It's a very good place to start...

"But I must start at the beginning, if I can find it. Beginnings are such elusive things. Just when you think you have hold of one, you look back and see another, earlier beginning, and an earlier one before that.  Even if you start with 'Chapter One: I Am Born,' you still have the problem of antecedents, of cause and effect." - Mudbound, Hillary Jordan

It feels almost silly to write again after such a long absence, but this blogging thing has always been simply an outlet and with the end of my first year teaching flying by and all that entails, my outlets became more verbal and urgent as the EOG's approached. Summer then vigorously shook my hand, congratulated me in my school year success, and has been so fruitfully lazy that a small kitchen fly could have easily sauntered his little way into one ear and not had any roadblocks coming out the other.

{Lately, however, there's been an author in my head who sounds suspiciously similar to Paula Deen that so eloquently narrates whatever may be going on at the moment I must pause and completely space out, forming 'My life as a Mental Book' lines that are, of course, so spectacular that they are all forgotten and never written down.}

Jordan, or any author for that matter, could not have more accurately described my life at this moment. 

For example, I could start with a fact: I am now a ninth grade English teacher. I would then have to explain that I am a ninth grade English teacher at the high school that I attended... In the state that we moved to when I was a freshman, because my father wanted to attend a Divinity school in the area that my great- something or another had a scholarship with back in the days of old {which has an incomprehensible amount of beginnings.} So, the Miller family uprooted from their beloved Tennessee home in which they moved to for a job promotion from South Carolina where...

See what I'm saying here? At that school I had a brilliant sophomore English teacher who is now the Assistant Principal, and who remembered a younger and much more awkward version of myself, and somehow has enough faith in 22 year old me to ask me to leap from teaching 3rd in a place of {oh, on second hand, let's not get me started} to teaching that ninth grade English class. 

Whoa, right? Maybe I get inside my own head a little too much but thinking on that would keep me staring into space on this couch all day, and my laundry would never get done. Let's move on. 

There were the trembling fingers braiding, unbraiding, and re-braiding my hair followed by the leaping and throwing myself around the apartment with uncontrollable grateful sobs when learning of my new position at my high school. This was a job I learned of and obtained by the grace of God and all of the above beginnings within a few hours of one day a couple of weeks ago. I stand firm in the faith that this if where I am supposed to be for this portion of my life. 

I just recently moved into a very 'Leave it to Beaver' neighborhood  in an outrageously gorgeous house, complete with a spiral staircase and a front window that would put Saul on his knees to change his name when walking into it in the early morning light. In that home are 3 lovely ladies who I now call dear friends. Dinner is spent around our table looking out another large window onto our freshly manicured lawn.

{When four attractive young women live in a home, they need never to cut the grass themselves, only to meet their neighbors!}

Jasmine's large eyes shine from laughing from a place within her heart while Lindsay Jo throws her hands up and giggles with her tiny white teeth sparkling. I take a moment to close my eyes and place my head on the table as my silents laughs rack my frame, as Katie continues to tell the story in her sweet voice, using her hands and contorting her face for each character. 

This, my dear reader, is a complete Paula Deen scribed scene and one of those beginnings that will help define me as a 20 something. Many beginnings, as a product of many old beginnings, are taking place in my life and I couldn't be more grateful.

A Valentines Day of a different color

I have grown from being a seriously sappy and overly romantic junkie in my younger years to a young woman who cringes at all those being sappy and overly romantic.
Maybe it came in between a couple of very serious relationships that, at the time, meant the world was ending as they did-- or possibly it's just what happens when you grow up.

In any case, let's be frank- If you know me well {or even at all} you know that I tend to be quite, as some may say, vivacious. I have had my fair share of dates, conquests, what have you. Now, believe me reader, when I tell you I was raised straight and narrow 'right.' This does not mean that I don't know the glitter effect of dating and haven't enjoyed being a woman. With the various situations I have inevitably giggled and batted my eyelashes into, I have become somewhat of a cold heart when it comes to romantics. The giggling ceases when I start to get a headache and batting my eyelashes always ends in my unattractive search on the floor for a contact.

