This sets up the excerpt we read from the Joy Luck Club, in which a mother pressures her daughter to become a child prodigy. This is just one of many readings selected for high schoolers that manages to get at me more than it does my students.

In my head,  if I’m honest, as much as I pride myself on being passionate and driven, I still weigh columns like this more than I care to admit.

In the first column, there are the causes and projects that burn white hot inside me–the things that insist on being brought to expression.

In the second column, I reflect on the expectations of others–mainly the “others”  of Christianity. Despite my tensions with parts of it, this is the only subculture where I’d be considered a native (unless you count “skinny white girls” as a subculture). I don’t have to physically write anything out to know this  column is packed—crammed with the opinions of parents, leaders that I respect, books I’ve read, conventional religious opinion, social norms, peer approval.

Both columns–like for the characters in the story; like for my students–hold weight inside me of course. The first column, the pursuit of the divine-in-me,  holds this adrenaline-lit and sometimes risky path to the unknown. The second column, the affirmation of peers, can also be a welcome, tangible comfort while living on a dysfunctional planet where God doesn’t always seem as “right here” as I wish he was.

The prospect of conflict between the two columns–investing in one at the expense of the other–is uncomfortable. Pulling away from either column would be scary.

But one scares me A LOT more than the other.

The older I get, the more I know what I am willing to live with and what I am not willing to live with.

I am willing to live without the affirmation of my peers if needed, for example (although, let’s be honest, it’s not my preference). However, I am NOT willing to live in an eternally-curious state, wondering what my life could’ve held had I learned to live “all in” in Column 1.

Complexity #4,569: to translate that into my life.

Any ideas?

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Hey dreamers-that-I-love,

You know that idea that’s been rolling around in your head WAY too long? That vision you haven’t been able to shake? That cause that keeps coming back to you? That project that keeps you awake at night?

As you know, I believe in plucking that thing out of your head and getting it out into the real world where other people can see it and be impacted by it. **Stop hogging your dream, people. =)**

But rarely do I get to say what I am about to. I KNOW A WAY YOU CAN FINALLY MOVE ON THAT DREAM. A way you can get around feeling alone in the process, afraid of failing, overwhelmed by all the details.

It’s called DREAMYEAR.

Here’s how it works:

• Ben Arment, the founder of STORY, leads 24 people through a process to achieve one dream in one year.  No dream is too big, and no idea is too far-fetched.
• The participants include everyone from filmmakers and church planters to entrepreneurs and authors.
• Participants get all kinds of exclusive goods – personalized project planning, weekly lessons, accountability and goal settings, one-on-one consultations.

In other words, this is the process “college” doesn’t walk you through.

So there’s a buzz going on for some of you right now as you think about your dream being launched within the space of one year. Am I right? If THAT MUCH catches something in your spirit, then you are going to be magnetized by reading the actual calendar and personal stories section on the DREAMYEAR site.

But wait, before you jet out of here to the DREAMYEAR site, here is what I want you to know most of all: **THIS IS NOT AN INFOMERCIAL**  Ben, the guy behind DREAMYEAR, is a friend and I want to see him continue to expand what he is doing. But, this post is not for him. It’s for you. Going after my own dreams, taking the plunge on those nagging ideas, has resulted in some of the most rewarding and meaningful experiences of my life.

And that is something, apart from DREAMYEAR and apart from Ben, I want you to taste firsthand.

In other words, this is not a sponsored post. In the real world where many of you know me face to face, I vouch for this guy and this process. So much so that if you want to talk to me more about whether it’s for you, I welcome you to pick up the phone or drop me an email (sarahraymondcunningham (at) gmail (dot) com), my friends.

Cheers to your dreams!!

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Summer is winding down (feel free to boo and throw tomatoes). This means someone is about to throw a switch that turns my “other life” as a teacher–and a more regular blogger–back on.

What better way to kick off this season than with a story from history (one of many I’ll be spending the next 9 months boring highschoolers with)?

