers. The mother-to-be has six weeks to write her thank-you notes that “aren’t expected,” and the bride-to-be also has six weeks to write her notes for shower gifts. According to Southern etiquette, the new wife technically has twelve months to write notes for her wedding gifts, however notes sent past six months are inexcusable. Notes sent between three and six months are socially accepted, though frowned upon. The bride who has all of her thank you notes sent in under three months will be highly praised with I just don’t know how you found the time to send a note so quickly, I know you’ve been so busy setting up your home. Congratulations. You have passed the test and are now considered a Southern woman.

If you grew up in the Episcopal Church, there are also things you instinctively know.

Pew Etiquette: Never sit in the front pew. The front pew is reserved for two types of people: curmudgeons and single women who have a crush on the male priest. Exception: In the case of baptisms, the family and godparents of the baby being baptized will sit on the front row, that week only. Curmudgeons and single women will be found one of two places: on the front row of the dreaded other side or directly behind the family, usually on the third row. They will have been moved by the usher, as they have undoubtedly ignored the “Reserved” pew marker embroidered on red liturgical velvet. Certain pews are reserved for families who have been sitting in that exact pew for generations. These pews are not marked in any tangible way. You will know these reserved pews in one of two ways: regular attendance or when you’re told, Excuse me, you’re in my pew.

Titles: You know if you’re in a liturgically “high” church or “low” church based on the bulletin. If the male priest goes by Father First Name you’re in a low church. If he goes by Father Last Name, you’re in a high church. You’re in a rare subculture called Snake Belly Low if your priest goes by Mister Last Name. Female priests are almost always called Mother First Name. You don’t know if this is an insult to the gender or not. Something feels awkward about it, but you’re an Episcopalian, so you’re certainly not a misogynist. After all, “male and female he created them, male and female we ordain them.” Note: For your entire life, those in ordained ministry will be referred to as priests, because the word Pastor catches in your throat like cud. Also, if ordination doesn’t include vestments and a bishop, it’s not a real ordination. I’m looking at you, Baptists.

Incense: If you’re a true Episcopalian, you will know how to navigate a service with bells and smells even if your home church didn’t do it weekly. The smell of incense will always remind you of Easter and Christmas, and never covering up the smell of marijuana in your parents’ basement. Even if you used incense to cover up pot fumes, it will first and foremost remind you of High and Holy days, not high days.

Liturgical Jokes: At any given time you’ll be able to come up with at least ten You know you’re an Episcopalian if jokes. You’ll never be able to hear The Mamas and Papa’s sing Monday, Monday without automatically changing the lyrics to “Maundy Thursday, Bah-da bah-da-da-da.” You probably have scars from your mother pinching her fingernails into your thigh to make you and your brother stoplaughingrightthisinstant each year when the priest said, Remember that you are but(t) dust while imposing ashes on Ash Wednesday. You haven’t fully lived if you haven’t sung “Lead On, O Kinky Turtle” with a group of your friends during the hymn Lead on, O King Eternal. Episcopal bonus points if you’ve also sung the guitar version during summer camp, sweaty arms around your friends’ waists (with plenty of Holy Spirit room between the genders) while gathered around the campfire.

At 31, I’m in the sweet spot of my roots: I’m new enough that I’m not so stuck in my ways that I’m a pain in the ass (How many Episcopalians does it take to change a lightbulb? Ten: One to screw it in, and nine to say how much they liked the old one), but old enough that I’ve earned my voice. I find I’m disgusted with nouveau liturgicals who post BCP quotes as their Facebook statuses and wear their collars everywhere from the movie theatre to the farmer’s market. Here’s a tip to you newbies: If you only know one version of the doxology, and if the pages of your BCP still crunch upon opening, refrain from pontificating as an authority. We know it’s new and exciting for you, but it’s also profoundly annoying and dates you…not in a good way. Similarly, there’s nothing more pitiful than a Yankee moving to the South and saying all y’all. Unless you know the difference between Dinner and Supper and have at least one gelatinized dish at your Easter brunch, you’re new and we know it.