That's why, on this Valentines Day, I have never been so happy to NOT have to say the words, 'I love you' and even better, not feel the need to hear them back.


Oh, no! But, Alisha, you have a boyfriend!

Reader, it's better than that.

I have an equal. 


A meeting or two after the initial where I was instantly repulsed by his overt arrogance, smug smile, and apparent knowledge of how gorgeous he is, I found myself laughing. Not giggling, not being embarrassingly flirtatious, but actually laughing in between being sincerely shocked at someone who  could throw my glitter and snarky comments right back in my face.

I wish you cared enough to read all of the ways I know I don't have to say those {cringe} 'three little words' to my boyfriend or hear them whispered back softly in my ear, but because you don't have time and because I am, at heart, a Southern Baptist- I will break it down into three main points. {For those of you unaware, it's not a Baptist sermon without your points- mostly consisting of three to six. Points can and should be dropped depending on how close you are cutting it to the lunch hour.} 


1) He let a strange girl with an apartment's worth of stuff and a constantly shedding dog stay with him for one month...that turned to three. 
Actions truly speak louder than words. This point could and would take more space than a blog allows.




2) He makes me want to be better, care more, listen harder.
 I have always tried to treat whoever I am with lovingly at all times- It's how I was raised. The difference now is that more times than not I consciously and naturally think of ways to make his day better, easier, etc. Now, I'm not putting myself on a pedestal saying how great and mighty I am- but instead that I am excited that I have found someone who I ENJOY helping, taking care of, and actually respect enough to truly listen to and trust. I sincerely have a WANT to show him how I feel since he is an expert at showing me. 


3) I already know. 
 At one point during this past Christmas Break, we found ourselves sitting near a fireplace at the tiny upstairs coffee shop in my parent's town. He will probably not appreciate what I am about to share {sorry, but not}, yet I can't help but want you to know how 'wholey' I am cared for. Being told so seriously and with such frank honesty that I am cared for as one would a little girl in my sillier or needier moments, cared for as a girlfriend when sharing a slushie and movies, cared for as a woman who he could share a future with in serious and simple life moments, and of course cared for in a way a man cares for a woman as ridiculously attractive as myself {kidding! I had to lighten up the moment} was something that I had never. ever. been told before. It meant more to me than I can express. 


I  have found a man,  so you boys need to take notes. 


Happy Valentines Day, Reader. 


{Michael, I know you still haven't gotten me anything. Get on that.} 

On to the Land of Milk and Honey { and hopefully a liver mush biscuit }

{ This is a long one but it's Sunday and what else do you REALLY have to do? }

Thank God that the wilderness is not a place one stays. We call it the woods around here, but any way you slice it, it's that big expansive place stock full of trees.

 Sure, you can go galavanting around yelling about incoming invaders from another planet, jumping onto fallen logs, or mapping out the best path on the wet rocks of a small stream to reach the other side safely and without losing anyone to an alligator, piranha, or giant squid {I almost lost a good sister that way years back- luckily she was revived right before our afternoon snack. } Growing up in various southern towns, there were always places like the woods to explore. The catch here is that you always. went. home.

We would run back to the house { always running- taking the time to walk when you are growing up is out of the question. } and eat a tomato sandwich, scraping the roof of our mouths with not quite so clean fingers as the cheese and mayo never failed to slap itself up there and render us from reliving our latest adventure.

I've been thinking about the woods a lot lately- If the woods suddenly became dark and not fun place full of weeping and gnashing of teeth that make you cringe, moan, and weep a little yourself. 

I know that came off a  little dramatic- but you were warned of that in my first post.

