I used to be an avid journaler. I still journal, but my style and my purpose has shifted. It used to be about recording my comings and goings, sometimes processing those comings and goings, and more seldom than that, it was about recounting those comings and goings in a creative way, for some imaginary audience.

In the crucible of increasing busyness over the years, the creative element of my journal entries became less and less. The recording of some idea and the adjoining bare minimum details to craft into a story later seemed to fill my journal as other activities demanded my time. The ideas remained a skeleton. That was then, sometime in past years.

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While walking after a longer run amidst marathon training, I reflected how much I enjoy long runs because distance – not speed – presents the challenge. I love the steadiness and steadfastness that distance running engrains.

I shared this with my husband, Jake, and cared to only inscribe “Love marathon training because I like slow, steady running” in my journal. Thirteen-year-old Emily would have written then and there, with great urgency after the run, all the reasons why I preferred distance running. I would have tried to make it poetic and suited for an audience I imagined as I hastily wrote and modified my account of why distance running enlivens me.

Twenty-three-year-old Emily elected only to write one, to-the-point sentence. It is not because I don’t enjoy writing – I do. Rather, it is because crafting a story and layering each angle just right carries infinitely more value when you share it with others than when it sits on a dark shelf.

Most of the time, I graft my story into Jake and with Jake. We process together – he asks me questions about my experiences and I comment and he listens and somehow we write the story together in real time; I do the same with his experiences. His story and mine intertwine like sinews cling to bones. Those stories establish who we are as a couple and as individuals. Sometimes those stories make it onto paper, and sometimes not. But it abundantly and deeply satisfies my relational self to share and create stories with him.

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Still, my journal shelf continues to grow. Now though, it is prayers that line the pages of my more recent journals. Prayer journaling embodies the most intimate story-writing possible for it means communing with my creator and One who loves me absolutely unconditionally. It means asking Him to continue to be the author of my story in light of his eternal story

And I blog because I get to share my story with you. That makes the whole creative process, the pen-to-paper process worth it.

Making writing relational, then, I have found, begets value: For a skeleton to transform into a purposeful, capable body, it must take on flesh. Therefore, the audience must take on flesh.

 

The winding drive through the redwoods of the Santa Cruz mountains hypnotized us into an awe-filled silence.

On a whim, Jake and I decided to take the scenic highway 9, as our friend Becca recommended, to Santa Cruz. From the first drop of tea, the Saturday morning had been a blissfully lazy one; why wrestle with the rhythm? Without even a glimpse of the emerald odyssey awaiting us, we quickly grew satisfied with our decision to go the roundabout route as we jaunted through Campbell’s quaint woodsy neighbor called Saratoga.

With folksy music harmonizing as we glided into the redwood forest, we unconsciously stopped chatting; there was enough to take in and mull over without speaking. The stillness of our surroundings tantalized us into silence.

Towering redwoods shot up into the greyish mist of the cloud Red Rocket (as we affectionately call my hatchback) sliced through. It was as if we were surfing on the fuzzy line between the clouds and the ground — something like the threshold between heaven and earth.

The mist was enough to unleash the windshield wipers, but not enough to paint an opaque horizon; redwoods seemed to reign for miles past the mountainside. Because of the extreme curves of the road, my eyes got to feast on a vibrant rainbow for but a few seconds before Red Rocket made a 180 on the mountainside.

After we descended from the peak, little towns popped up along the scarcely populated highway 9. With towns came telephone poles. The telephone poles were toothpicks in comparison to the redwoods; each proud, yet humble, tree stood at least three times as tall as each telephone pole. Side by side, the might of the redwoods stood uncontested.

The telephone poles could not be made without the wood from the trees; cities could not be built without raw materials from nature. The coffee that I am enjoying this moment, on this Tuesday morning as I reminisce, is from the earth.

Perhaps while in cities, humans’ proudest, most elaborate domain, we tend to wonder at humans’ ingenuity. Alternatively, while in virtually untouched nature, an awe at something greater tends to reverberate through us.

Herein lies majestic truth: the might of humans does not compare to the might of God. In the midst of such arresting beauty our hearts become quiet, consciously or unconsciously thumping to the beat of:

“The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world and all who live in it, for he founded it on the seas and established it on the waters” (Psalm 24:1-2).

May this awe ignite wonder, and wonder spark seeking, and seeking set your heart on fire for God, the creator of all the earth and you and me and the longing in us for something more than what we see.

I wonder how long it will take to get the second-hand stank of spoiled ground beef off my hands…

It has been quite the morning. In preparation for our dinner party this evening, one of my tasks for the morning has been to make chili. Pulling out my never-before-used fancy-schmancy crockpot with the removable stove-safe insert, I placed the ground beef in the insert on the stove and proceeded to read about how to use my other fancy-schmancy new kitchen device called the Breville “All in One” (viva la wedding gifts!).