Marcus Aurelius ruled Rome from 161 AD to his death in 180 AD (but he kinda gets the shaft because Caesar’s name is the one that always ends up in lights).

My favorite Marcus Aurelius story? As the legend goes, he hired a servant to follow him as he walked the empire’s streets. Every time a citizen bowed to his or her knee or called out some compliment or word of praise, Marcus Aurelius instructed the servant to whisper in his ear, “You’re just a man. You’re just a man.”

He also had a quote that belongs alongside Abraham Lincoln’s claim that “the best way to test a man’s character is to give him power.” Marcus’ version: “Wrestle to be the man philosophy wished to make you.”

Every time I hear the story, I think three things:

1. I want to have that perspective.

2. I want to nurture the kind of friendships that offer the balance of that servant’s words.

3. I ALSO want to be the kind of servant who follows the leaders who AREN’T necessarily getting the accolades they deserve. I want to whisper a reminder to them, “You may be just a human, but what you’re doing is significant. You may be just a man, but your life and vision matter.”

I want to be the kind of person whose heart recognizes talent and worth, even if the crowd isn’t applauding.

Know what I mean?

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I will never let a surgeon fill these in, tighten them out, erase them away.
They are the product of a happy life.
A lot of doubled-over laughter had.
They are evidence I have smiled so many times…

 it. wore. lines. right. into. my. face.

Women of the world,
Don’t hate on your faces.
Love those lines.
They are souvenirs of your life’s best moments displayed where you will never forget them.

~by Sarah Cunningham, Author of Picking Dandelions: A Search for Eden Among Life’s Weeds  -  AVAILABLE NOW FOR $10.19 + FREE SHIPPING

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Last year I went to the first ever Story Conference in Chicago, Illinois (I won’t mention how Mike Salisbury and I got ridiculously lost–despite his phone’s GPS–along the way).

Story is a conference for what they call the “creative class” in the ministry sector. Each session puts a different filmmaker, actor, musician or other creative on stage to share the hottest and brightest things going on in their lives.

I took in some great stuff last year. And second to the conference itself was the mingling among the other attenders–all artistic and imaginative people in their own right.

So its was killer content then hanging out with Angela (my long gone editor – Go in peace, girl), Shauna Niequist and Mike.

We had lunch in a little bistro with a back room and a spunky owner.
Did you catch that?
There was even a spunky owner.
STORY thought of everything.

Shauna and I talked about things that writers talk about: staying true to ourselves, tapping into the thirst for spiritual stories in the market place, NOT writing sensational blog posts–open letters to So and So and other similar rants designed to stir up controversy and page hits.

Wow. You’re thinking. Stop bragging. An event where there is good content and like minded people to relate to your creative side?

But there is good news here: The second annual event is September 23-24th.
It’ll be at Park Community Church in downtown Chicago this year.
And there are just 250 seats left

Come join us and listen to the likes of:

# Dan Allender – best-selling author, professor at Mars Hill Graduate School
# Charlie Todd – creator of Improv Everywhere in New York City
# Princess Zulu – AIDS victim from infancy, advocate for the oppressed
# Jason Fried – founder of 37Signals, creator of Basecamp, author of Rework
# John Sowers – president of Donald Miller’s The Mentoring Project
# Shauna Niequist – former creative director at Mars Hill, author of Bittersweet
# David Hodges – formerly of the band Evanescence, award-winning songwriter
# Leonard Sweet – futurist, author of 40 books, professor at Drew University
# David McFadzean – creator of Home Improvement, producer of Roseanne
# Richard Walter – accomplished screenwriter and professor of film at UCLA
# Sean Gladding – member of Communality, a new monastic community
# Andrew Klavan – author of True Crime (Clint Eastwood) and numerous novels
# Gary Dorsey – founder of Pixel Peach Studio in Austin, TX
# Music by Vicky Beeching, Kari Jobe and Carlos Whittaker

Seating is limited to just 500 attendees, and the event is scheduled on a Thursday and Friday so you can enjoy the weekend in the city. Following its inaugural event in 2009, STORY is now a two-day, main-stage event with no breakouts or workshops; just an intimate audience with the top creative minds. You’ll be able to ask questions during the event and continue the conversation after it’s over.

