The world loves noise. Just look around. There’s hardly anywhere that people aren’t talking to someone, typing on their phones, or listening to the white pieces in their ears. Personally, I’m always searching for external learning opportunities; listening to podcasts, new music, news, etc… anything that makes me feel productive. Little did I know that all the noise was holding me back. When people asked me about me I used to stumble. Last year, a girl that works with me asked when I am the happiest. I was, first of all, thrown off guard by the deep question since we weren’t that close-- but mostly because I really didn’t know how to answer her. Why could I not answer a question about someone I had lived with for nineteen years? Maybe because the only time to myself was a few hours of sleep at night. And the next day would be another full calendar of school, writing sessions, and workout routines. Being productive is good, but productive doesn’t always mean checking off tasks. It can mean the quiet moments, taking time to reflect and learn about yourself. Have you ever listened to God? Oftentimes, we pray for everything we need or list everyone we want to pray for … And by the time we’re done with our brain dump, He’s ready to answer, but we move on to the next thing! Learning about yourself means listening to God. He Knows You Like No Other. "And even the very hairs on your head are all numbered." Luke 12:7 I challenge YOU to five minutes, every day this week, of quiet. For instance, turn your phone on airplane mode while driving to work. Take a walk outside and just breathe. Sit on your porch swing and watch the birds. I had to basically train myself to embrace the awkwardness of just being. Here’s how. I focused on the five senses: what could I see, hear, feel, smell, and taste? That’s a great starting point. Ground yourself in the moment. Take just five minutes a day with no distractions, and see how your life changes. Peace & Love, TC

I’ve done this twenty times at least. From traveling with my parents out of the country, to visiting my dad at work, to going to Atlanta for music. Usually, I get nervous right when the pilot says “get ready for takeoff.” Of course, we never take off until what feels like forever after he says that. Then when I finally relax, the engine would rumble beneath me. This time, however, I wasn’t nervous at all. My palms weren’t sweaty-- they were cold, in fact. My legs didn’t bounce out of anxiety. I didn’t scratch my arm where my skin is dry... All because a nice gentleman sat down beside me. We didn’t exchange our names until we landed, but for two hours, we must have talked every second. We had to pop our ears now and then to hear each other. We couldn’t see each other's faces under the masks, but we used our eyes as expressions. I saw his eyebrows raise and his blue eyes get big when I talked about my passion for music. He had the expressions of a little kid; when he told me he’s turning 27 I couldn’t believe it. I saw the hurt and concern behind his eyes when he talked about his mom getting married again-- he doesn’t talk to her much anymore. His roommate just graduated from law school as an immigrant attorney-- hoping to help his family in Mexico that would like to become American citizens. Never in my life have I communicated so fluidly and in depth with someone, let alone a Stranger on a Plane. Maybe it’s because we knew we’d never see each other again and we have no one to tell. But he was so easy to talk to. I even opened up about my family troubles. Seems like both moved to Tennessee to get away from the drama. I shared my Cheez-its to lighten the mood; I kinda wanted them to myself but I would’ve felt too bad. Plus, I couldn’t smell his minty gum any more, so it probably had a flavorless aftertaste. I let the white cheddar crackers dissolve in my mouth. At the end I shook Nick’s hand, and we walked to the passenger pick-up area together… He made sure I had a ride. We waved goodbye, parted ways, and that was it.

"They call my building their home, but it will never fill the gaps if they don't love their own..." In light of St. Patrick’s Day, I figured I would write about something green. My mind travels north to my family’s olive barn door in Virginia. There’s spots where the paint has chipped, resulting in curled-up flakes. Soon after we moved in, my dad and I discovered the door in an abandoned shed, left from the first owner who built our house in the 1930s. I used my ten-year-old, scrawny arms to help drag it outside. After we wiped off a layer of dust, my dad hinged it on the new barn to fill the empty space. It fit perfectly. My little sister and I painted it the color-- you guessed it-- green, and it looked good as new. I can still smell the strong, fresh coat to a point where I can taste the chemicals. I remember standing on the steps in the blazing sun, painting the outside of the door while she was doing the same, but on the inside. My entire body was covered with little blotches of green from impatiently splatting paint on the door. I remember peaking inside and seeing Frances steadily using her brush hand to stroke the wood. I couldn’t understand how she was so calm. I looked over her shoulder and could already hear the music we would play on that stage. It wasn’t a typical livestock barn; we had another one for that. The green door symbolized nature, fulfilling a different purpose than the other trees surrounding it; tranquility, steadying when the wind blows; truth, having flaws that build character. Maybe that’s why green has always been a color I admire. I would like people to think of me as a consistent friend who will always care. My "door" is open for people to come inside. But maybe when they walk in, the light is too bright, and they want to dim it. The furniture is too much, and they want to rearrange it. There’s holes in the wall that they want to plaster. Their eyes are attracted to finding problems and trying to change them. "Their eyes are attracted to finding problems and trying to change them." Sure, the stage with live music may draw them in, but when they stick around for a while, they can't ignore the imperfect details. But this place is not theirs to transform. That place of transformation starts within themselves. Their own dark lights, broken fixtures, and empty holes. "Remove the wooden beam from your eye first, then you will see clearly to remove the splinter from your brother's eye." Matthew 7:5. They might feel comfortable in my building they call their home; but it will never fill the gaps if they don't reflect on and love their own. The chips of green paint on the door is the aftermath of standing under the summer sun for hours-- after dragging it out of an abandoned place. If visitors can't value the history of how my "door" came to be, they can simply turn the knob and walk back out. My door will always be welcoming, but they must be open to what's inside.