The “All in One” basically combines a food processor, masher, electric whisk, and immersion blender (which I had never heard of before it was gifted to me) into one compact platform. Needless to say, it is a bit complicated first go-around. Yesterday I pulled it out of the package and could only stare it down as it flaunted its S-blade, shredder, slicer, and other features that are imminently dangerous if touched improperly. But, today being a new day, I decided to conquer the machine that only yesterday conquered me.

So there I was, in the kitchen, carefully adjusting the adjustable slicer and examining the design of the lid to see how to lock it onto the processing bowl (the last thing I want is a flying slicer) when I started to smell rotten eggs. Except, there were no eggs cooking. Hearing the beef beginning to sizzle, I realized the beef must be the culprit.

I googled if this was normal for ground beef, because I had never cooked that either. The consensus on Yahoo! answers matched common sense: no, my home should not be infiltrated with an effluent of rotten eggs when cooking beef. Now I know: one day expired, must be retired.

Of course, I removed the bad cow from the burner, figuring the faster it cooled, the faster I could get it out of the house. I lit all the candles in the place, opened the windows for ventilation and tried not to puke as I pushed carrots and zucchini through the food chute.

Feeling triumphant for successfully and bloodlessly chopping veggies in the “All in One,” I decided to be bold and switch to the S-blade to dice the onions. I supposed it would spare me the tears guaranteed by chopping them by hand. Less than twenty seconds into pulsing the onions, I start to cry. Desperately and through tears, I found my pink onion goggles (yep, they are the real deal). Even as I pulsed the remainder of the onions, the tears began to dry up. There I was, sporting mismatch pajamas, dried tears, a messy bun atop my head, and pink onion goggles in the midst of my new kitchen toys and the mess I had made with them sprawled on every square inch of the white counter. All this in the wake of the forceful stench of spoiled beef; I had to laugh.

Though the spoiled meat — and its wretched, looming stank — certainly has not been healthy for me, the laughter it spurred has concretely benefited my health. Here are a few fun facts about the medicine of laughter: laughter boosts the immune system by decreasing stress hormones and increasing anti-bodies; laughter relieves physical tension up to 45 minutes after laughing; laughing triggers endorphins, aka the feel-good hormones; and, laughter protects the heart as it increases blood flow and the function of blood vessels.

The moral of the story is to laugh more, even at things like spoiled beef.

Now, I’m off to the store to buy some fresh meat for the chili. I think I’ll go with turkey round 2.

Bumping along the grass in a golf cart unfit to off-road, “Aunt Hazel” called out, “Mama, you holdin’ on back there?” Onna, the expectant mother next to me, chuckled in a polite, yet amused, way only audible to me. She affirmed to the whole cart load, yes she was indeed holding on.

Connie, the Mother of the Bride and present driver, halted the golf cart and the five of us piled out. Ta-ta, Onna and I unloaded the billowing white tulle bows with a circumference of a massive pizza and as full as a new mom’s bosom. Connie and Aunt Hazel (who happens to literally be Connie’s mother) fussed around to the airport gates for the Fastening of the Bows. Onna and I stood back, amused, as the Three Musketeers, fretted about whether to attach the bow three or four links down the fence, whether they were as puffed out and prominent as their potential, and gosh darned it, where the missing tails could have gone to. Heaven forbid, Ta-ta, a longtime friend-like-family to Connie and Aunt Hazel, had used the tail, not the pipe cleaner, to attach the bow to the chainlink. Connie guffawed at Ta-ta’s disregard for the bow’s tail. The Three fiddled and fiddled until the recluse bow was tamed.

Meanwhile, Onna and I, with the exception of the occasional quick glance to one another, quietly observed the Three and take in the Southernness of it all. The Three Musketeers were local — as much a part of Eden, North Carolina as the Biscuitville down the road. Onna hailed from Minneapolis, and I from Silicon Valley. Both Onna’s husband and my own were hiking with the groom, Henry, and the other groomsmen as we helped prep for the wedding.

And so the preparation continued for hours: Onna and I looked to be helpful by flurrying around (but never in) the frenzied orbit of Ta-ta, Connie and Aunt Hazel. In the course of the day, we moved each row of ceremony chairs back four inches on the runway; we refolded all the 200-or-so napkins in a triangle instead of their original three-fold after the Three decided doing so was instrumental in transforming the hangar into a proper party place. In the midst of all of this Connie looked first me, then Onna, in the eye, and asked/declared “I’m a b**, aren’t I?” Shocked, we snickered and denied it. At one point or another, emotions overwhelm us all and make us act uncharacteristic. This was, understandably, one of those days for Connie.

