IMPORTANT: If you’re subscribed to my blog…

This blog will self-destruct in 3…2..1..

I kid. Well, kind of.

The thing is, I think we all know that this little blog of mine needs an extreme makeover. Can I be painfully honest for a moment? The way that this space looks makes me want to walk outside and scream forever. I loathe, despise and abominate it.  A designer, I am not—as evidenced by the unfortunate state of my house. Y’all, my blog looks like I made it in my spare time…because, well, I did.

For years, I’ve been longing for a space that feels just a little bit more like me. And so, Little Black Desk is finally getting a makeover! This is my last post on WordPress.com, so if you’re a subscriber, unfortunately you will be UNSUBSCRIBED by tomorrow morning. If you’d like to continue receiving my rants confessions stories in your inbox, please wander back to my site, http://ashleypdickens.com on Friday, and re-subscribe to my new feed. Note: the web address isn’t changing, but it is getting some bright red lipstick and a tight pair of Spanx. [Men, if  you don’t know what Spanx are, that’s a pretty charmed life you’re living. Carry on—nothing to see, here.]

There may be some down time on Thursday, but never fear! I’ll be back on Friday with a doozie. :) Thanks for your patience, friends. Let’s all bid a disdainful farewell to my junky old blog—I can’t wait to see you on the other side!

The Influence Conference Meet and Greet.

Hi there, Influence! I’m Ashley P. Dickens.

The world feels surprisingly small to me. Though I currently live in upstate New York, I’ve spent more of my life living outside of America than in it. I’ve found home everywhere from frozen Eastern Europe with her spiraling cathedrals and cobblestoned streets, to the thick, sweltering heat of sandy West Africa.  My heart beats wildly when I walk down the jet way to board an airplane—as though I’m doing the very thing that I was created to do. I’ve lived in some hard places where hope wanes and poverty crushes, places where Mamas have babies that will live and die hungry. Their faces and stories have arrested and engaged my attention in a way that nothing short of Jesus Himself ever has.

You don’t have to look far to see that the world has been badly broken by sin, and I ardently believe that Jesus wants to use us to restore it. That’s why I work for HOPE International. I spend my days helping people to invest in the dreams of those trapped in poverty, and if you want to see me get really excited? Ask me to tell you some stories.

I spend my nights experimenting with a winning recipe for white chocolate baguettes, and scribbling away on this blog. I write because it helps me feel. It helps me remember. It helps me avoid doing the laundry, and something about that just feels right.

Part of the conference I am most excited about:

You! I’ve been following Influence for years, and I’m so thrilled to get to meet you. Let’s you and I grab a cup of coffee together—I would love to hear your story!

One thing I wouldn’t leave home without:

My wedding band. SWEET FANCY MOSES, that’s one mistake I don’t intend to make twice! [I’m still sorry, Kellan.] Very nearly as important: a venti caramel latte. [I said I love flying—I never said I love early mornings…]

I can’t wait to see you next week! Until then, feel free to find me on Instagram and Twitter.

The Day I Became a Woman.

It sat on the counter taunting me for days.

An auspicious looking manila envelope housed an offer for a free, two month trial membership at BJ’s—our local jumbo store. Now, I should tell you that in my mind, I am the sort of girl that shops at five different grocery stores in an effort to save 17 cents on mozzarella cheese and score a BOGO deal on the cardboard sugar cereal that Kellan insists on eating for breakfast. [This, despite my ominous weekly warnings that it will one day kill him dead.] Of course, in my MIND, I am the sort of girl that cheerfully rolls out of bed at five AM to run, but alas, the very best I can muster in the wee small hours of the morning is a sad sort of drunken stumble towards my beloved coffee pot.

I digress. The POINT, friends, is that I am decidedly not that girl. Call me lazy, but in spite of my very best intentions, I never make it to more than one grocery store. Mo stores, mo problems.

Since our fateful move to Albany, Kellan has made a habit of occasionally mentioning that maybe, we should purchase a BJ’s membership. Now, this feels precisely like the sort of adult thing that a twenty seven year old woman might do, right under flossing and mopping the floor. Delightfully, I have made it twenty seven years managing to avoid all three. Only the sweet baby Jesus knows where on earth my husband came up with this idea, because it certainly didn’t come from me–the very idea of PAYING to shop at an extra store makes me want to drop kick a golden retriever. I’d managed to successfully dissuade him for a year and a half…until the aforementioned envelope arrived.