As the old joke goes, if there’s anything the South and the Episcopal church do well, it’s Hatch, Match, and Dispatch. Pinterest displays page after page of Southern baby showers. Entire books are devoted to Southern weddings. The wedding committee at any Episcopal Church, particularly in the South, is more organized than the Chinese military. I can promise you that wedding will start on time, whether the bride is dressed or not, and the drunk groomsman will be sobered by fear alone when he comes face-to-face with the 83-year-old wedding coordinator whose quietly fierce temperament is topped with her never-leaves-home-without-it corsage. Now, you want to see something really special? There has never been a more organized tactical mission than a Southern funeral. After all, Being Dead is No Excuse. Within hours of a death announcement, the church silver has been polished, the surviving family members have at least three dozen country ham biscuits in their freezer, and meals have been lined up for a month. The majority of those meals will be casseroles, appropriately alternating between chicken, beef, and even the occasional seafood dish, allergies permitting.

All Southerners, and all Episcopalians, have condensed soups stock-piled in their pantries for such a time as this. It doesn’t matter how keto-paleo-whole30-natural-organic you are, if you have Southern and/or Episcopal roots, you keep condensed soups on hand. No casserole is complete without them, and casseroles run in our veins.

This week, we had a death in our church. I may live in the Midwest now, but old habits die hard, and I had a poppy seed chicken casserole* in the oven the next day. Jet, our oldest, helped me cook.

Momma, why are you making a casserole?

Because, hunny, when someone dies, you take their family a meal. It’s a way to show love and empathy.

But, why a casserole?

And then it hit me. To a Southerner, and to an Episcopalian, there is nothing more comforting for a scared family, a grieving widow, or new parents than a warm casserole. Nothing says love quite like high-fat condensed soups mixed with chicken. These cheap ingredients stretch and bake into bubbly concoctions that comfort our hearts and our bellies at times in life when we’re stretched as much as those cheap ingredients. Casseroles are easy. Life isn’t.

This week I got to share the importance of the casserole with my son, and during his life, I’ll get to share with him all of these other things. These rules and traditions that run through my veins might seem meaningless to outsiders, they might seem dated, or unimportant. But beneath the rules, behind the traditions, are people who went before me, who taught me these things. They taught me that the thank you note isn’t important just because it’s what you do, but because the person whom you’re thanking is a gift. Elbows on the table aren’t actually a big deal, but respect is. Ancient traditions aren’t just a cool new Facebook status, but holy moments that form and shape us. Casseroles aren’t just ingredients that stretch, they’re a symbol of people filling in the gaps that life creates.

*Poppy Seed Chicken Casserole

1 bag frozen chicken tenders (the bag I used was 40oz/2.5lbs)

1 can cream of chicken soup

16 ounces sour cream

3 tsp poppy seeds

1-2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce, depending on preference

Salt/pepper and garlic powder to taste

1 sleeve Ritz crackers, crushed

¼ cup butter, melted

Preheat oven to 350. Cook and shred the chicken tenders and mix with the next four ingredients. Add salt, pepper, and garlic powder to taste, and put the mixture in a 9×13” baking dish. In a separate bowl, mix crushed crackers with melted butter. Top the casserole with the crackers, and bake until casserole is bubbly around the edges, around 30-35 minutes.

Disclaimer: I grew up in the Episcopal Church, but many of these traditions can also apply to Lutherans, Methodists, Presbyterians, and sometimes even Baptists, but never, ever, Calvinists.


It’s In A Pink Box

One of the joys of my life is making my husband feel awkward. I love it so much that I don’t even care that saying it aloud makes me sound like a nightmare of a wife. It’s just that fun.

My husband is profoundly innocent. What’s so beautifully ironic about this is that he’s a recovering alcoholic and attends meetings with people who are decidedly NOT innocent. He regularly comes home from meetings wide-eyed about things he heard.

There’s a purity in his heart that I love, and that I also love to pick on.

Imagine my delight when I discovered a new mascara called “Better Than Sex.”

This is my moment, I thought.

I sent him a text.

Me: Hey, could you drop by Ulta on your way home from work? I need a few things.

Husband: Sure. Just send me a list.

 Me: Nyx Butter Gloss in Crème Brulee, and a new mascara I want to try. It’s in a pink box. It’s called Better Than Sex. If you need help finding them, just ask; they’re always really helpful.