With no warning, the Three Musketeers decided they were much behind schedule and must immediately flock back to the house to get themselves primped. Ta-ta seemed on edge about whether her dress would be subpar — the one she had originally planned on wearing also happened to be the dress of choice of her co-worker. In a flurry, the Three scrambled from the airport to Connie’s home.

Alas, it came time for Tori to walk down the airstrip-turned-aisle. Raw, concentrated joy illuminated her face as she gazed at her husband-to-be. As I sat in one of the perfectly-aligned chairs beneath a layer of straw and witnessed the brief ceremony, I reflected on how Tori and Henry’s wedding looked very different from that of Jake and I. Yet I could not help but feel an arguably very similar emotion to Tori as she stood at the altar. A talented guitarist and singer played a country-fied version of the song, “How Long Will I Love You” by Jon Boden (great song, IMHO), which happens to be what Jake and I walked down the aisle to at the close of our ceremony. Though I was sitting in midway back in the crowd and Jake was beside Henry, we caught eyes and were transported from the North Carolina airstrip to our San Diego ceremony on a lagoon.

All of us celebrate-ers transitioned from the airstrip to the hangar to the seat in front of a navy blue triangle napkin. Soon after, the mashed potato buffet opened and the fog machine turned on full-force, presumably to entice those who may not choose to dance to get on their feet more anonymously. Despite the comfort of the fog, not many chose to groove. That, of course, did not stop Jake and I from getting out there. After all, we dream of being professional “Party Starters” (if you need someone to get the dancing going at your next event, let me know!).

Soon enough and a belly-full of cake later, Tori and Henry flew off in a private plane. Literally, they flew from Eden to Charlotte. Figuratively, they flew into a life of mysterious oneness.

I could try to make some grandiose and sweeping point about how this story illustrates that though our rituals vary, culture to culture, emotions and human needs remain largely similar. Truthfully though, I just wanted to share some of what I thought to be a hilariously up-close and stereotypical Southern experience. After all, it may be best to experience Biscuitville vicariously.

Before Michael greeted me with words, he welcomed me to Chipotle with an enthusiastic ear-to-ear grin. The kind of smile that just refuses to hide.

“Hello mam’, how are you doing today?” he inquired benevolently.

Struck by his warmth, I returned the smile, offered a hearty affirmation that I was “doing very well!” and asked how he was.

And so the exchange continued as he piled the rice, beans, chicken, pico de gallo, cheese and lettuce into my bowl. After I had paid, he wished me a “blessed” day. (How often do you hear that in the public workplace? But that’s a tangent for another time.)

Our conversation did not move and shake the earth; Michael and I did not figure out what Ukraine should do with separatists, or how to squelch ISIS.

But…maybe his exceptional, genuine outpour of kindness and care is a glimpse into how to live more fulfilling lives as individuals. Or more precisely, his heart and purpose behind his warmth may start turning the key to the door of fulfillment.

Instead of being concerned about working a “menial” job, he was consumed by making a positive influence on whomever he encountered. He acted with purpose. He put others ahead of himself. As a personal testament, his selflessness and warmth refreshed me more than my paradise iced tea.

Michael’s uncommon care tells me that, from his perspective, a day well spent, at the very least, means making people smile. Even in his job, he has a purpose that far exceeds making burritos. He sees potential to bless people by serving more than chips. His reason for being there is more than the paycheck.

The Michaels of the world seem to run through something like this filter:

“Did I offer peace today? Did I bring a smile to someone’s face? Did I say words of healing? Did I let go of my anger and resentment? Did I forgive? Did I love? These are the real questions. I must trust that the little bit of love that I sow now will bear many fruits, here in this world and in the world to come.” –Henri Nouwen

I’ll leave you with this to ponder: In what or in whom can we invest in to ensure we sow meaningful seeds, so to speak, wherever we are, be it in a cubicle, on the Senate floor…or behind the bar at Chipotle?

Hello, you!

I’m Emily Anne Allbaugh. Not long ago I was “Emily Keach,” but now I am officially “Emily Allbaugh.” One of the best parts about my new name — besides marking my marriage to the love of my life, Jake — is that now my initials (EAA) sound like a crowd cheering for touchdown.

…Or maybe a dramatic championship point at Wimbledon. Whacking a fuzzy little ball around on the tennis court is life-giving (one of my favorite phrases) to me. So much so that I played on the tennis team for four years at Westmont College in Santa Barbara. As a 10-year-old first picking up a racket it seemed like a non-factor that I could play as a senior citizen, as my parents continually highlighted. Now, though I am nowhere near receiving social security, I enjoy still being able to hit and compete. Hopefully quite more civilly than the crew in Bridesmaids.