Now. Even I couldn’t argue with a FREE TRIAL, though I was still rather baffled as to what two childless people might do with a five year supply of EVERYTHING. Alas, I am a sucker for anything that doesn’t cost me money, [most notably the toothpicked samples of kung pao chicken gratuitously handed out at the mall], and so on a Sunday afternoon I girded my loins and drove to our local BJ’s.

I walked into the cavernous, windowless warehouse and immediately started menopause. I was, conservatively, not a day less than 20 years everybody’s junior. The dimly-lit exit was guarded by a foreboding looking, blue-vested woman  that in a former life, might have served as the middle-aged athletic director at a small women’s college in Vermont. She looked like she was fresh out of prison—or possibly, just about to go back in. The pungent stench of cheap hot dogs hung thick in the stale air as an ever-growing mass of humanity milled about the aisles, carts precariously overflowing. A kindly Indian woman working at the customer service desk did her utmost to lock me into a fourteen month membership. I gulped weakly, and stubbornly held my ground– That’s very sweet of you, but if I make it out of here without getting shanked I am never coming back.

This was my shot, my piece de resistance, my trump card for the next seventy years should Kellan ever choose to bring up a BJ’s membership again. [I already did that. Wa-BAM!] I was determined to make the most of it. Thus, I decided to go big.

The strategy was simple: walk down every aisle, and follow my heart. Jumbo bag of chocolate chips? Come to Mama. Sixteen tubs of Lysol wipes? IN YOUR FACE SALMONELLA. Twenty pounds of flour? Let’s make like the Amish and bake our own bread! Ten pounds of walnuts? DON’T THINK YOU’LL FIGURE IT OUT LATER.

Y’all, I did work. That store didn’t know what hit it! I left significantly poorer, but with enough toilet paper to last us a month of Sundays. [And really, who can put a price on that kind of peace of mind?]

Am I alone, here? Do you stop at multiple stores? And hypothetically, what might one do with enough Crest mouthwash to fill a bathtub? Help a sister out, because after my Sunday-haul, Kellan thinks that this is the best idea ever.

…not that we’ll need to go again for a good five years or so.

How to Impress Your In-Laws.

Well, hi there! You haven’t changed one bit. I apologize for the unannounced summer hiatus– but now that fall is here, let’s get back to our normally scheduled programming, shall we?

We’ll pick up right where we left off: when my in-laws came to visit. Now, when I was in college, my Daddy would periodically sit me down, look me hard in the eyes and remind me that you marry the family. It was his mantra—honey, you’re going to be spending a lot of time with your husband’s family. Make sure you like them. I am deliriously thankful that I genuinely adore the family that became mine when Kellan and I said “I do”—in no small part because the thought of pretending to enjoy people for the rest of my life is positively exhausting.

Russ and Gina arrived in Albany on a Friday night. Now, let’s you and I get one thing straight: there are only two men on the planet that I will make a Key Lime pie for, Russ and my Dad. Frankly, I have neither the time nor the inclination for dessert that isn’t chocolate, but for the fathers in my life I gladly make an exception. Thus, 10:00 PM the night before the Dickens arrived found me baking a homemade key lime pie with a mind-numbingly divine graham cracker walnut crust that made the whole house smell of heaven by way of Amish country. Unfortunately, one clandestine bite of the startlingly bitter filling had me promptly scraping the entire thing out of my cheery red pie plate and straight into the trash. I started all over again at 11:30 because PETERSONS DON’T MESS AROUND WITH THEIR PIES.

Russ and Gina landed, and proceeded to ooh and ahh over our [SPARKLINGLY CLEAN] new house. Gina graciously overlooked my wine box tv stand and barren white walls, gushing instead about the natural light pouring through our oversized windows. The next morning, I sleepily waltzed downstairs looking like something on sale at a consignment store, and discovered my amused Father-in-law with a wide grin on his face. Ash, I was just wondering…do you have any milk that isn’t rancid?

APPARENTLY, prior to their arrival I had been too busy scrubbing the baseboards with a toothbrush to check the date on our milk. As the color drained from my panicked face into my pedicured toes, I had an overwhelming urge to channel the old couple in Titanic, slink back to bed, and pretend it wasn’t happening.

We sorted out the milk [I DIE], and he then casually asked me where my toaster was.

The thing about toasters is ours caught on fire two weeks into our marriage, and I promptly threw it down the garbage chute and never bought another one because CHEAP. [Also, effort.]  Thus, every time you want toast at my house, you have to channel your inner Laura Ingalls Wilder, set the oven to 375 and wait seven minutes. The whole thing is very Little House on the Prairie, with fewer Indian raids and less cholera. Russ’ baffled eyes widened as I relayed this information, unable to wrap his modern mind around the wholesome, pioneer lifestyle that Kellan and I had unwittingly embraced. You’re getting a toaster for Christmas.