Instantly, my phone rang.

Rebecca. Is the name of the mascara a joke? 

I put on my best nonchalant voice. No, of course not. It’s in a pink box. Just ask if you can’t find it. 

Rebecca. (He likes to repeat my name when he starts getting that panicky, uncomfortable feeling.) I can’t ask for that.

I’m sure you’ll be able to find it. Pink box. Thanks so much!

I hung up before he could hear me laughing.

He called me a few hours later from the store. Got the lipgloss, but I can’t find the mascara.  

Oh ok, just ask. I’m sure they’ll know exactly where it is.

Rebecca, you don’t understand. A woman already asked if I needed help and I said no. I’m not going to ASK for something called…(he lowered his voice)…Better. Than. Sex.  

Hun, that’s ridiculous. Just ask her and be cool about it. Don’t act awkward.

Rebecca (again with the name), this is me. I can’t say the word sex and not be awkward. 

Oh, I know. That’s exactly why I sent you.

Through the phone I heard the saleswoman ask him again, Are you sure I can’t help you find something, sir? 

Well, I really didn’t want to have to ask for this. My wife wants a mascara called Better Than…(he lowered his voice to a near whisper)…Sex.

Perfect, I think. WHISPERING it won’t make you look awkward at all. This was too good to be true.

I heard her say something, but I couldn’t make out her words.

He came back on the phone. Apparently I was standing right in front of it. I have it. I’m on my way home.

He came in the door. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?

I erupted with laughter. You have no idea. 

As for the mascara: false advertising, but it is pretty damn good.

February 22nd

I just called Baby. I call her every year on February 22nd. It’s the day that her husband, my grandfather, chose to end his life.

She wasn’t at home which isn’t unusual. She has more of a social life than I could ever hope to have. I left her a message. Hey Baby, it’s February 22nd, and I’m calling to tell you that in an hour when it’s 5:00, I’ll be raising my glass of bubbles to you and my Granddaddy because I love and miss you both.

Baby and I are connected at the heart, not by blood. We’ve decided that in some ways that’s even better.

Her name isn’t actually Baby. Her name is Beverley. When I was young, she and my grandfather came to visit. It’s the first time I remember meeting her. I was old enough to feel awkwardness, but young enough that the grownups assumed I didn’t.

She gave me a white stuffed bear. Together, all the awkward grownups and I, decided to name the bear Beverley Bear, since it was from Beverley. My dad piped up, You could call it BB for short.

 I looked up at Beverley. Maybe I could call you BB too.

All the grownups seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. It was settled. The step-grandmother had a name, and it was tender enough to honor the position she had in my life, but not grandmother-ly enough to step on the toes of my mom’s mother, who was still alive at the time.

Visits increased, awkwardness decreased. Many of my childhood memories are in the home she and my grandfather shared during their marriage. They lived in an island town in South Carolina. We crabbed all day, danced to beach music in the evenings. The grownups sipped wine, the kids stuffed their faces with pimento cheese. The house echoed with the booming laugh of my grandfather. After supper, my brother and I loaded up into the back of his truck, and he’d sneak us away for a scoop of ice cream.

Last summer, we were back at that beach for a family vacation. BB, who now lives in the Upstate, came down to the beach for a few nights to see us. Awkwardness long gone, BB is a part of us, and we’re a part of her. As she gave my middle son a birthday present, he looked at her with his long eyelashes and curly hair and said, Oh thank you, Baby, I love it. BB had become Baby. The step-grandmother name had morphed into the name of a beloved great-grandmother, connected at the heart, not by blood.

Today when I left Baby the message, I teared up. I never cry on February 22nd, but today I realized that I’ve known Baby, my heart grandmother, longer than I knew my grandfather. He died when I was fifteen, seventeen years ago.

A long time ago, he gave our family a gift. He gave us Baby. Tonight, I raise my glass of to my Granddaddy and to Baby. How I love them both.


Most of my elementary school memories include two things: boys and sports. I remember the former because I loved them, the latter because I loathed them.

