To the old hymns

I can still remember the taste of hairspray on the tip of my tongue and the feeling of heat coming through the tissue behind my ear guarding the skin from the Conair felt hot roller that was shoved up against the ear because the more rollers, the more curls. The term “Sunday best” was a big deal to my Southern Baptist family, and it’s still ingrained in me a little today. 

A visual of the hot rollers. Of course, I was often distracted from more important tasks by singing from my musical theater books.

I still remember shoving eggs and bacon down my throat because I snuck to the couch to watch Nickelodeon while Mom went back to blow dry her hair. And oh boy, was it a sin to watch iCarly on the sabbath. “Too much making out,” in the words of Mom. “Turn that mess off.” 

I remember running back in after buckling up to grab my Bible because I forgot. There was always one of us. Between the hairspray fogging the clock, the television distracting us kids, and never checking every box – whether it was the Bible, the checkbook to tithe, or Mom’s craft for her Sunday School kids – we were always late for Church. Never by much, but always just a couple minutes off beat.

If there’s one thing about Baptists, well, they’re always late to the back row, and when the clock strikes 12, it’s time for lunch. Guilty as charged. I’ll never forget the sweet man who looked at my sister and me strolling into Sunday School yet again late (it got worse when we started driving ourselves), “you girls will be late to your own funerals.” Yeah, not late to our wedding, late to our funeral. That distinction gives that statement a lot of power. Thankfully, college mostly healed this flaw.

My baptism in 2012. Another thing about Southern Baptist churches: the traditional baptistry.

If you talk to anyone who grew up in the Bible Belt, they probably have the same story. There were about 8-10 families in our church that strolled in right about the same time as us. We weren’t alone in this, fortunately…or unfortunately. 

The chaos of a Sunday morning always felt like a mini twister erupted in town, always. But oh boy, what it had to have been like in my Momma’s shoes. She got up and made us a tasty breakfast, taught Sunday School, and then went to sing in the choir, and sometimes even sang the special. I mean, talk about a superwoman and a wonder we were only a couple minutes late. I, for one, had no excuse but the television or Taylor Swift karaoke again, neither of which were valid.

When it was all settled, though, and we sat in the pew as a family, there was peace. We were together worshipping Jesus, and in such a simple atmosphere. No lights, no fog, rarely even drums. Most of the time, just a piano (we had the most amazing pianist in our Church; I could listen to her all day long), a choir, and the sweet voices around us, even if Dad can’t carry a tune in a bucket, bless his heart. And they were all hymns.

My sister and I always felt honored to sit at the church piano.

Believe me, I have nothing against the lights or the drums or a guitar riff here and there, I actually love when a Church is loud in worship. I am a non-denominational Christian in my young adult life, and for a born and raised Baptist, I sure can lift those hands. But every once in a while, I just like the stillness of a hymn. I like to be brought back down to the heart of it all, what it says.

There’s something about a hymn that’s just so sweet. I mean, one of my favorites even has it in the title, “‘Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus,” and I love the line in that one that says, “just to rest upon His promise.” 

Hymns are so gentle; the world is not. The world is rushing, rushing, rushing, always reaching for the next thing, and Jesus says to just rest. Just be like Mary, just be with Him. Dwell in Him, rest upon His promise.

I am a busy body. I love my job, I love working, I love hosting, I love making plans with each individual friend, I love getting caught up in home improvement projects. I love being busy, I really do. Rest is hard for me because I don’t like to let myself slow down, but when all of those things weigh heavy and I get tired, I have no choice but to reach out for rest, and for some reason, the Lord speaks to me through those old Baptist hymns, and that very line, “just to rest upon His promise” is the one that gets stuck in my head the most.

When I need to praise and count my blessings, it’s “His Eye is on The Sparrow.” The lines, “I sing because I’m happy; I sing because I’m free” tell me that He is watching and blessing me and that is all the reason I need to praise.

When I place my thoughts in worldly things and desires, it’s “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.” The part that says, “and the things of Earth will grow strangely dim in the light of His glory and grace” remind me that nothing down here matters if my gaze is fixed on Him.