Well. Something to look forward to.

On Saturday afternoon, Kellan and Russ ventured off for some father-son bonding time while Gina and I shopped and drank outrageously overpriced iced coffees. Arriving back at the house, we collapsed on the couch where I proceeded to turn on “My 600 Pound Life” because I like to heckle the enablers that keep traipsing in the front door with oblivious smiles and sixteen Happy Meals in tow. Gina, however, was so horrified at the whole thing that she had to escape upstairs to take a nap. Meanwhile, I practiced looking penitent in case I had to explain to Kellan why I watched trash tv with his Mama.

On Saturday night, I decided to make Greek food—because if a gyro doesn’t make you happy, I can do nothing for you. Unfortunately, I became overly excited whilst chopping cucumbers, and ever so daintily sent an economy-sized container of feta cheese unceremoniously tumbling to the floor, causing the whole house to smell distinctly like a pack filthy hobbits with severe bowel troubles were squatting in the kitchen.

All in all, the weekend was a rousing success. :) We laughed until our stomachs hurt, and I took a thousand mental snapshots, bottling up memories to tuck away and savor for the rest of my life. There isn’t anything more dear to me in the world than spending time with my family.

…and not just because I’ll be the proud owner of a toaster come Christmastime. ;)

Life Around Our Table.

My family owns an old wooden table that once belonged to my great-Grandparents, and has been carefully passed down over the generations. Through the ingenious magic of extra leaves, it expands and contracts like an accordion, making room for up to fifteen smiling faces to gather around it. Twenty, if you don’t mind your elbows bumping.

Years ago, the old wooden table followed my family across an ocean to Kiev, Ukraine, into our first tiny apartment where my Mama could stand in the middle of the doll-sized kitchen and touch all four walls with her hands. I remember the very first dinner that we ate sitting around our table in that apartment—I was six years old, and Stephen and I were famished after refusing to eat anything but white dinner rolls on our trans-Atlantic flight. Armed with fifteen basic Russian phrases and an iron will, our Mother had hitch-hiked to the local market. She wandered wide-eyed amongst stalls where animal carcasses hung dripping above dirty meat counters, looking for all the world as though someone had mercilessly slaughtered half of Noah’s ark. The hard-won meal that she presented on the table that night was beef in some sort of unidentifiable gray sauce, and sleepy, hungry faces beamed and gushed how wonderful each bite tasted. Years later, Mom told us that was the moment she decided that she could live in Ukraine.

Our table has seen three different countries and more different houses, but wherever it was, we were home. It’s seen Christmas morning cinnamon rolls, Cookie Monster birthday cakes and two grinning little boys with curly blonde hair and spaghetti sauce all over their faces. It’s where we learned to pass food to the right, and to wait until Mama started eating to pick up our forks. It’s the table around which eyes scrunched tightly shut as we thanked Jesus for [most of] our food, and where we tattled on the other kids for opening their eyes during prayer. It’s where Ian gleefully discovered that he could burp the ABC’s, and while I’m sure my parents wanted to chastise him it was all so bizarrely impressive that they couldn’t help but egg him on. It’s the table that Kellan broke on the cool October night that he leaned across it to kiss me, and though Daddy laughed out loud and fixed it right up, Kellan never quite lived that down.

Our old wooden table is where we’ve told our stories, where we’ve learned who the people sitting beside and across from us are. It’s where we have celebrated wildly and loved fiercely, debated passionately and doubled over with belly-laughter. That table has been the heartbeat of our home for as long as I can remember, hosting grand Thanksgiving dinner parties and quiet peanut butter and jelly afternoons. My most savored memories are the ones we spent relaxing around empty plates for long, unhurried hours after the meal had ended, red wine still swirling in long-stemmed glasses and contented conversation echoing off the walls.

Part of the raw ache of grief is that you can never go back. There could be nothing more precious to me in the world than just one more night spent laughing around the old wooden table with my whole family, but Ian is gone. And nowhere do we miss him more than when we sit down to dinner and realize that we’ve forgotten again, and set six places instead of five.

The ache of missing Ian has created in me a homesick longing for soul-exhale of heaven. And somehow, I suspect that heaven will look just a little bit like what has happened around our old table for so many years.

Happy 23^rd birthday tomorrow, baby brother. We miss you every single day.

While in college, Ian was interviewed about the a cappella group that he sang in. It’s unnerving just how often over the course of two minutes, he was distracted by a girl walking by…