morning mercies

(Hunter Museum of Art, from www.chattanoogachamber.com)

"The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases. His mercies never come to an end.
They are new every morning."

Lamentations 3:22-23

another notch on the cool-o-meter

(me and my little brother)

Growing up, I really liked my initials.

A lot of the kids I knew had boring initials, like SKR or GFH, senseless combinations that spelled nothing. Mine? Mine were cool. Mine were relevant to the poofy-bangs, leggings and legwarmers, MC-Hammer-pants era in which we lived.

I was RAP.

I have never scored very high on the cool-o-meter, so I took what I could get.

In case you can't guess, we just got married. The wedding was a blast, and I'll post some more pictures as I get them. There are so many new things to get used to - living in a new house, figuring out what sort of toothpaste to buy and how we like our eggs. I was expecting all these kinds of things, but I hadn't really given much thought to the whole name-change process. I've only jumped through a few of the 27 flaming hoops required to become Rachel Gates, but it's started to dawn on me that, huh, I have a new name (there are so many theological parallels that I could go into here!!! That will have to be an addendum for later).

And changing my name is a good thing, something I've chosen to do, and I'm so glad that I have the privilege of being identified in name with my husband. But I can't help feeling a tiny twinge of second-grade nostalgia when I think that I will no longer be RAP.

Now? I'm RAG.

As I rock out to a little Police and Rick Springfield, I grin at my own nerdy-ness.

'Cause I think I'm still pretty cool.

a web-savvy, homespun Christmas

I am a web-geek/granola/atrophying intellectual.

In recent weeks, I have completed a myriad of purchases online, from the mundane to the
“you’ve-gotta-be-kidding-me.” A selection:

• A Sofa
• 72 votive candle holders
• Paper and envelopes for 350 wedding invitations
• 99% of my Christmas gifts
• Wedding dress (without even trying it on – take that, annoying wedding-dress salespeople! No commission for you!)
• A camera
• Bridesmaids Gifts
• A veil
• Music
• Travel toiletries organizer (for all my giant bottles of liquid shampoo . . . oh, wait)
• Hotel accommodations

Thanks to the world wide web, I have also:

• Planned a family out of town Christmas gathering
• Tracked down family and friends to send wedding invitations to
• Researched presidential candidates (could I still be anymore unsure?)
• Had my life changed by google calendar and google documents (if the internet ever goes down my organizational capacity is screwed)
• Had Christmas gifts wrapped, signed and delivered to out-of-town relatives

I love the internet.

I know we haven’t even made it past Christmas yet, but my New Year’s resolutions are to phase out using plastic shopping bags in favor canvas or fabric ones, and to replace all of the light bulbs in my house with those energy-efficient swirly kind. I’m still a poser, but I cheered this week when Al Gore chided the U.S. on its lack of commitment to fighting global warming (never thought I’d use “cheer” and “Al Gore” in the same sentence), and I can’t wait to ride my 1972 Shwinn with the huge basket to the grocery store from our new house. Baby steps. I don’t want my children to have to ask “Mommy, what were polar bears?”

One of the things that I dislike most about this time of year is all of the useless crap that appears in stores. A rotating neck-tie holder? Why sure, everyone needs one of those! It’s commercialism at its worst. Charlie Brown thought it was bad 50 years ago.

Apart from shunning the mall and shopping online, we’ve tried our hand at a few homemade, meaningful Christmas projects. I’m attempting to relearn how to crochet. I think I’m finally getting it, though it’s looking a lot like those blobbish squares I used to crochet as a kid. We tried our luck at making homemade, naturally scented candles the other night. There’s a small run-off of cinnamon-scented wax every time I turn on the stove to fry an egg now, but the candles turned out great. And eggs over easy aren’t so bad with a hint of cinnamon . . . I’m hoping to have an almost completely homemade Christmas next year. Curling up with a ball of yarn and cup of hot chocolate (from scratch and all-natural, of course) is much more pleasant than dodging Santa, stressed-out soccer moms and crying babies at the mall.

And now for the atrophying intellectual part. (You thought I forgot, didn’t you?)

My brain is starving. Why?

1) The public library requires three proofs of residence, a drivers’ license with current address (mine’s like three apartments ago), a DNA sample and your firstborn child before you can get a library card. And I can’t bring myself to actually purchase a book without at least two recommendations and a few notable book awards. Your assignment? Send me a list of your top 5 favorite books of all time. Or your top 5 favorite as of late. Oprah endorsement is optional (though apparently not without value, especially if you are an Illinois senator running for president).

2) The only things I’ve written lately are grant letters and alumni gathering invitations. The newspaper business ruined me, and I’ve forgotten how to journal. This blog is the highest concentration of words I’ve produced for pleasure since . . . wow, I have no idea.

3) Lack of stimulating discourse. Let’s face it, my co-workers are great, but they’re spending their days figuring out how to boost our endowment and pay for financial aid. A discussion of the finer points and theological implications of baptism or the merits of Madeline L’Engles narrative theory isn’t something that happens too often.

To summarize:

If you want to buy me the perfect a Christmas present, send books. Recycled (used) ones. That you’ve bought online.

a whole new world

Marriage, I am still firmly convinced, is an incredible thing. (Doctrinally, there is much evidence to support this). Weddings, however, are another matter entirely.