You may want to drop what you’re doing and CLICK HERE.

Seriously. Check it out at least. There’s no charge for exploring the site and seeing for yourself. :)

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As if he’s the butler of the trinity.

The spirit hasn’t ever worked that way for me.

But there have been times when an idea, a suggestion to act in some way or pursue some project, came to me seemingly out of nowhere.
When I’ve had no reference point for where it came from.
No idea what inspired it.
No prior knowledge.

I’ve felt compelled to do something about it.
And the compulsion just stuck.
And it grew in my spirit.
Until it felt like a mandate, rather than just an idea.

I basically HAD to act on it.

I tend to think this might be God.

Sometimes when I write, I suddenly start to connect thoughts that I’ve never thought before. There seems to be a flow to it. Its coming easy, even though I’ve never spent time reflecting on the topic.

(Just sometimes. Most of the time I’m just writing down my own pre-planned, not-unusual reflections.)

I wonder if this could be God, prompting my mind and my writing ability a certain direction.

Sometimes when I’m around someone, and they are telling me something about their life…something bad that happened to them or something good they are attempting to do, I feel some sort of internal warmth for them.

I want them to know that God didn’t want anyone to harm them; that’s not what he intended.
I want them to know that yes, God wants them to flourish, to do good.
I want them to know that they matter.
That they matter SO much to God.
That they are deeply LOVED.

And I want them to grasp these things in ways that seem bigger and deeper than just my own desires.

I think God’s spirit could work like that too.

I’m not especially quick to claim God told me things. I know that he speaks. And I believe he “speaks” (without words) in ways that move me sometimes. But I’m cautious to elevate my own inklings like they should be considered equal to the Bible. I guess I’ve been turned off that by people who act as if God is talking to them, specifically, verbally, via Blue Tooth all day long.

I mean, I have a little room for the possibility that he does show up in person and speak audible words to them…but for some reason cuts me out of the in-person stuff.

I mean, maybe.

But I tend to think God’s audible person-like voice is reserved for exceptional moments, just as it was in the Bible when he graced certain people and certain groups of people with a special showing. In ordinary moments, I feel like his spirit stirring things in me, combined with my understanding of God’s desires spelled out in the Scriptures, is more than enough…

if I make a point to follow it.

And when I have, I’ve been really glad I did.

So even though the Holy Spirit doesn’t double as my personal butler, I still think the phenomena–a spirit companion of sorts–is pretty cool to think about and try to understand.

What about you? How do you know when the Holy Spirit is moving you to do something?

Feel free to share a story for how that has worked in your life (yes, even if it included some sort of audible voice). And please check out the story I shared at Throw Mountains, which was sent to me by Cari Jenkins (its under this post, which is also up there). :)

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**You can leave a comment by clicking on the comment box next to the title of this post**

Read the other Sleep Challenge posts:

• The Sleep Challenge
• The Sleep Challenge Update Sorry for the lack of creative title; I was getting less sleep then so my creativit was on low. ;)
• I’ve Got No Rhythm
• Marriage Make You Sleepy?

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Some of you “met” my dog through his role as fellow-landscaper in Picking Dandelions.

But in case you missed that reference, let’s be clear. Wrigley (named after Wrigley field) was not the valedictorian of doggy obedience school.

He is, instead, a ridiculously hyper mix that results from blending two high-strung breeds–the Jack Russell and the Brittany Spaniel–into the same gene pool.

In other words, he’s a mess.
Arguably mentally disturbed.
But nonetheless happy.
In a hyper-vigilent sort of way.

I may, in fact, be the only person on the entire planet who loves him. But I stick with him because my friend Mary told me you don’t parent the dog you want, you parent the dog you get.

