I saw your picture today

My life has been more hectic than usual lately. I find myself constantly muttering reminders and walking into rooms with no idea why I'm there.
Everything is so busy.
I have one daughter getting married, another moving away, and my son starting his junior year of high school. I try not to worry, I do. But it comes anyway, in waves and gulps and mist. Sometimes I can breathe through it, pray, unhinge my shoulders from my ears.
But the past few weeks, my mind is a hamster wheel with a cat stuck inside.
And I'm the hamster.
running running running
glancing back occasionally to see how close that cat is to me.

A few days ago I was cleaning off my desk of the zillion little things that accumulate all week with no purpose whatsoever and yet I can't throw any of it away. Paper clips, receipts, mail, ribbon.
I had a few pictures, pictures that I needed to PUT AWAY IN THE BOX ALREADY.
I don't know why I do this but I see them and instead of putting them away, I just move them over 5 inches.
Maybe stack them neater .. and then move over 5 inches. It's so dumb and completely breaks some rule about clutter and touching one's things more than once without putting them in their proper home.
I don't know.
But this day, this day I was making progress.
Up I scooped them and to the closet I went. I keep a plastic bin in there that holds an attempt to organize all my pictures.
A very sloppy attempt.
I can't ever find what I am looking for without going through them all a thousand times. Today though, instead of dumping the handful in, I pulled the box out, sat down, scooched my back up against the wall, and took off the lid.
I smiled.
There they were. All my babies.
Small. Laughing. Safe.
I lifted a stack out and started rummaging through them; remembering what it was like to have Breann run up to me and give me a hug around my legs, laughing at the look of mischief on Sammi's face as she eyeballed her sister, smiling at the seriousness of Jacob on my wedding day when he was just five. I always get a little misty when I look at these.
Our life.
How fast it goes by.
I continued to filter through them and then, random, I found an old one of me.
Me. Kendra. Tracy.
I blinked.
This was Kelly St.
All the houses in the group home were named by the street they sat on.
Kelly St. was for newbies.
Tracy was my roommate. She stood on the far right.
Tracy.
So obviously hard in her leopard print pants and football jersey. Eyes like steel. Eyes that screamed, STAY AWAY FROM ME.
Kendra. She doesn't look loud here but I remember. Her voice carried like a mega-phone was attached to it. It was like she sucked all the oxygen in from the room and then it came roaring out every time she spoke or laughed or yelled. And she did all three. Frequently.

And then there's me. I look so ... so...
small.
A child. Face partially hidden in my hair. Hand clenched inside my shirt. A jean skirt and black high-topped converse.

It's the shoes that got me.
The shoes that grabbed a hold of my eyes and my memory and then slammed my heart against a concrete wall painted baby diarrhea green.

Leaning against the wall in my hallway while I sat on the floor. Nobody home. No one to hear me. I leaned my head back and bawled.

You ever see those car commercials where the city is dark and yet you can see lights zipping through the city, the freeway, and it's just a blur this way, a blur that way?
fasterfasterfaster

That was my brain. Zipping and blurring and skidding along, trying hard to grasp what I was supposed to see here, what I was supposed to get.

This picture.
Taken in the group home.
Which was after juvenile hall.
which was after I was arrested,
and when I was arrested I wasn't wearing any shoes.
Shoe-less
Calloused
Hard.
Exposed.
Going in barefoot. Well, that was no big deal.
Walking in toes out, in the middle of the night, doesn't compare to the humiliation of being stripped, searched, squatting, coughing, jeered at by coaches and detainees alike.
But going out, in brightness of midday, with a complete stranger, to a waiting van...
well... I kind of think it's how Adam and Eve must have felt.
Naked.
Exposed.

Seen for who they had become.

I relate to how they must have frantically searched for leaves, brush, anything anything to cover themselves, because I would have given anything for at least a pair of shower shoes.
but juvie.
They don't give anything away.
Your vulnerability is on full display.
Remember this moment, child.... and don't come back.