I spent my mornings slipping notes to one special boy, my first love, when the teacher wasn’t looking. Topics included: “Do you love me? Circle yes or no.” (Yes) and “Are you allowed to talk on the phone tonight?” (No) and “Want to sit with me at lunch? Circle yes or no.” (Yes). One Valentine’s Day we exchanged gifts. I bought him a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a box of Fruit Roll Ups, his favorite food. He bought me a heart shaped onion, my favorite food, and an angel pin which spent the next three years on my backpack. The romance was real, and the mornings good.

I spent my afternoons dreading gym.

I don’t remember the name of my P.E. teacher, but she struck fear in my heart. I used to hide in the bathroom when I saw her walking down the hall. It didn’t matter which sport we were learning, I was miserable. I was so bad at basketball that I had to learn to dribble with a beach ball. I retied my shoelaces so many times during soccer that the teacher told my parents they might need to buy me Velcro shoes. I “let” so many kids go ahead of me in kickball, altogether avoiding a turn, until one day she caught on and made me go first every day.


It wasn’t all bad though. One week she was out sick and we had a very handsome substitute teacher. That was a good week.

Field Day was a special kind of hell, and after surviving the dreaded day in First and Second Grade, my parents finally let me skip the day each time it rolled around for the rest of elementary school.

Middle school wasn’t much better. My car rides to and from school were spent begging my parents to find a way to get me out of volleyball. Get a doctor’s note, I insisted. Unfortunately, hatred of sports isn’t considered an actual medical condition, so they resorted to prayer. From that day on, we spent the car rides begging God to help me get the ball over the net.

He didn’t.

Since hormones and heartbreaks and greasy hair and braces weren’t torture enough for Eighth Grade, we had to run a mile once a week. I’m proud of the fact that I didn’t come in dead last each week, rather second to last, only ahead of the girl who had debilitating asthma.

Asthma. Why didn’t I think of that?

By that age, we’d outgrown the torture of Field Day. In its place: the epic four day Eight Grade trip for camping and white-water rafting. While everyone in my class excitedly packed and prepared, I tried to research believable illnesses I could fake to skip the trip. It didn’t work, and I watched my mom pack the horrifying necessities listed on our school-provided packing list: bug spray, sleeping bags, a one-piece bathing suit, toothbrush, and jock itch cream. Before I knew it I was on a bus with the eighth grade class heading to a campsite where we were met by a stereotypical outdoorsy man in his sixties. He gave us the low down of the trip, announced our tent assignments, and quoted a book called How to Shit in the Woods. In his hand, a Ziploc bag and a shovel. I made a silent vow to myself: Hold it, whatever you do, just hold it. It’s only a few days.

Three days later we were back on the bus heading for our white-water rafting “adventure.” We put on wetsuits and walked in groups of five, raft overhead, down to the Chattooga River. Our raft guide (Are they called guides?) was a pretty cute guy in his twenties. At least if I was going to die, I’d have some eye candy in my final moments. Between my simultaneous flirty and panicked glances, he informed us that the Chattooga River is where the 1970’s horror film Deliverance was filmed. Death suddenly seemed like an actual possibility.

The last thing I remember hearing before climbing into the raft was the instruction to bring your legs up if you got flipped out. Something about toes getting stuck in rocks. Drowning. Death.


We watched two groups ahead of us raft down the large 14-foot double drop called Bull Sluice. After the drop, they got out of their rafts to cheer on the next team from the large rocks. The next team was us. Remember, if you fall out, lift your feet.

I don’t remember the exact moment I felt my entire body flip out of the raft, then under the raft, into the freezing water, but I do remember lifting my feet. I was so focused on lifting my feet that I barely saw the guide (who had suddenly lost his appeal to me) standing on the rocks throwing a rope in my direction while I floated downstream, but dammit my feet were lifted. The rope hit my nose before I was able to grab it, leaving a large black bruise. Soon we were back at the lodge (Is it called a lodge?) and as I took off the wetsuit I realized why jock itch cream was on the packing list.

Eventually college came, clearly without an athletic scholarship, and I thought I’d escaped sports purgatory for good. I was wrong. I attended a small liberal arts school in the Upstate of South Carolina. One of the benefits of a liberal arts education is the ability to explore a variety of disciplines in addition to your major of choice. Basically, a liberal arts degree ensures that you’re good at your job and at cocktail parties.