I say this as pre-requisite information that explains why I didn’t sic Wrigley on the unwelcome critter who took up residence on our deck (under the grill cover) yesterday.

See I am under the probably mistaken impression that wild animals that enter the human sphere are often sick, or in my mind–foaming-at-the-mouth rabid–and thus I was not going to risk my dog’s well-being over its sorry, disease-ridden self.

Instead, I dragged the dog away, hoping that if we left him alone, the unwelcome guest would vacate the grill during the night.

No such luck.

This morning I took the dog outside on a leash to test the waters. It was peaceful for all of eleven seconds, when Wrigley launched himself at the grill cover as if his body-slamming alone might render the animal unconscious. (Jack Russell logic at its finest.)

More hissing and growling.

Since there was no time to engage invaders before breakfast, I headed off to work where I spent every free moment plotting how to dispose of this animal who I was becoming increasingly convinced was planning his sneak attack on my 1 year old little boy inside the house.

(I am nothing if not always rational. And not the least bit paranoid.)

After weighing my options, I flew home on my lunch break ready to demonstrate incredible heroics.

INCREDIBLE HEROICS (in case you missed that).

Attempt #1 went like this:

I grab a Swiffer. Yes, a Swiffer. I stand on a lawn chair–all the while worried because most rodents of this size can climb things–and I poke said Swiffer into the vinyl grill cover. It shifts slightly.

Something very evil, very from-the-pits-of-hell snarls at me.

I run back into the house, slamming the glass door behind me, heart beating wildly.

Attempt #2:

I fill up an orange juice pitcher with water.
I lean out the back door and toss the water at the grill before ducking back inside as quickly as possible.
I watch.
There is no movement whatsoever.
The animal invader is apparently enjoying his free shower.

I try again, this time aiming beneath the grill, where I am sure the animal is lodged.
I run back inside.
I watch.
Zero reaction.

I wonder if it ran away while I was filling my pitcher up. Wouldn’t that be convenient?

I step back outside. I climb up on a chair. I try to budge the cover a little bit.

It hisses its evil presence.

Attempt #3:

I go upstairs and look out the bathroom window.

I think what a brilliant idea it would be to go out on the lower roof overhang and lean down to rip off the grill cover, sending the animal scurrying away.

Then I remind myself that rabid squirrels, raccoons and possums can climb.

I envision a startled, vicious animal scurrying upwards at me, starting a startling-domino-effect that sends me tumbling off the roof to lifelong paralysis.

I cancel Attempt #3.

Attempt #4:

I google “how to get rid of a raccoon or a possum or a squirrel that may or may not want to eat your one year old little boy”.

The first few results, no lie, are recipes for possum-stew.

I do not like the sound of Possum Stew, so I abandon Attempt #4.

Attempt #5:

I call Animal Control.

A lady answers. I say how I know they deal with domestic animals but could she give me any advice about a raccoon or possum? (I leave out that it is targeting my baby in case she’s one of those annoying rational people.)

Oh, well have you tried lifting the grill cover up and letting it walk away? She says.

Helpfully.

I mention that when I move the grill cover it hisses and snarls like perhaps it is not a raccoon or a possum at all, but is more of a pygmy cougar or lioness that’s wandered a long way from home.

She says I could call a pest company, which would be very expensive. I worry that they might hurt the animal. I am not for hurting animals.

I tell her this, so she points out my only option is to do it myself. ”I would make sure someone else is in earshot (thankfully, my new neighbor–who I’m sure would like our 2nd run-in to involve rescuing me from a miniature cougar–is outside).”

“I’d also carry a big stick.” She says. No lie.

This leads me to poke around at the grill cover with my mop handle again. But all the hissing fails to convince me I should dislodge the animal using my “big stick”.

Attempt #6:

I find a rope in the basement.

I lasso the grill (This is really true, despite its bizzarity. I could be on the Amazing Race or Minute to Win It with all these skills, people).