This picture.

I'm thirteen.
Smiling. In a group home. With shoes they bought me.
You would never guess by looking at this that just months before I had started smoking cigarettes,
and then weed,
and then snorting lines of meth,
and drinking more alcohol than I could puke out,
and giving my virginity away to a greasy boy I didn't like and didn't like me,
and then swallowing a bottle of pills the next day because I was so disgusted and wanted to float,
and then taking a car that wasn't mine,
and then putting my hands up with a gun pointed at me.
You wouldn't guess that for the first two weeks in juvie I ate with a dixie cup cut in half and couldn't have a blanket with corners and they peeked in the window every half hour to make sure I was still breathing..
You wouldn't guess that I would jump up, fists swinging at
anyone anyone anyone
who looked at me crazy or uttered a word about me being white or young or a princess.
You wouldn't guess that I had stopped caring a long time ago and
nothing nothing nothing
would make me flinch in fear.
I knew what to be afraid of and these girls and this place wasn't it.
I grew up with monsters.

This picture.

In a place that most couldn't wait to leave but I felt safe.
I could breathe and smile and go to school and close my door and refuse the phone.
I didn't have to pretend.
I didn't have to run.
I could just be.

This picture.

I held it in my hand as I cried on my floor. Thinking back to all the places I had been, the things I had done, the horrors that had been done to me.

And I'm more than just o.k. now.
I do more than just survive.
I live.
I love.

I think about all the people that have said to me,
You're so strong.
You made it.
You did it.

And I always get asked the question,
How?

And my answer, so inadequate, such a let down to what they were hoping for.
Just a shrug. A nonchalance, not because i didn't care but because I didn't know what to say.

And as I sat on the floor, it came. Something I have known but didn't really grasp until right then.

This picture.

I stared at it, blurry in my tears, heartsick in the worry that sometimes wants to drown me for my own kids, and their struggles, and the pain and disappointment they are learning to feel and walk with and grow in. All the things I can't save them from.

I could weep for the girl in this picture.

But I won't.

I've done so much of that already. A mourning for a different life that was stolen in whispers and darkened bedrooms with a person that's now dead.
I celebrate her instead.
For waking up.
For somehow choosing to keep going.
For dreaminng of something bigger.
For sacrifcing so her kids would have what she did not.
It's incredible.
The strength.
Not hers but from the one she shunned and raged against and blamed for so long.

HIM.
Giving a strength she could not muster.
There were no big girl panties to pull up. Someone had yanked those down from her long long before.

This picture.

It's a child.

And then I knew.
He was right there, in every moment I felt alone, in every tear I dropped, in each place I felt my heart crack and shudder, He was with me. His heart broke next to mine.
All that love He walked in and pursued me with ...
it is the same love He walks and pursues my kids with.

They will struggle and their hearts may break,
but they won't die.
It won't kill them.

He will carry them,
strengthen them,
and they will do more than survive.
They will live.

I get it.
And I hope you get it too.
Our kids, we want so badly to protect them from everything... and it's our job to want to do that. We should do that in all the best ways we can.
But we also have to know that is an impossible task.
We are here to love them, guide them, pray over them, support them,
and let them go.
They are not alone.
Not ever.
Breathe deep mamas. Unhinge your shoulders from your ears.
It's a big love out there.
It's a perfect peace.

dandelions

I’ve never been much of a salesman. I only made my property management career last as long as it did because I switched early on from leasing to maintenance. I was all for taking something and making the most out of what I was given… but talking others into wanting that same thing? Helping them to see what it could be not just what it was?
Difficult.
I was a realist. And of the mindset that people know what they want. Or better yet, what they don’t.
For a long time I thought being a realist was the smartest, safest, way to be.

Here’s the thing about realism though.

It doesn’t leave room for a lot of hope.

Some dreaming.

Any wishes.

It just... is.

And I got pretty sick and tired of what I saw and lived without anything to chew on at night. No bubble gum dreams. No sips of hot chocolate. No princes on white horses.
Or any kind of horse, car, bicycle, cane, for that matter.
You know what I mean.