The church I have been attending lately makes me chuckle. { Stay with me here, I promise this ties in.} The ridiculously easy to figure out 'life/Jesus' parallels and the language used { God's math will never divide the people but will always multiply if we add our spiritual gifts together-- Oh yeah, I'm not making that up. } in some sermons leave me biting the smiling insides of my cheek so I don't come off as that rude visitor and chuckling about it with Michael on our way home.
 A few Sundays ago, however, there was a great message on being stuck in the wilderness/desert. It got me to thinking- WTF.{ cringe if you must, I'm going for honesty here.} God's people were stuck in their desert for 40 YEARS. 40 years, y'all.

Now, I'm not saying that my life is as horrible as being led around the desert for 40 years by imperfect men who forgot God's promises and therefore ended up keeping almost a whole generation from hosting their annual holiday parties, but because life has been happening to me hardcore lately and I'm honestly in a place I refuse to stay in forever- I am stuck in the place between places. The woods. 

Knowing a little about the history from the book of Exodus {Dad used to pay us to type his Divinity school papers }, I know that the Lord sent the people of Israel on a route that yes, was long and had many of its own issues BUT the actual path that they took kept them from many enemies and hardships that they would not have been prepared to face.
{ Interesting when you think of your own life choices and where they've led you and why.} Did they like following Moses and eventually Joshua to the promised land of Milk and Honey? Of course not. They went without food and water and ended up acting like fools and crazy upsetting God. Here's the kicker though- They NEEDED that time.The Lord knew when the time was right for them to benefit from every hardship and season of waiting they endured.

All of this to say, my 20's has become a time when I am still figuring out what to do and where to go and already mightily believing I am meant for something bigger than the now. So, in this time of waiting it's nice to remember that the Lord is here {even when 'here' means a burning bush type love of "What the heck are you even saying to me?"}, his love provides, and without this season I may not be prepared for this life that is coming.

Though youths grow weary and tired, 
And vigorous young men stumble badly, 
 Yet those who wait for the LORD 
Will gain new strength; 
They will mount up with wings like eagles, 
They will run and not get tired, 
They will walk and not become weary.
{ Isaiah 40: 30-31 }

....and living to tell the tale nice and slow.

I have always loved to write. I think this fascination started in Elementary school when we were taught to write 'descriptively.' I would pack my fourth grade sentences with as many adjectives and fat juicy words my chubby and badly manicured hands could scrabble. { My thick tan boot crunched and munched on top of the wood brown leaves in the bright shiny August day in the sunny sunshine of the beautiful Tennessee rolling plains. Yeah...yikes. }  The Thesaurus was a bible of words; little letters that would fill my heart with so much excitement I could barely sit still. { In 2012, I sit here using the Thesaurus online-  ever searching for that one even better word. }

Fast forward to my college years { ha! Being able to say that now is both terrifying and hilarious. Mostly terrifying.} as I sat doe eyed in my Writing Fiction class with a gross weirdo crush on my professor. {Seriously, I was the girl that had 'I love you' written Indiana Jones style on my eyelids.} Besides my ulterior motives for taking three of the classes, I actually learned things! My short stories were actually, dare I say it, good! I was in college, sitting on my butt while someone talked at me for a few hours a day, drinking Starbucks and eating Salsarita's with friends, writing and stressing and rewriting.... 

...and now I sit. I sit and I stress over real things like bills, grocery shopping, bills, my half-witted dog { Thesaurus for 'stupid as hell' }, bills, my job as a third grade teacher, and I know I mentioned bills, right? I  have been madly thrust into adulthood so let's get real here. I don't like it. Not one bit. I'm not GOOD at it yet. I was fantastic at being an overly dramatic, tutu wearing little girl, an overly dramatic and tragically sad middle schooler, and an overly dramatic theater kid in high school. College? Best years for being overly everything. 

Now? Well, I am writing a blog because I have Pinterest, wear Toms and glasses, traveled to and fell in love with Africa and have been tattooed twice. Why not a blog, right? 

This is me, in the wilderness of my 20's, writing about everything- because fourth grade me is freaking out and I need something familiar to be GOOD at. 

Enjoy y'all.