I start shaking the grill via the rope.

After a second, a little nose pops out.

I shake it some more, almost tipping the grill on its side.

(Did I mention I am shaking it while holding the rope from inside my dining room? Don’t worry, I didn’t begin this until analyzing if a rabid cougar could somehow squeeze itself in the inch of space still open due to the rope being stuck in the door frame.)

Out pops said nose again.

This time I can see the nose is attached to a very portly raccoon who emerges only long enough to look directly at me, defiantly, before heading back into his new grill-cover house.

This makes me mad, so I shake the grill like its an earthquake simulation. This raccoon is experiencing 4.9 on the Richter scale.

He comes out again, glancing at me with a bothered stare for disrupting him. I keep shaking the grill AND I start yelling, “Get out of our yard! Go! Get out of our yard!” (Also real. What else would you yell at a raccoon that you want to get out of your yard?)

Please note this is a stock image. The actual raccoon was 10-times this size. And much more evil and rabid looking.

Defeated, the raccoon saunters off the end of the deck and leaves.

I flatten the grill cover and fold it over a chair where it will no longer be a tent for this raccoon’s makeshift camping outings.

I then go inside and tell my dog and my husband (who I call at work) to notify them of my new status as champion over nature. I am sure NBC will be calling to offer me a reality show soon, I note in between crowning myself as hero of the backyard.

The best part is that sneaky little raccoon will never get his hands on my little boy.

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As I mentioned in a previous post, I hadn’t swallowed up Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz and his other three titles with the fanaticism of a lot of people (including my husband who thought it was read-the-whole-book-outloud-to-me hysterical). But Donald is compelling enough in person to draw me into his story, especially during a speech he gave while I was presenting at Elmbrook’s women’s conference.

At its base, what he said (which later became his most recent book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years) was a bit of a Carpe Diem platform…or yet another twist on songs like Live Like You Were Dying. But that was cool by me. I think we should revisit Carpe Diem at least three thousand times if we want to live a healthy, happy life…

maybe more.

Miller stood on the stage with all the casualness of my husband when he emerges from the closet in a hoodie and running pants. Producers were working with him to convert his life story into a movie, he said. And, he wasn’t going to lie, there were times when they wanted to tweak his story. To make his conflicts bigger or his pursuit of love more daring. To make more moments more memorable.

While reviewing his life, Miller said he realized a lot of us are living unimpressive lives. We’re waking up and going to sleep to boring plot lines that center around bland ambitions like “I would really like to own a Volkswagon.” And so we work, clock in, clock out, fax things, stare at the ceiling in meetings, all so we can make payments and at the end of months and years, pay off the bank loan and own a Volkswagon free and clear.

But…that doesn’t make a very good story, Miller points out.

No one would go to a movie about a guy who wants to own a Volkswagon and then sleepwalks through his days, staring at a screen in a cubicle long enough to get it.

No one would even want to waste two dollars renting that movie.

To be honest, I’m not sure what Miller even said after that sentence, because I tend to get a bit drunk on those kinds of life-directioning sentences (I’ll have to tell you another story about Pedro Windsor-Garcia soon). I know what Miller said in the book, which included a clever example of a family that started a parade, but by the time he got to saying that in his speech, I was already lost in the planning of my own good story.

I’ve always believed God had a good story in mind for me, so I’ve never been shy about chasing it. I lived in a four story homeless shelter in South Side Chicago. Lead a relief trip to Ground Zero after the 911 attacks.  Married THE guy I met the first day of college and who had me so hooked after one date that I never looked back. Started a website. Wrote a book. Got a grant to take at-risk kids down south to the hotspots of the Civil Rights movement. Took in a 16 year old high school boy when we should’ve been raising babies. Lived in neighborhoods where my husband and I were the only white people for blocks and blocks. Wrote another book. Got into painting and learning Spanish. All the while, played games and laughed and laughed…and laughed…with my parents and brothers and then later, their wives. And then (drumroll, please) I gave birth to the sweetest, smiliest little boy we named Justus–meaning a man who stands up for what is right.