Here’s the downside to a liberal arts degree: sports are considered part of the experience that creates well-rounded human beings. I wholeheartedly disagree. I avoided my sports requirements until my senior year. Finally, the time came to register for classes for my Senior year and my advisor reminded me that I hadn’t yet taken my physical education courses. I briefly considered dropping out, but I was engaged and my Dad often reminded me, No degree, no dress, so I bit the bullet and looked at my options.

We could choose from three sections: team sport, dance, and individual sport. I had visions of beach ball dribbling practice and I decided that one helping of that particular form of humiliation was enough for a lifetime. Clearly, team sports were out. That left dance and an individual sport.

I bought a leotard, tights, ballet shoes, and survived my semester-long ballet class with the grace of a drunk ox. I don’t remember my grade, but I can almost guarantee it wasn’t an A. I didn’t care. It was over.

My last semester of college was beginning and my roommate and I decided golf sounded like a pretty safe option for an individual sport. We came back from Christmas break, our parents’ credit cards in tow, and went to the sporting goods store where twenty years of heart-thumping humiliation flashed brighter than the fluorescent lights overhead. As I walked through the time warp of my childhood athletic traumas, I began to sweat. Basketballs here, kickballs there, a nice display of beach balls. Volleyball nets. Rafts. Wetsuits.

Lindsay, my roommate, saw the panic in my eyes came up with a brilliant plan to get us through the semester. The plan involved pink golf clubs and argyle socks; we’d just accessorize our way through the semester. It was kind of a “tan fat looks better than pale fat” situation, but the golf version. As long as you look like a golfer, it won’t matter that you have a striking lack of athletic ability.

A few days later we grabbed our new golf bags and walked to the athletics building, the only building on our campus I’d never visited. Apparently it was pretty state of the art, not that I would know. My walking into that building was about as pointless as a vegetarian visiting a butcher. But there I sat in a classroom (Who knew the athletics building had classrooms?) with about twenty other women waiting for our professor.

And then he came in.

Afternoon, ladies. I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late, but when you’re 80 you sometimes misplace your keys. My name is Olin Calicutt, and I’m here to teach you to love the great game of golf.

I was smitten.

I’m not sure if it was his deep southern drawl, his white hair, his silver rimmed glasses, or the fact that he truly believed he could teach someone like me to love the game of golf, but I decided the semester wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The first class only lasted a few minutes. He gave us some handouts and told us all materials would be provided, including golf clubs. He looked over at Lindsay and me, our matching pink bags and clubs. Of course, if you bring your own that’ll be just fine too. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a pink bag, ladies. I sure like them.


Our first real class was on a chilly day and we walked down to the practice field (We had a practice field?), where he lined us up. One by one, he showed us how to grip the club correctly and how to align our feet. Then we started swinging. I’m clearly no expert, but my first attempt was weak. Pitiful, really. But Olin was a gentleman.

Classes continued and surprisingly, Lindsay and I began to look forward to them. Our excitement had nothing to do with golf, but rather the opportunity to see Olin. Our golf skills improved slightly, and I mean very, very, very slightly, and we began visiting the par three course in town with our boyfriends on the weekends. Have argyle, will golf.

After our first visit to the par three course, we told Olin about our weekend adventure. He looked thrilled. The smile on his face faded slightly when one of us, and I’m not naming any names, pulled out our driver, swung, and knocked the head right off of the club. The head flew farther than the ball. Lindsay and I broke into hysterics. Olin, however, took his glasses off his face, wiped them with the corner of his shirt and said, Well, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything like that before. That was really something.

Olin stopped Lindsay and me after class that day. I’m so glad you ladies are enjoying golf. If there’s ever anything I can do to help you with your game, all you have to do is ask.

We asked if he’d ever be willing to meet us at the driving range. I would just be delighted.

We made a plan to meet him at the driving range that weekend. I remember nothing about our time, but after we were finished he asked if we were hungry. Starving.

I know a great Chinese place. You ladies can follow me.