And perhaps my favorite, “This Is the Day That the Lord Has Made.” Oh yeah, that’ll get you out of bed in the morning singing, “we will rejoice and be glad in it!” I have to remind myself that every day is the Lord’s.

It’s those tunes that are just sealed on my heart, and what I love about them is that they so closely reflect the scripture, some of them verbatim. When I sing these, I’m singing God’s word, which is beautiful. I’d like to think some of these are what we’ll sing in heaven, and that’s a sound I can’t wait to hear. It just makes me grin from ear to ear to think about it.

I remember hearing the closest sound to heaven I’ll ever hear in this life. It was a hymn. I was 17, just a baby soprano. It was just a month or two before the entire world shut down for COVID, a wakeup call for so many. I was singing in the all-state chorus, and one of our performance songs that year was “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” Humbled to be surrounded by the most talented teenage singers in the state, I got to praise my Lord. Believe me, some of the rehearsals I was tired and hungry, but when we performed the song in its entirety after workshopping it so much, I teared up. I closed my eyes and thought I was surrounded by angels. I think that song has some of the most beautiful references to heaven.

I still think to this day, as large as that chorus was, odds are, there were several nonbelievers in the room, but I can’t help but to think that song and the passion from the believers in the room had to plant a seed that day. If you know that song, you know it will stay stuck in your head for days. But that’s what hymns do. Their simple melody, straightforward message, catchy tempo, just sticks. It only takes a line or two. 

I don’t write this to say we need to go back to the hymns. I love contemporary worship and believe it is often necessary in a Church depending on the congregation. I just write this to say “thank you” to the hymns that raised me and are still raising me. The hymns that made the Sunday rush disappear at the pew, the hymns that lead so many of my prayers to this day, the hymns hidden in my heart for the times I just need to rest in the word. I am far from perfect, a type B creative who loses her train of thought often, and life is full of that everyday chaos, but the word is perfect, spot on. The sweetness I feel when those lyrics slip off of my tongue can only be from the Lord, and for that, I’ll keep singing them in 2025 even if it is outdated.

'Tis the seasons

I looked back at the Waffle House sign I could see from the interstate, and I thought… I’ll just pass on by this time.

There’s something funny about leaving a part of your life behind. One of the most evident moments of that for me was departing from college. For me, college was the first realness of building myself and the life I had always dreamt of. It was the first sink-or-swim demand I received by default. Growing up with the most amazing parents, seeking their guidance over everything, I finally had to trust my raising and curate a mix of drive, personality, faith-driven actions, and messy mistakes that made me a stronger human. When that soup hit a boil, it was time to leave.

I sat in the driver seat of my adult life. Boy, has that Nissan burned some rubber… figuratively and literally. There I was, just a few months later, passing the exit to Caddo Valley. Soon, the big window to the Waffle House where I used to spy on first dates in college (no shame in being nosy, right?) was hidden by semi-trucks. I just kept driving to Oklahoma to be in the arms of my parents for a weekend and resume dreaming up a new life.

I quickly learned the number one question you’ll get asked in the first year of post-grad is “do you miss it?” Sometimes the answer is yes and sometimes it’s no, but I almost always end the sentence with “it had its season.”

And it did. Just as the 9 months in the womb did, just as the years playing dress up did (or maybe that never really ends), just as the constant cycle of finding high school prom dates and dresses did, just as sharing a bathroom with your sister did, and just as everything from this moment forward will. Life is a constant series of seasons, some are sweet, some are heavy, but all are meaningful with little nuggets of wisdom if you look for it. 

A time for everything. I can’t seem to get that out of my mind. My pastor told us that the Holy Spirit will bring to light scripture that you haven’t read for a while if it's sealed in your heart because He knows what you need. For me, I’ve needed to be reminded of seasons. Ecclesiastes 3 lays it all out perfectly:

“There is a time for everything,   

and a season for every activity under the heavens:

    a time to be born and a time to die,   

a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    a time to kill and a time to heal,   

a time to tear down and a time to build,

    a time to weep and a time to laugh,   

a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,   

a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

    a time to search and a time to give up,   

a time to keep and a time to throw away,

    a time to tear and a time to mend,   

a time to be silent and a time to speak,

    a time to love and a time to hate,   

a time for war and a time for peace.”