Oh, and just as importantly as any of that, I’ve made a point to drink deep of friendships. My friendships have been the type you would make movies about. They haven’t been perfect, and the scripts sometimes needed reworked, but nevertheless, the friendships–even the ones in imperfect stages–have been deep and affecting, the type that move you as a person…just like the ones they later drop into scripts, in hindsight, for the movie screen.

I love my friends. I always have. I always will. All of them.

(By the way, we also bought a couple houses, paid some car payments, went on lots of middle class vacations too but for some reason, those seem less important.)

But even if you were raised to “open the gates and seize the day” because you faithfully swooned over the music stylings and choreography of David and Jack (tell me you’ve seen the Newsies!), Miller’s point–and points like that–are important to let fall into your soul many, many times over in adulthood.

Because you want to remember your childish hopes and imaginations that lead you to choose a good story, even when life is mostly suburbs and office and co-workers and clocks and bills.

I’ll tell you a little bit more about the components of the current chapter in my story soon…in a later post, I mean.

But for right now, I’m trying to think about how to instill the belief in a good story in someone else.

Namely, the 11 month old Emperor we call Justus.

And that is why we’re celebrating Birthday Month this month.(As of the 22nd, he is a month away from being 1.)

That is why yesterday I gathered up every decoration we had in the house–posters and streamers and sparkly silver Birthday banners with tinfoily fringes–and hung them all at baby-eye-level (think two feet up) around the 1st floor of our house. That is why I blew up all the blue balloons in storage (all the time listening to Justus giggling tirades as each balloon grew bigger–like magic–with each breath). That is why I listened to ten different versions of Happy Birthday before finally settling on downloading the Biggest-Band Big-Band One I could find.

And that is why I pressed the “up” volume over and over until the music was blaring, swallowing up the first floor until the dog thought the circus had marched in through the back door when we weren’t looking. (How do I know what the dog was thinking? I just know.)

And then I plopped Justus down right in the center of all of it and we draped streamers all over our heads and around our necks and we laughed and danced, looking at each other like are-we-really-this-crazy-that-we’re-celebrating-birthday-MONTH (his dance is more of a grinning, rock back and forth, reckless arm flop sort of thing).

When we got tired of dancing, or when the dancing got tired of us, we collapsed onto the floor and Justus tore everything he wanted to. He ripped half the streamers down and crinkled them in his fist and rubbed them against his face to feel the papery texture.  He smashed the balloon into his face and yelled into it, listening to his own voice echo through its latex walls. He whipped the silver banner around like he was a tweaked-out Olympian gymnast waving the ribbon around in his floor routine. Then when we pulled down the rest of the streamers at the end of the day (just after it occurred to me to get out the camera), Justus rolled around in the pile of paper decorations like he was swimming in money.

So today, in his little eleven month old life, was a Good Story day.

And, yes, I know, he’s not even a year old yet, so he’ll never ever remember Birthday Month. There’s no chance whatsoever.

But, I think to myself, maybe he’ll remember “happy”–the emotion. Maybe he’ll have faint impressions of smiles and hugs and laughter on his psyche.

Maybe gentle voices and suggles and fun will embed themselves in the data that will drive the someday-adult him.

Maybe Justus will learn, not through one day but through a lot of good-story-days strung together that…

… even though life’s hurts tend to brand us more than life’s beauty…

… and even though a lot of us have been conditioned to link the negatives together, to put our wounds on a pedestal, to look for failures and abandonment in those around us…

…that we get to choose the things we dwell on…

or another way of saying it,

we get to decide what moments our story will be lived in.

(To share this story to people in your life, click the “share” button below, which allows you to email it or to post it on your social networks.)

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Like the writing style and tone you see here? Then you might like my new memoir, Picking Dandelions: A Search for Eden Among Life’s Weeds.

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