I can’t say it started with a bang – trusting Jesus with dreams. I think it probably started very small.

A dandelion.

And gradually, a few dandelions later, dreams came. My smiles lit up my pillow and I woke up to sun inside me.
My first reaction is to almost defend my realist self now.
“I am not naïve!!” With a small fist shake to the sky and turn of my head. That's the hard-won, fought for, world wisdom in me.
But then a small voice whispered, “What’s so bad with being naïve anyway?”

Naive: lacking judgment, wisdom, or experience.

Basically, kind of dumb.

But then...
I looked at definition #2 and it said this.

Natural. Unaffected. Innocent.

My heart jump roped once or twice.
Natural? Unaffected? Innocent?
And I felt, way down deep in my belly, a longing reach out.

I don’t know how God can make us both. Wise & Innocent. Experienced & Unaffected.
But he does.
Something with that whole, beauty from ashes thing. It’s just God.

Dandelion sprinkles.

And so I changed from a Realist to a Hopeful.
Oh, I know things can still be bad but more than that, I also know how so much good can come from them.


Today I was driving home from Starbucks, deadbeat tired, still coughing, my stomach groaning and ok, basically whining, to be fed, and I talked to God about the Hope Sent book. I feel supported. I hear encouragement. But where are the letters Lord? They started coming and now they just stopped.
Where are they?

And that’s when He reminded me of what a realist I used to be and how Hope was not a welcome neighbor. In fact, I would go running at Hope with a baseball bat and chase it down the street, screaming profanities and promises of a beating if it came too close.

I can’t just wave the flag of Hope and expect people will come running. Obstacles await for anyone that even glance that way. Reminders. Triggers. Feelings that we stomp so hard if it were grapes, we’d be selling a mighty fine wine. And now here I am, asking you to volunteer them out. Asking you to just give it away.
That’s a lot to ask.

I know.

And God reminded me, in order to get trust you have to show yourself trustworthy.
What does that mean Lord?
I’m not sure quite yet what all it means but I do know this.

I have to go first.

I have to trust you first. With the worst of me. With the most painful.

Even though you may be anonymous to me, you are not anonymous to you and I know how hard it is to write it down, to get it out, to make it real.

Again.

And so
I
am going to give
to you
first.

I know what it feels like to be abandoned.

I know what it feels like to learn your daddy is not your daddy and your real daddy doesn’t really want you.

I know what it feels like to have parents that are just kids in big bodies.

I know what it feels like to be touched and whispered to, and violated, when you are too small to help yourself and he’s big enough to know better.

I know that grown-ups don’t always do what they are supposed to do. They don’t always help.

I know what it feels like to watch your mom drink too much, and bring home too many men, and still love her love her and protect her until you just can’t anymore.

I know what it feels like to leave home, pack a bag, hop a bus, and sleep outside, anywhere to get away
.
I know what it feels like to crave anything, drink anything, smoke anything, kiss anyone, to make the pain stop for just a minute, just a second.

I know Rage and her friend Bitterness and her second cousin Control and I know how they wreak havoc in your brain and in your life and in your body.

I know what it feels like to have your husband tell you he’s changed his mind and walk away.

I know what it feels like to finally realize it’s my fault too and I can’t keep blaming him anymore.

I know what it feels like to be a single mom and be overwhelmed and always wondering, am I doing this right? Am I?

I know what it feels like to not be one because you’ve traded places and now he’s a single dad.

I know what it feels like to look in the mirror and see F A I L U R E mixed in with M O T H E R and self-loathing in your own eyes.

I know what it feels like to love God and church and to think somewhere, for some reason, God must have stopped loving you because the church sure did and just like everything else, it’s my fault and I am not good enough. Again.

I know what it’s like to lock the door and cover your ears so you can’t hear him yelling and drinking and yelling some more, while you pray and pray and think to yourself, this is what I get… what I deserve.

