Don Miller and Adam Levine?

I experienced the quintessential literary moment today. I only wish I was making this up, but in many ways I am nowhere near this mundanely creative to fabricate this kind of story.

As I was sitting in my backyard, enjoying the beginnings-of-summer, breezy weather, trying desperately to add some hue to my skin but dancing the line between brown and red, I was reading the latest Don Miller book and listening to the newest Maroon 5 album on my iPod. Sunbeams were poking in and out between the trees, every few minutes muted by a passing cloud. In the particular chapter I was reading, Don was talking about the life of a writer, not remembering what it was like to set an alarm and only knowing mornings that began with sunlight awaking him. He talked about how he writes only every few days, and how working for a publishing company before his writing career took off was a shaping experience. I paused for a minute and gazed off into the small ivy-weed-fern jungle growing in our yard below three towering trees. Adam Levine crooned in the background, some song sung in much too high of a falsetto to a beat perhaps slightly too poppy for my taste. I wondered what life would be like as a writer, being able to write your thoughts down and get paid for them, being able to say almost anything you wanted (until your editor got a hold, of course) and knowing people would want to read it simply because YOUR name was on the cover. I thought about if I could do it, if I would enjoy that life, and that perhaps by some stroke of luck someone will happen upon my blog while I am in Brazil and hire me as a travel writer, sending me around the world to write about exotic places some people only want to visit in a book. Then-- and this is the absolutely unbelievable part, and not in the least exaggerated-- a butterfly landed on the page my hand had been holding open during my daydream.

I kid you not. A butterfly.

This particular butterfly was brown with a badly damaged wing. Rather than take in the moment, I thought about how I once heard that butterflies only live for one day, and although I don't think that's even true, I thought about how he better get on with his life instead of waste his time perching on my book because life would be over for this little guy sooner rather than later. Then I thought about the last time I took the time to pay attention to a butterfly. I was about 9, and I remember walking past the playground in our apartment complex toward the direction of my elementary school. There were 2 butterflies, and in my mom's sex education words, they were "cuddling." I had never seen insects "cuddle" before, and I was fascinated when they flew away stuck together.

My wounded butterfly flew away before I had finished chuckling to myself over the cuddling butterflies, but I think he either came back for a visit later or sent his buddy to check me out. Either way, I became jealous of the life of a writer, the person who gets to create their office in Starbucks or their backyard. I'm sure some writer some place would have turned that very moment into a literary illustration about spiritual intervention or the fact that nature reminds us of something significant (this is the part where we see why Cris doesn't have a publishing contract), but all I had was butterflies doing it.

Next time I'll tell you about the unbelievable dream I once had about being married to Will Smith. It is a story of valiant loyalty and friendship. Until then, please keep the church in Natal in your prayers. Their LST team arrived today and will begin working tomorrow-- pray that God sends them lots of readers with open hearts and that that team has as wonderful of an experience as we did last summer!

Also, haven't reminded you of that link over there >>> in a while, so if you have it in your heart to contribute toward my internship, your generosity is welcomed!