Home, sweet home

As I write this, I am actually sitting on an airplane. My iPod was not sufficiently charged and died only a few minutes into the Spring Awakening soundtrack, and since my flight was delayed, I read the entire April issue of Lucky while I waited at gate C12. Fortunately, when the flight attendant just announced that we could use approved electronic devices, I remembered my laptop was right under my feet, and alas - my boredom was subsequently saved by iTunes and Microsoft Word (no Internet…I suppose that would be a pretty serious national security threat, but wouldn’t it be nice?).

I’m flying home from a long weekend at home in Atlanta. I hadn’t been home since Christmas, so it was a welcome break to see my family, enjoy the warm weather and of course drink plenty of sweet tea. I hit all the major requirements for a weekend in Georgia – a trip to Target that somehow ended with over $100 worth of merchandise on the conveyor belt (but really – how could I pass up two pair of wedge sandals, a new summer black purse and some value-priced cosmetics?), trips to Chili’s, Chick-fil-A and Willy’s (worth repeating – got sweet tea at all three), an appointment with Allison for a spring hair cut, a hike up Kennesaw Mountain with the fam to enjoy the 88-degree weather, and a few visits with my grandparents. I also caught up on my sleep, aided by my now-seemingly-enormous full size bed.

I was asked several times throughout the weekend about my concept of ‘home’…which city feels like home, does my parents’ house still feel like home, am I settled into New York enough now for it to feel like home, and even a half-way joking slap on the wrist when I called my little apartment home instead of our house in Marietta. It made me think a lot about what and where I consider home…even now as I just read back over what I’ve written so far, I noticed that I unintentionally wrote the sentence, ‘I’m flying home from a long weekend at home.’ Clearly, I have some sort of schizophrenic home complex that must be sorted out, if nothing else, for grammar’s sake.

home n
1. the place where a person, family or household lives
2. a family or any other group that lives together
3. where somebody was born or raised or feels he or she belongs

Lucky for me, Microsoft Word’s dictionary just helped me figure out (or perhaps further muddled) the home question. Definition 1 – my person lives in New York; my family lives in Atlanta. NYC, 1…ATL, 1. Definition 2 – again, family lives in Atlanta, but my group, which I suppose is composed of Leslie and myself, lives together in New York. Updated score, 2-2. And definition 3 – perhaps the trickiest one of all – I was obviously born and raised in Atlanta, and I feel that I belong in Georgia, in the South…but yet I feel that I belong in New York, too. And the game ends in a tie, 3 all. This, my friends, is where my schizophrenic home complex comes from, why, despite my normally impeccable grammar, I wrote a confusing sentence about flying home from home, or something to that effect.

So, while it may not be as clear cut as you would like, I believe the dictionary actually did give me the answer. I have two homes. Plain and simple…in my life, home is no longer an either/or question; it is a both/and. As I've written before, Atlanta is the home that gave me roots, and New York has become the home where I grew my wings.

Marietta, GA will always, always be my home. I love Marietta. I love Atlanta. I love my parents house where I grew up, their fireplace where I took prom pictures, the driveway where I got my first car, the deck where mom and I play Scrabble, the neighborhood pool and tennis courts where I used to play. I will always feel like I belong at my Marietta home…because home to me is where I grew up, where I’ve celebrated every Christmas morning and Thanksgiving dinner, and where I built a lifetime of memories.

But right now, in my twenty-something year old life, I am blessed to have a second home. It in no way replaces the home where I grew up, the home that is my family…it’s an extra home, a bonus gift. I’m one of the few lucky ones in this world who get to get on an airplane and fly from one home to another, because according to definition 3, New York is also my home, because right now – today – it’s where I feel like I belong. I miss my family and friends, I miss the Chick-fil-A’s and the sweet tea and the Targets and the opportunity to begin an email ‘Hey y’all,’ without getting mocked. But for today, New York is where I belong; it’s where I know I’m supposed to be, and that makes it my home.

I think we’re about halfway through the flight right now. Fitting, I suppose, that as I write about my two homes, I’m straddling the worlds of both. Other than this very moment, though, I can’t live in both home...only on a plane, and only in my dreams. So I will continue to ambivalently use the word ‘home’ to describe both New York and Atlanta in the same sentence…because both places will always feel like where I belong.