I know what it feels like to work so hard for keys and a picket fence just to have to give them back and say goodbye to the American Dream.

I know what it feels like to be lost.

And alone.
And scared.
And angry.
And craving love so bad you think you could die from it if someone doesn’t give it to you soon.

I. Know.

Maybe not everything you have been through. Maybe not each and every detail of your life. But I know mine.
And I know this.

God can take anything, any burnt ash of a life, of a marriage, of a childhood, of a church, of a dream, of a hope, of a home, of a mother, of a grandfather …
And he can make something most beautiful out of it.
But He can only do it if we let him. If we take a step. If we open our mouth. If we write a letter.
You see, God is so unlike what I have experienced in my entire life. He'll be so different from what you have experienced in your life.
He is gentle.
And He waits.
For permission.
For allowance.
For clearance.
For a Yes.
Not because He wants you to beg. Not because He is holding anything over your head. But because He knows.
He knows, Sweet Pea, what you’ve been through, what’s been done to you.
And He is different.
He is the Lover of your soul.
The protector of your heart.

The giver of dandelions.



Hope Sent the book: PO Box 3648 ramona, ca 92065 / hopesentministry@gmail.com

Buried.

I have to be really careful about the things I wish for in front of my husband. I mean, like, really careful. Because once I say it, he does his best to make it happen. He's like a genie except without the outfit. Or the bottle. Or the smoke legs.
Once in our previous house I was standing in the laundry room folding clothes. He came out and I said nonchalantly as I bent over to get more socks, "I wish this window was bigger in here. It would let in so much more air and light." Three days later I came home from work and guess what?

Yep.
A breeze.
Seriously.

It's not just windows.
Me: OOOhhh I should get a food processor so I can make my own veggie burgers!
Guess who has a food processor? Yep.
Guess how many veggie burgers I have made?
Loser.

Me in an antique store with Jeff: Oh. My. Gosh. Look at these old typewriters! I love them! Coolest thing I have ever seen!
Guess who has an antique typewriter with the sweetest note typed in it given on our anniversary?
And an information book on how it works that was ordered through amazon? Along with black and red ink?
Yep.
Me.

Seriously.

So I should have known better when I said, "Oh we should plant a garden! We have all this space and ...blah ...so many veggies and ...blah ... save us money and... blah..."
Guess who has a garden?
Uh huh.
Guess how big it is?
I could feed a small country.

He's kind of an overachiever. God bless him.

I woke up this morning knowing it was going to be a weeding kind of morning. Before the sun gets too hot, before I watch too much Pretty Little Liars.
As I walked out there and surveyed the garden, or "The Amazon" as I now refer to it, I felt more than a little overwhelmed. I took a picture of it and posted to my facebook (because you know I love facebook!)
and it allowed me to procrastinate for three more minutes.
I'm grateful that I did though because a wonderful writer friend of mine, who loves all things beautiful, commented and said, "I do some of my best praying in my garden. Have at it!"


Two weeks ago I started a study on secrets. I wasn't sure why I felt so pulled to go because even though I admire the speaker, the study topic made my stomach roll.
I don't like secrets.
Period.

The class meets on Wednesday nights and each time I have left I have been on-my-knees grateful I showed up. I mean, I'm not saying me and secrets are cool and I'm going to ask them to stay and party but I am gaining some insight on the control they can have and that I am able to say, hasta la vista.

baby.

Last week we spoke about the vault.
I bet you can guess the question of the night.
What's in vault number ONE? Two?

Three?
Ten?

I mean, basically my vault looks like a crime scene.
Yellow tape.(caution. cautioncautioncaution) everywhere. Little red flags in the ground marking where all my bad things are buried. I'm pretty sure if I look closely, I may see a body.
I'm pretty sure it's a little girl.
Her eyes are closed. Her feet are bare. She is cold. She looks dead.
But she's not.
I'm pretty sure she's pretending to be dead so nothing will actually kill her.