I was born and raised in San Diego — more specifically, in a suburban town called Alpine, approximately 30 miles east of the coast. I am a daughter of two happily married, loving parents and a sister to one full-of-life woman, Lauren, five years my elder.

In college I studied English language and literature. Though given my pragmatic logic it was a tough decision to major in lit , delving into literature gave me enough life (like that variation?) that I couldn’t deny that it was the major for me. What I love about studying insightful literature is that it invites you to observe the many unseen factors that underlie the seen world. If you’ll indulge a brief nerd-out session, I’ll try to show you what I mean: far more than a boring novel about the quest for a white whale, Melville’s  Moby Dick exemplifies the restlessness of continued existential ambivalence; Hawthorne’s light and dark imagery in The Scarlet Letter call out the complex relationship between human and natural law. I think studying literature has made me more attuned to seeing what is unseen in my own world.

Fresh out of college, I have continued moseying up the California coast and landed in Campbell, a cute town complete with twinkle-lit trees, in Silicon Valley. Jake and I enjoy driving on windy, redwood-covered roads with no traffic, exploring new places to hike and run, watching British shows such as Sherlock and Downton Abbey, and eating yummy food with friends.

If you would like to contact me for any reason, please send me a message at emallbaugh@gmail.com. I’ll be happy to hear from you! In the meantime, thank you for visiting my blog and exploring with me what it means to be one of 7 billion humans in this strangely and beautifully interconnected world.

Humans are funny creatures.

We laugh, we cry, we do the hokey-pokey. Some choreograph dances, some cure cancer, some sell donkeys, some live on Wall Street. Then there are the bloggers… 

We make steam fume out each others’ ears; we make tears stream down each others’ cheeks out of sadness and out of hilarity. We make love; we make war; we make pancakes. Yada, yada. As frustrating our differences are, we cannot get enough of one another…

Because we are, in essence, relational beings.

Let’s backup: no human seems, to me, entirely good nor entirely bad. Somehow the two get all jumbled up in us.

Yet, everyone is, at some level, connected to other people, be it two or three hundred. Consider how in middle school we ubiquitously mourn the feeling of not having friends. Consider how our crushes consume us in high school, wondering if there could be mutual chemistry after all. And, our ‘being relational’ is not something we grow out of. Cue grandparents’ undeniable love and spoiling of their grand-babies. 

The buck doesn’t stop there though. We do not merely desire any type of relationship. In the belly of our soul, we want to be loved, wholly and rawly, for we are without makeup, a mask, or GQ muscles. 

I believe, along with German philosopher Martin Heidegger, “we are always being shaped by the questions we are asking.” Only if we are considering the right questions, can we can experience life abundantly and be fulfilled in every nook and cranny of every valley and mountain of our souls. 

I hope this blog helps you and me live in such a way that acknowledges and honors that every person is relational indeed. That it sparks an invitation to a long-lost friend into your home for BBQ chicken. That it invites embracing messy, cry-y hugs. That it leads to giving smiles to the gas station clerk. That it makes us deeper, more intentional people. 

It’s living the idea that open books are more alive than closed ones.

May we bear-hug the messy, the funny, and the mundane together to live abundantly and joyfully always.

Standing, gazing up at the trunks and the coniferous leaves of the redwoods towering over me, I asked Kathryn near the end of my phone interview what she loved most about being a professional in the hospitality industry. After all, she directs, “Ambiance and Environment” at a sexy Silicon Valley startup.

“I think how you make people feel is the most important thing in the world,” she divulged.

Something about that resonated with me—how you make someone feel is the most important thing in the world. That explains the nauseating feeling in my gut when I see someone mistreat a gas station worker, a maid, a janitor. They are human, just as much as me or you.

At the core, the most important thing in the world must be outside ourselves. It must be. Or else, as Nobel Laureate Alexander Solzhenitsyn begs, “man…would not be born to die.” Plain and simple. Unless we live in pure pandemonium void of meaning. I’ll table that can of worms for now, though.

What is that something beyond ourselves? Or is it a certain someone? But what about them—won’t they die too?

Waa waa. Excuse the morbid thought. But may this prompt you to dig deeper into what the most important thing in the world is to you. Take up a shovel—be it a best friend, a journal, or a quiet walk through an redwood grove—and start digging to start living out meaning.

What do you—my fellow living, breathing, thinking, lovable, worthy human—what do you think is the most important “thing” in the world?