“Where we love is home.”

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr

Life is good

Well I've been quite the lazy writer lately, although I'm not really sure if anyone has missed me or not. If you did miss me, have no fear...the blogless world is not due to laziness, disinterest, or writer's block. I suppose I've just been busy. :)

Two Saturdays ago, March 3rd, the girls and I trekked out to - gasp! - Hoboken, yet again. This time, though, we kind of knew what we were doing, at least more so than last time. We even made sure someone was watching the island. The cause for the second trip in the month? Glad you asked. It was Hoboken St Patrick's Day (of course!). Now before you pull out your calendar and say, "I thought St Patrick's Day was this Saturday?!" Well, you are correct. For whatever reason, and I am still yet to find an answer, the big Irish bash across the Hudson takes place two weeks before the real day. We donned our green shirts and shamrock face tattoos, boarded the bus and headed back to Johnny Wisconsin's place. After catching the end of the parade, full of high school marching bands and old men in kilts, we party hopped the afternoon away. I must say, Hoboken St Patrick's Day was one of the most unique experiences I've had since living here. Oddly enough, the day felt strangely similar to a college game day...we were out and about by 11am, everyone in the world was dressed up in crazy colors, there was beautiful crisp weather (I didn't even wear a coat!), and everyone greeted each other with cheers, open arms and open doors. It was a great way to gear up for the real thing this weekend. I was, in fact, so inspired, that I have taken on the alias of McJamie O'Martin.

The following day was a momentous day in the life of my church, Gallery Church. For the last year we've been meeting at 7pm at a high school in Chelsea. The church has been growing, and God has been doing unbelievably exciting things. So, on March 4th, I was able to be a part of the first morning Upper West Side service. Although waking up at 7am on Sundays may take some getting used to, it was so encouraging to see the new things God is doing in New York City and the lives that are being changed every day. In fact, we had a goal of 50 people for the first service, and not surprisingly, our expectations were exceeded and instead we had 73! It was a joyous day, and I can't wait to see what else God has in store.

Since everybody's workin' for the weekend, fast forward to this past one. I said, "I think I'll go to Boston," and I did. :) In all actuality, my college roommate and dear friend Emily moved to ole Beantown in the fall, and I was well overdue for a visit to see her. I traveled there on Friday night and was back in NYC by Sunday, so it was clearly a jam-packed weekend! Em and I spent hour upon hour catching up, eating Andes mint brownies, and of course, seeing every inch of Boston. We shopped down Newbury Street, walked parts of the Freedom Trail, visited downtown, and wandered through the Faneuil Hall Marketplace...we saw Boston's charming Italian district the North End, walked through the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, and spent time in Boston Common...and that was just Saturday. On Sunday, I got to visit Emily's church in Cambridge, and we then spent the rest of the day exploring the Harvard campus, Harvard Square and other beautiful areas of Cambridge. While I will go to my grave believing that Athens is the most wonderful college town in the entire world, I must say that Cambridge is the first place I've ever been that can actually hold a candle to it. Just being surrounded by the coffee shops and beautiful buildings, with the river in the background...it was incredibly lovely. The weekend was a wonderful time with wonderful friend (plus, I finally got to meet her wonderful boyfriend Robert!), and I was so grateful that New York and Boston are only an hour flight apart.

And that's it...life is good. Life is busy, but life is very good. I continue to be constantly reminded of the ways that the Lord is blessing my time here in New York. I have lived here nine months, and due to the unbelievably fast pace in the City that Never Sleeps, it could not have gone by any faster. Even the winter, which I wasn't sure I was tough enough to handle, turned out to be a joy, although in my critics' defense, it was record-breakingly mild. This week, in fact, the high reached 69, a beautiful March day even by Atlanta standards. It was so refreshing to see the restaurant tables set up on the sidewalks, no heavy coats, sunshine and cool breezes abundantly flowing as I commuted, and even a flip-flop or two...combine the weather with the early daylight, and I was a very happy girl. Never mind the fact that tomorrow, just two days later, it is going to be 33 degrees and snow 4 inches. That's spring for you...always changing, always keeping you on your toes, always surprising you. That's New York.