Seasons are Biblical. How could they not be a gift? Every emotion invoked, every sunrise and sunset, and every breath of life and breath of pain. And to watch lengthier stories like my grandparents' be traced back to a web so intricately woven by the fingertips of God, I know each of my seasons, too, are far from mistakes. They may never be perfect, but they are always just right.

I shed some tears in my first apartment; I welcomed new friends to my apartment too, though. I made some pasta, a lot of it actually (we’re carb cutting in 2025), I watched marathons of Friends not even knowing where to go to make friends like that when your Southern Baptist roots will always leave you skeptical of bars… but then, out of nowhere, I found myself busy, and busy with more than just work. I couldn’t stop hanging out with friends, I was barely even home. I was busy indulging in life. 

Nevertheless, I’d be a bold faced liar if I said I have everything I ever wanted at this age. I end almost every day saying “it’ll all work out somehow.” Your 20s also come with lots of walking into events by yourself, the first signs of back pain, a daily ritual of pinching pennies, a lot of failed Pinterest recipes, and, hey, if you’re lucky, someone might even break in on you in the middle of the night, but honestly, the chaos lights a bigger fire in me than perfection ever has. Where there is freedom and failure, there is strength.

To be totally transparent, I am in a profession where I always appear composed, but what you don’t see on air are the hard pills I’ve had to swallow in this season of figuring it all out, but that’s the beautiful part. Out of all the seasons of my life, this is by far the hardest, but it’s also my very favorite. Even if I sometimes feel like none of my ducks are in a row, at least they're having fun trying to form one.

So to the young lady transitioning into a new reality, buckle up girlfriend, don’t bother tying your shoes, they’ll come untied anyway, just dance around barefoot in the mud. It’s gonna get messy, but you’re going to learn from the truth of this little chaos we call life. 

Thank you, Molly

The day I put down the dolls is the day a part of my imagination died. It was more than play. Because of the dolls, a storyteller was born.

I don’t recall much from when I was three, but I do recall the doll. Her name was Molly. Double brunette braids, circle glasses, a plaid sweater, a navy skirt and a beret. I wanted to be Molly at first, and I especially wanted those glasses, but as time went on, I got creative. I wrote her story, but I still appreciated the one she came with: the patriotic daughter of a World War II soldier who loved tap dancing and cherry Coke. Molly taught me how to adapt a story. She taught me to change the narrative to match a story I can tell, and so I did. Molly was not only a ‘40s child, but in the modern day, she was a contestant on “American Idol,” a contender for the title of “Miss America,” a mother to the Bitty Babies, a pet owner and a gymnast. Molly could be anything I wanted her to be. The options were limitless.

For eight years straight, Molly was joined one-by-one by Caroline, Marie-Grace, Nellie, Rebecca, Ruthie, Lanie, Josephine, Kanani, McKenna, Isabelle, Felicity, Kirsten, Samantha, Kit, Emily, Julie, Elizabeth and a look-alike doll, all of which either my grandmother gifted to me or I inherited from my sister and my cousin. They sat in my classroom, in my home, in my fort, in my camper, in my office and stood on my stage. They were anywhere doing anything I could have ever imagined them doing. I drove their actions. I created.

Though I read a book about their lives for a history lesson and watched Molly’s movie over and over again, I changed it all up and wrote without even holding a pencil. Not only could the dolls be anything I wanted, but holding them in the corner of my bedroom by the window, I could be anything I wanted to be too. I was their teacher, their mother, their camp counselor, their boss and their gymnastics coach. Together, we were a team committed to make-believe so much that it became reality. Because of them and my drive, my mind was a colorful place.