I am a newcomer to this strange, strange world, where everything gleams with taffeta and twinkle lights, and those involved have a shorthand slang to rival the most texting-savvy teens. “Like, OMG, my MOB sent 500 STDs!” – nothing to do with organized crime or infectious diseases. Baffling? I know.

Social etiquette and propriety run rampant in this connubial realm, and carry the weight of generations of tradition, customs and expectations. Combined with a lavish frivolity, selfishness and pettiness that seems to possess so many brides as their nuptials draw near, it all sort of makes want to run screaming to the nearest courthouse. Or vomit.

I’ll admit, the most appealing option, to me, is to elope on a mountain somewhere, and forget all of the pomp and circumstance (it still sounds tempting). But there are lots of people that love us, and want to celebrate this covenant with us, and I want to honor that and love them by allowing them to take part. Mostly, I really want those people to be able to slap me across the face 2, 10 and 40 years from now and say “you made a holy covenant! I was there!”

I want a marriage, not an event. But if that event is a part of cutting covenant before God and community, of proclaiming the gospel and celebrating grace, I’m ok with it. We will get married in a church, and have a reception in a large dining hall, but I’m not going to feel pressured to observe a tradition for tradition’s sake. I want to have fun. I want people to hang out and laugh and dance and have a good time. But I don’t feel the need to do anything big or impressive, and I’m sure as hell not going to let my parents empty their bank account.

Ask me again in about four months, and see if I feel any differently. But come to see the gospel, not a grand gala. If you’re into that sort of thing, you might be disappointed.

And please – no taffeta.

my 103 degree summer

I'd forgotten what 103 degree days were like.

It's hella hot.

There are times, like in the middle of a cold spell in February, where you can't seem to remember ever being warm, and the thought of sunshine, hazy afternoons and static summer heat is a pleasant one. The moment those days actually arrive, though, I find myself longing for weather that doesn't constantly make me feel like I'm trying to jog in a steam room. I try to remind myself that we always what what isn't, and that by January I'll be longing for August (or at least May) once again. Relief will soon be here in the form of cooler September mornings, and I will spend some quality time with a bicycle.

Speaking of bicycles, remember this guy? . . .














. . . Yeah, I'm gonna marry him.
Crazy, this life is. Never would have guessed that a year ago. Turns out, God knows me better than I do. I am astounded by His grace.

Lee asked me to marry him last Sunday, August 5, on my birthday - having "officially" dated just shy of 8 months. It's funny, but I've never been so sure of anything in my life. He is for me, and I for him. The doctrinal ramifications of the whole thing are still blowing me away. . .
The proposal included a walk to a beautiful view over Chattanooga, a bottle of champagne hidden in the bushes, and little tiny notes tucked under mailboxes, lampposts and street signs all the way home. It was lovely. And he succeeded in surprising me, which given my ability to piece things together with incredible speed (I mean, I was a reporter, you learn), was quite a feat.

So now, I will spend the remainder of my sweltering summer days attempting to learn how to best build a life, plan a marriage, and host a celebration . . . daunting, but good . . . So many more thoughts to come.

war and peace

Peace. We will never see peace.
We yearn for it. We pray for it. Fight for it. Die for it.
Yet it will not come.

God's children, his creation, killing each other in his name. We are hopelessly corrupted. There can never be peace.

But there will be. Someday.

In God's kingdom, there is hope, life, peace. Oh, how I long for it. But it seems so far off.
Father, redeem your earth. Fix our miserably broken lives.

I want to live in peace. I want to see beauty, to watch salvation and redemption overcome. I want to write books, listen to an opera, watch a sunset. To love, to raise a family. To live without fear.

Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief.

playing grown up

I have a life now.

Yes, a life. I’d forgotten what it was like.

My new job is wonderful. Right now we’re working summer hours, which means roughly 8:30-4, Monday through Friday (no working on the weekend!). We actually get vacation days and breaks (fall break, thanksgiving break, Christmas break) . I almost dissolved into tears of joy when I learned the break schedule. I have new toys to play with (aka, a laptop and design programs). And this afternoon I have been sitting in Stone Cup designing a book cover from old yearbook photos.

I have evenings again. Evenings mean bike rides, playing outside, pilates, and cooking dinner. Actually getting to the bank before it closes. You know, normal people activities.

Plus, I actually enjoy what I do. Lots of design, which is really fun. Really cool people.

I hung a whiteboard on my door and started a word of the day. Everyone has come to enjoy it; I get complaints if I don’t get a new word up by 9 a.m. each morning. Contests then ensue to see who can write the best sentence on the board. It gives people a reason to stop by my office. And maybe the routine will bump me up a few points on the GRE . . .

I can definitely say I haven’t been bored. It’s been some adjustment, as all new jobs are; and lots to learn.

God is good.

God was good before, too.

I often feel like a kid playing “grown up.” I go to my office, where I can initiate projects, call meetings, make suggestions. And people listen to me. They like what I have to say. And somewhere inside I think “but I’m just a kid. Don’t you know I’m just pretending to be a grown up?” I think the same thing when yet another friend gets married, has a baby, makes some life-altering, very adult-like career move.

It’s making more and more sense.