"The world won't wait, so I better shake
That thing right out there through the door...
I still love you, New York."
- Ryan Adams

I like to ride bikes and eat pie.

My small group is currently reading Screwtape Letters by CS Lewis, which happens to be one of my all-time favorite books. The book is written from the perspective of a senior demon named Screwtape who is corresponding with a junior demon, Wormwood. I must say that the book has done more to change my perspective on life than just about anything I've ever read shy of the Bible, and I highly recommend it.

Last week, CS Lewis (writing as the demon Screwtape) makes the simple statement,

"A moderated religion is as good for us as no religion at all."

This one sentence has been lurking in my head ever since, and I can't seem to get the profound truth out of my consciousness.

Everything in life appears to be about moderation. Don't eat too much, but don't starve yourself either. Don't work too hard, but don't be lazy. Don't say anything and everything that comes to your mind, but be honest. Moderation is an important virtue, for without it, human nature drives us to be unbalanced and excessive. Moderation has even been deemed important enough to be considered one of the three founding pillars of Georgia's state motto, alongside the much more virtuous sounding virtues of wisdom and justice.

The natural path, then, in this corrupt, backwards culture that we live in, is for religion to follow suit, for religion to be moderated as well. After all, we're told to eat and drink in moderation, to work and shop and sleep and talk in moderation. Even Cingular ensures that I talk on the phone in moderation. So why, society asks, shouldn't religion be moderated as well? Too much, and you're one of those crazy people with a poster and a bullhorn. Not enough, well, actually, society's okay with that one. But if religion must be present, at least keep it moderated. Keep it from becoming too big a part of your life. Keep it as a nice little sliver of your life, on Sunday mornings and major holidays, and don't let it spill over...kind of like the Trivial Pursuit pie and pie pieces, where each game piece fits neatly into a particular slot, no more, no less.

This brings me to pie. In my small group, when discussing moderated religion and pondering our friend Clive Staples' brilliance, I had a thought: our culture wants us to think of religion merely as an interest, a hobby. It's as if we are expected to say, "Hi, I'm Jamie. I like to ride bikes and eat pie. Oh, and I'm a Christian, too." Because that's all that moderation really is...the belief that any extreme is excessive, so it's best to keep everything subdued as only an element of our lives. We identify ourselves by pinpointing our political views, our genealogy, our race, our address, our interests (like bike-riding and pie-eating), and somewhere in the list, our religion. In the name of "moderation," we let our faith become just another answer in the imaginary questionnaire of our life.

But, as CS Lewis states, there is one problem with moderated religion. Moderated religion is as useless as no religion at all, because religion was not designed to be moderated. Religion is not meant to be a piece of the Trivial Pursuit pie - it is meant to be crust in which all other pieces fit. Religion is not a hobby, it's not a way you grew up, it's not a chunk of you who are. It is who you are.

Revelation 3 states, "I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other! So, because you are lukewarm - neither hot nor cold - I am about to spit you out of my mouth. You say, 'I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.' But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked." You see, moderated religion blinds us. It forces us to think we are living a balanced life, keeping everything in perspective, when really we are missing the only thing - the only One - that can truly give us perspective and truth and life.

Yes, my name is Jamie, and I do like to ride bikes and eat pie. Yes, I live in New York and work in advertising and sing and am a Republican. But these things do not define me. They are pieces of who I am. But my religion - my relationship with Christ - is me. You can have me without the bikes or the pie, but you cannot have me without my faith. I'll admit that it's tempting, especially in our culture, and especially in the crazy center of the fashion / finance / advertising / art / nightlife world that is Manhattan, to get lukewarm (thesaurus: lackadaisical, apathetic, half-hearted, passionless) about faith. It's all too easy to put my Christian faith in a box, and to consider it as just a square of the quilt of my life. But I pray everyday for eyes to see the truth - the truth that faith was never meant to be moderated, and that moderated faith is as good as no faith at all.