The three of us sat at the table, sipped our water, ordered. Lindsay and I still had on our golf shoes. He talked to us about his kids and grandkids, we talked about our other classes, our parents, our boyfriends. He told us about his wife who had died several years before, his face lit up when he spoke of her. I sure miss her.

The waitress came over and told us it was so sweet to see two granddaughters having lunch with their grandfather. Oh, he’s not actually our grandfather…

No, these are my friends, Olin interrupted.

She left the bill on the table which Lindsay and I tried to take. He grabbed it before we could. Friends, I’m 80 years old. I’ve never let a lady buy my lunch, and I’m not about to begin now.

The class ended, and on the last day we presented him with a plaque. I don’t remember what we had engraved on it, but I remember that he took his glasses off again, this time wiping his eyes. We hugged him goodbye.

I wish I could say we kept in touch, but life went on. We graduated, he got a new group of students, and I lost my golf swing quickly, although it wasn’t much to brag about at its peak.


I recently found out that Olin died two years ago. I wish I’d known at the time so I could have written his family and told him what he’d meant to me. We didn’t know each other well, but that semester I learned that sports don’t exclusively create miserable memories. Sometimes, they create a friend. Olin did exactly what he told us he’d do on the first day of class: he gave me the love of golf. I don’t play, and I probably never will. I never watch golf, and I still couldn’t tell you the rules, but I love the memory of golf because it gave me the memory of Olin, a true gentleman, and at one point, my friend.


I began a yoga practice a little over six months ago at the suggestion of my therapist. I was a total novice to yoga, save a few maternity DVDs I did religiously for about three days during each of my pregnancies. As most writers are, I’m a diligent researcher, so before attending my first yoga class I tried to learn as much as I could about what to expect so I didn’t look like a complete idiot during my class. I Googled things like “yoga etiquette” and “yoga studio rules” and “what do expect during your first yoga class.” Of course on this side of yoga experience I realize that Googling these things would be akin to Googling “how to cook.” Yoga takes on many forms and each yogi has his or her own interpretation of the practice. Likewise, yoga studios develop their own vibe and ethos, which range from traditional Eastern-spiritual practices to Evangelical yoga-lite, and everything in between.  There are, however, a few rules that I would consider yoga-universal. If you’re not a yogi, here are some rules to know before you go:

  1. This is the way you turn off the outside world, the way you connect your body to your movements, and the way you focus on your practice and nothing else. It’s the hardest rule to follow.
  2. First, your focus doesn’t leave your mat. This means you are focused on your practice and yours alone. Modify when you need to, stretch yourself when it feels right. Yoga studios are judgment free zones. Keeping your focus on your mat means that you are not allowed to hope the woman in front of you with the perfect breasts, flat stomach, and rock-hard tush falls flat on her face mid Standing Bow. Perhaps this is actually the hardest rule to follow.
  3. Be gracious with yourself. Yoga is a practice, not a performance. Sometimes your practice brings progress, other times, not. But all practice is good.
  4. Bring water.
  5. Don’t pass gas.

A few weeks ago I went to one of my favorite yoga classes and I only followed two rules. Luckily, #5 was one of them. I also brought my water. Blame it on recovering from a cold, or the fact that I’d had a frustrating day, but I broke every other rule and my practice suffered. Instead of breathing, I was trying to remember if I’d brought a Kleenex with me. Instead of focusing on my mat, I was writing a story in my mind of the middle-age gentleman next to me. He’s lost a tremendous amount of weight in the 6 months we’ve both attended the studio. I don’t know his name, but I decided it was probably something sweet like Dave. In case you’re curious about my story, he was an investment banker whose marriage was in shambles. He embarked on a journey of self-discovery in which he found himself and reignited love with his wife. Now they spend their evenings cooking together, slow dancing in the kitchen after he gets home from yoga. Their first grandchild is due soon, poetically a boy to be named David after his grandfather. I find myself staring at him in the mirror and resist the urge to leave my mat and hug him. I remind myself that my story, though wonderful, is indeed made up.

Back to my practice. My body was tight, my stamina low, my form poor. Directly in front of me was a woman who somehow still looked elegant 30 minutes into our class. Her hair perfect, her body dripping with Lululemon and not a drop of sweat. I just know there wasn’t a single stretch mark on her body. Her form (like her blasted figure) was perfect, and just before I could wish her a pose-induced fall, our instructor called us to our mats for Savasana.