My bedroom was a colorful place too. I had a storage cube full of their outfits, some of which a family friend sewed for me. Their outfits changed based on the story I was telling that day. A gold sparkly dress was the number one pick for days of music recitals, and a long sleeve purple leotard was reserved for the Olympics. Tutus were for dance performances, and gray joggers and a green and blue striped T-shirt dress were for school days. I never kept them in the outfit they came in. It was more fun that way. It was intentional. There wasn’t a single detail that was left out of their story. If I could create their story, I could change their outfits, and that made it all come to life even more. 

I did this routine – coming up with a story and laying out outfits – until I reached the 7th grade. Dolls were all I ever wanted for Christmas or for my birthday until then. I was the very last of my friends to give the dolls up.

I still remember that final year so vividly. Sixth grade. I invited my friends to come with me to my 12th birthday party at the American Girl Cafe in Dallas, and even if they didn’t still play with dolls, we all basked in doll heaven. At the end of it, though, I knew it was the last time I’d ever do such a thing. 

I remember the last doll I got, Josephine, and I remember stroking her silky hair while knowing it was likely the last doll I would ever unwrap. After every doll I opened up before, I always found myself bubbling up with excitement to go home and play with them, but this one was different. After opening Josephine, I felt a bit of sadness. I was happy, of course, to have a new doll, but I was slightly upset because I thought I had to let it all go. I thought that a teeneager surely wouldn’t ask for a doll, and I didn’t. I thought I had to grow up. Josephine would be the one played with the least, and I felt bad, but the haunting “you have to do it” took over.

Along with most young ladies, my middle school years were challenging. Some girls were kissing boys already, and some girls were still having sleepovers with Disney movies. I didn’t know what group I fell in line with, but I knew I was uncomfortable with the transitional time. If I could just hang on to the dolls a little longer, all innocence would carry me through until I figured the rest out. At least if I played with dolls I would have something to look forward to every day after school. 

At the time, I knew I had a knack for writing. I wrote in journals, wrote essays during class when I was supposed to be doing math. I lived to create, and the older I got, I was more aware of that quality. That last year, the stories were more elaborate. I was focused on finishing each narrative and not putting the dolls down until I had something good, something that gave my soul a spark when I thought about it. Knowing it would all end soon before I could even think about it, no story was left unwritten in my heart.

In an interview with The Guardian, Greta Gerwig, the writer of the recent “Barbie” movie, had a

similar experience that revealed a connection to the dolls. “I played with dolls until…I don’t want to say too late, but I played with them long enough that I didn’t want kids at school to know I still played with them,” Gerwig said. “I was a teenager. I was about 13 and still playing with dolls. And I knew that kids at that point were already kissing.” At 13, she still held the dolls, and at 39, she wrote a movie that made $1.45B. There’s a clear thread.

It’s never been in my plan to write a blockbuster movie, but it has always been in my plan to create something worthwhile. I watched Gerwig’s movie in amazement at the detail, the thoughtfulness, the execution of every theme and the perfect completion of every storyline in the very end. I have no doubt Gerwig learned that from the dolls, and Gerwig was so successful because she circled right back to where the seeds were planted to produce her success.

At 12 and 13, children’s minds are sponges. The years between ages 12-18 are some of the most impressionable years, and if Gerwig and I hadn’t played with dolls when that range began, we might not have the same drive to passionately tell stories and create new ones. 

I could’ve held on even a bit longer like Gerwig. Of course, going into high school with dolls would’ve truly been absurd and, might I say, concerning, but even just a year longer would’ve given me a broader imagination. It wasn’t about the dolls. It was about what the dolls told me I could be and allowed me to create. It was about the shaping of my storytelling capabilities they provided. It was about the core of hearty enthusiasm behind all of the stories. For that, I owe my gratitude to Molly. 

One day, I didn’t even realize when it ended, I just tucked them all away on the top shelf of my closet and never played with them again. The day I put them down, I let go of a piece of imagination. One day, I hope I have a little girl and a reason to circle back to Molly because if not, why did I have to grow up?