Opening my vault almost causes a panic attack in my garden amongst the corn that towers over me and shields my face. As I move through vines and cut them back
prune
prune
prune

I can hear the Lord trying to talk to me. I can. I know He is trying to say something but I can't make it out. I can't make it out because I am screaming inside myself ...
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO KNOW? What do you want me to see in this stupid, stupid, vault?!

What?
What?
WHAT?

But he can't answer me like that. God doesn't scream.

He waits.

Until I was quiet. Until it was just me, cutting vines,
prune
prune
prune.

Just me

and dirt,

and vines,

and

quiet.

My fingers are a mess. Scratched. Wet dirt under my nails. Sweat dripping into my eyes. I can hear the bees. I am hoping corn spiders don't drop on my neck and crawl on me. I will freak out if they do.

I prune.

This garden.
It's so overgrown. everything living on top of everything. haphazard. zigzagged. twisted.
this is what happens when you leave it.
this is what happens when you leave it alone.
it grows wild.
without direction.
without focus.

And I can't see any fruit. I can't see any vegetable. I can't see anything. It's buried. Deep.

Under the vines.

What God?
What?

Shut. Up. My daughter.

shhhhhhhh ....

And i continued.
Removing the excess. Throwing it behind me.

and then there it was.
beautiful. green. attached to the vine.
growing.


And finally, finally, I heard Him.

Look.
Look how perfect it grows.
Even here.
In the dark.

And right there. On my knees, in the dirt, with dirt on my face, and bugs crawling over my fingers...
I began to cry.



And i couldn't stop.



I stayed there. Until the pain was gone.

And the peace settled in.

proverbs 14:1

I love facebook.
It's almost embarrassing to admit, but there it is. I am not a teenager. I am a grown-up with a job, and bills, and kids.
But i still love facebook. No time for a phone call or coffee date? Power up. It's an icon away to see the dirty, gleeful faces of my friends' kids as they terrorize summer. It's just a five minute scroll to see who is eating lunch at the Loving Hut, who started their 2.6 mile run, who is "so over" their Monday at work, who is going to happy hour, and who is chugging their way to "Vegas Baby!!!"

We can stalk old boyfriends, their newest girlfriend, past friends, new friends, and even the ones that don't want to be friends, in the privacy of our homes, our cars, our closest Starbucks while sipping an iced latte. It's a window to our kids and the lives they are living away from home, on their own. I may not talk to my daughter every week but I can see pictures of her latest hike and I know what Disney movie she watched cozied on her couch. It connects us and shares us and sometimes takes the pressure away.

But there is the dark side. The side that we don't "like" or "share" but undoubtedly still read.
The side that can leave us a little breathless, a little "what the eff?"
Sometimes we see things that a few years ago, would have remained PRIVATE.
Closed. (KEEP OUT. NO TRESPASSING.)
Friends and Family Only.
It would have been one of those ... "oh but what happened to so and so?" And then, "Oh it was so heartbreaking... tragic ... a few years back..."

Not the entire world. Not people that you've only met once or twice, or is a friend of a friend that you ran into at church; a face that you'd recognize but if it wasn't for facebook, you wouldn't remember their name, much less where they recently vacationed (Hawaii!!), or if they are dieting (the last five pounds!), if their kids are taking swimming lessons, that their anniversary is in five days, or ...

if their marriage is falling apart.

if they are having an affair.

if they are getting a divorce.

if they hate each others guts.

But suddenly
here I am, here we are.
seeing every grim detail, exposed to each raw emotion, a gaping wound with leaking arteries, we watch a love story that once swelled and moved, passionate and full,
gasp
and die.

with their very own hands, in their very own words, their pulsating pain reaches out

a wrecking ball.

every insult - a brick. every barb - a shattered window.
Their house,
smashed into chunks and pieces.

it makes my heart hurt.
it causes me to pray.
alot.
and sometimes
i cry.

It isn't my business.
Yet it stares me in the face.

a mirror.

I tell myself, Turn it off. Shut it down. I don't want to see.