Savasana is a time to focus on nothing but your breath and is said to be the hardest of all yoga poses. Instead of taking this time to clear my mind and have a mental “do-over,” I became so distracted by the music that I could think of nothing else. I didn’t know the song, but I recognized the artist’s voice from the opening song to Suits, “Greenback Boogie.” Naturally, I started singing the song in my mind and wondering whatever happened to Mike. (We’re a few seasons behind.) I made a mental note to look up the artist’s name which, I am sorry to tell you, is Ima Robot.

Needless to say, I left my practice disgruntled and not the least bit zen. I walked outside and it was raining, of course, so I decided that what the night really needed was junk food. Calling to me like a beacon of hope, I spotted the neon green lights of Whole Foods just across the street. Dripping with yoga sweat and rain, I walked in the store and went to the queso section which, of course, was empty. My favorite salsa? Gone. My favorite chips? Only small bags. Of course.

I grabbed a bag of frozen tater tots and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and headed to the only open checkout aisle.

And that’s when the night really went down hill.

I found myself standing face to face with the cashier who was the embodiment of every reason Boomers hate Millennials.

I looked at him with his perfectly combed and organic gel-encrusted coif with the quintessential matching beard, both carefully raked with custom bamboo combs he undoubtedly bought on Etsy and had engraved with his name, which is probably Rain. He smelled like a walking Google search of “essential oils for men,” from the cedarwood, bergamot, and whiskey infused beard butter on his face for which he paid $58 per 2.5 ounce tin. The upcycled tin label surely reads Locally sourced and handmade with organic vegan ingredients and sprinkled with fairy tears. I couldn’t see his feet, but I’d be willing to put money on organic socks with hemp shoes. He finished scanning my gluten-ridden, non-sprouted, dairy infused, poisonous groceries, and took a superior sip of his chia seed kombucha which was sitting by the register.

He looked at me and saw me and my post-hot-yoga-meets-post-partum-fly-away hair. He saw my non-fair trade yoga pants purchased from Nordstrom, a store fraught with ethical violations. Where my organic socks should have been, a pair of Rainbows, which probably reminded him of every ocean in crisis. I’m the epitome of commercialism and everything this man stands against.

As though the fate of 1000 dying rain forests rested squarely on my shoulders, he looked at me in all of his smug hipster glory over his thick Warby Parker glasses and said, Do you want a receipt?

Yes, I hissed. Yes, I do.

The truth is, I didn’t actually need my receipt, but somewhere between his perfect beard and my saturated fat laden tater tots my mild huff was nearing rage level.  I walked away from the register feeling irrationally angry and unreasonably hungry. I got home and ranted to my husband, Porter, about my encounter with Rain. He said all of the right things, nodding sympathetically while I shoveled tots into my mouth. After my last bite, I think I said something along the lines of, “Seriously, he was such an ass. And the real irony in this situation is that I actually care about the oceans in crisis. I drink kombucha and eat fermented vegetables, I support fair trade and cottage industries, I use essential oils, and if I wore socks, I’m sure I’d want them to be organic. But you know what else? I like tater tots, and mac & cheese, and the thought of cauliflower pizza crust just makes me want to scream What’s the point?”

Just as quickly as my monologue began, it ended, and my husband uttered the most beautiful (and safest) words a husband could say to his ranting wife in a moment like this: Would you like some ice cream?

The next morning Porter told me, You should write about Rain. Seems like good material.

Ice cream offers and writing advice, just two of the reasons I’m so thankful I married him. So, I sat down to write. For several weeks I’ve thought about this story and tried to come up with my angle. I considered things like the ways in which yoga teaches us life lessons, or the fact that each of us is a walking contradiction of convictions, or judge not lest you be judged. I even considered the fact that Rain might actually be a pretty nice dude with a boring name like John, although I think we can all agree that it’s unlikely. Draft after draft after draft, all hackneyed and worthless. The blank page continued to taunt me.

As much as I wanted a good story with a point, the fact is, sometimes a story is just a story, utterly pointless.

Like my damn receipt.