"My paper has to be college-ruled," my manager said, turning to a clean page in his signature composition notebook that he brings with his laptop into every meeting. "Whenever anyone gave me a piece of paper in school, it always annoyed me if it had big spaces between the lines."
We were meeting, just the two of us, to talk about writing email templates to send to prospective clients. Apparently, my wordsmith abilities make me just the girl for the job.
My manager isn't a big man physically, but he's a powerhouse of leadership - dynamic, enthusiastic, encouraging. Only two years my senior, he's well-read and driven, with a way of making everyone on his team feel like we're being heard. Plus, he thinks I'm smart, which, believe me, goes a long way towards inspiring me to do my best and not disappoint him.
His brow furrowed as he thought about what to write as a format for the emails I'll eventually compose, but suddenly a small smile edged its way around the corners of his mouth, and he looked up at me.
"When I was in, like, third grade, I remember I'd get these pages of paper with big lines, and because I'm me, and I was bored, I guess, I'd write all my spelling words as tiny as I possibly could. I tried to see how many I could fit in between the lines."
I raised an eyebrow, smirking with him.
"I don't know why I did it. There wasn't a possible scenario where it would end well for me. I was just like that."
I nodded, grinning. I wasn't surprised. He is like that.
As the workday drew on, and another day followed it, I kept thinking about it: my manager as a kid, writing intently in tiny letters between the big lines of his notebook. Trying to squeeze in as many as possible, just because he could. It wasn't wrong, it wasn't against the rules - it was just a teensy bit of rebellion. Just a little bit off center. Just because he was himself.
Is that what I'm doing too?
Sunday mornings spent sleeping in instead of going to church.
Three-mile walks spent listening to a stand-up comedy Pandora station, filled with obscenities and acerbic observations that make me laugh with their truthfulness.
Evenings spent with glasses of wine or whiskey-and-gingers, watching sitcoms or reading chick lit.
Lunch breaks spent poring over feminist blogs and articles.
Challenging anyone who uses "churchy" words, like headship or witness or ministry. You don't know what that means.
Challenging my friends to point out to me where it says in the Bible that sex must be saved for marriage. Show me where it is.
Challenging anyone who claims the name of Jesus but spends all their time justifying their own choices as the only way. Nope, sorry. Good try, but nope!
Challenging God to show me again that I can trust Him the way I used to. Can I?
I'm not doing anything wrong, per se...but I'm feeling rebellious all the same. Outside of my comfort zone. Testing the waters. Pushing back against assumptions, beliefs, the spoon-fed evangelical ideas I grasped onto for years, taking at face value as truth without real-life testing...until life got real all around me.
I'm scribbling tiny letters in between the lines.
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