And like a reality show that exposes weaknesses and vulnerability and betrayal for fun and ratings,

I leave it on. Mortified. Heartsick. I can't take me eyes away from it.

why?

because i know.
i know what it feels like to be in that house, a bleeding mess that refuses
oxygen,
love,
forgiveness,
healing.

I know what it feels like to want shove it in their face, how happy you are now, how hot you are now, how wanted you are now, how appreciated you are now.

how carefree you are now.

except you aren't.
not really.
it's pretend.
and other people help you pretend.
telling you what you deserve
(them)
and how different they will be
(but they're not)

and every time you post, every time you pose, every time you say one more thing in offense ...

you rip part of your house down for all of us to see.

How easily we forget how hard it was to build it in the first place.

I tore my house down once too. We can get pretty comfortable, can't we? In our marriages? I know I did.
No boundaries, No safeguards. No tending.
We guard our cell phones, our car keys, our Starbucks Gold cards, with fiercer protection than our marriages.

I said what I wanted, to those I claimed to love.
In tones that cut.
With facial expressions that demean.

Instead of holding close, I flung away.
Instead of going towards, I turned my back.
Instead of choosing to love, we chose complacency.

It's no wonder we didn't make it. It's not that we didn't care.
It's more that we didn't know how.

My heart aches for you, crumbling marriage divided with pain.

I heard this by a preacher man one morning on the radio. He said, "Marriages don't just explode out of nowhere. It's not a giant burst.
Marriages are punctured."

Stabbed.
Wounded.
Holed.

and then they lay down and bleed to death.

I believe in miracles. I do. I believe marriages can be fixed. Healed.
and then more than healed. They thrive.
I have seen it.
Not in my own.
No. We tapped out.
I tapped out.
I didn't want a miracle.

That's the beauty and the agony of it, isn't it?

We get to choose how our life is going to be.

And then we all get to see that life.

On Facebook.


* I titled this proverbs 14:1. but just know, this post is equal opportunity. We all tear our houses down.

highhighhigh and higher still

I got saved in a Pentecostal church. I know - that sounds very Christian-y doesn't it? What does that even mean?? It means I met Jesus and decided yes, I am a sinner, yes, I need forgiveness, yes, I am going to go ahead and ask him for it, yes, I am going to ask him to change me from the inside out. And I did this in a church where I heard people talk in words that were not words and they sounded like crazies, in a place where people clapped and sometimes shouted "Wooo Jesus!!! Oh my Jesus!" and then danced, in a place where people would shake and fall to the floor and others would walk by and lay a blanket over the legs of the ladies so they wouldn't accidentally show their stuff when they got back up again.

it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?

There are worse things.

I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.

And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!

And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.

I tried my hardest to self-destruct.

Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.

Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day

His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.

So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.

Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.

Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".

Nope. Just so we're clear.

I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"

And my mouth went a little dry.

And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.

Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.

He didn't do that.

He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."

God really likes that. When we listen.

It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.

I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."

I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.

I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.

I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.

I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.

I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.

It was awful. It was beautiful too.

God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.

So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.

I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and

higher still

and expect him take it from me.

Clump of dirt

When I visit my mom, we smoke. She lights up a fat cigar and I suck on a camel. I always make sure I have a fresh pack, because by the time I leave they are almost gone. It is not weird to smoke with my mom. Sometimes I wonder what we would do with our hands if we didn't.

Together.

Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.

I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.

It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.

But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.


I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.

How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.

My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."

And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.

Under Construction

.... And that's not the end of the story.
Me finding Jesus or being saved, that is.
The story did not stop and the happy ending start when I cried my soul out to Jesus on the church floor that day. If it had, then I guess everyone would get saved wouldn't they? A life without suffering. A daily guarantee of comfort. It's sticking it out - this Christian faith - when life gets really hard and too much for us to understand. That's when we see what we're made of.
If there's any substance.
Anyone that tells you finding Jesus will make your life rosy is lying to you. A few months in you may want to find them and high -five their face.
And then ask for forgiveness.
It's not rosy. It's not white picket fences. It's not a whole, smiling family. It's not a place where jobs are never lost, bills are always paid, Target trips happen every two weeks, kids stay drug free, and husbands never cheat.

Nope.
You're not in heaven just yet.
You have the Hope but life right here can still throw mud in your face and drag you into a pit of crazy. The difference is - Jesus has a rope that doesn't break. You just have to hang on. Tight.

No one really warned me about that. I think some tried to, in a really nice good Christian way, but i wish someone would have just quit trying to be so nice and said straight up, "You've spent the last 18 years in all this crap and your family was in the same crap for at least 18 years before you and your husband and his family? Another twenty years of a different kind of crap. The consequences are still rolling in like waves.

Wear a life jacket."

Some of those waves weren't bad. A few feet. The kind I could boogie board over. But then others would come, tidal wave status, and I'd would watch my life get sucked right out from under me while I tried not to drown.

I wish I could say all these waves, especially the big ones, were of someone else's doing.
It's hard to look at yourself and know the role you have played in the crumbling of your own life. Oh but I did.
I gripped it sometimes with both hands, hurling down bricks with my words; leaving my fingers and relationships, damaged and bleeding.

A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. Proverbs 14:1

I was foolish. And the worst part is that I knew it. I knew it and i felt unable to stop it. I remember huddling on the floor, wailing, helpless, lost in an abyss of frustration and inadequacy, and then i would grab my own hair and start to pull it. I would drag my fingernails down my face to try and make myself bleed, try to make myself disappear. I would bang my head against the wall, eyes wild, screaming.

I was going crazy. I couldn't do it right. No one saw me.
I wasn't good enough.

The helplessness I would feel would wrap me in a straightjacket of fear so tight I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was coming undone.

Isaiah 1:17 says to "learn to do right." Know what that means? You also have to unlearn how to do wrong.

No one told me this either. I thought it would just happen. I thought all the badness would vanish and "poof!" in it's place would be all this shiny goodness. It was a shock to me to still struggle - almost more because now I knew better. I knew I had to be better.

Looking back, I can see how the Enemy must have laughed and laughed, using me and my life, as his personal game of dodge ball. There I stood in the center as he hurled, "ANGER" and "FUTILITY" and "DEFECTIVE" at my head. If those didn't work, out flew "ugly" and "fat" and "unwanted" and "slut". These would knock me down. These would leave me hardened; scar tissue all over. These would make me fight back.
Except I couldn't see the devil.
So I fought everyone else instead.
With my words. With my hands.
I tore down.
Until there was almost nothing left.

No one told me I could catch the ball. No one told me I didn't have to keep playing the game. No one told me all I had to do was stop and stand, stare him down with the Word and he would run from me. I was told things like, "This too shall pass" and "Just trust Jesus" but no one told me how to do that or what it meant.

And it's pretty simple really.
I choose to react with His words rather than mine.
Simple.
Not easy.
Just to clarify.

I wouldn't lie to you like that.

So, I have learned and I have unlearned.
Learn - to love my enemies. Unlearn - I don't verbally castrate every man that gets on my last nerve to prove to him I am just as good as he is if not better. (see the attitude there? Still a work in progress folks.)
Learn - to show mercy and give grace. Unlearn - If my feelings are hurt, I don't try to hurt back. I keep my mouth shut and sometimes, walk away so if it opens, no one will hear me.
Learn - to recognize jealousy and envy and ask God to help me with my heart. Unlearn - lashing out because I don't have what someone else does.
Learn - pride really does come before a big fall so I better wear a helmet if I'm going to keep it up. Unlearn - the universe is not named "Shannon" and everyone is going through something. Just love on them already and then the helmet is not needed.

I am happy to report, I no longer try to rip my face off with my fingernails (well, at least not very often). I no longer think my self worth is nothing and I try really really hard to avoid dodge ball.
I am not able to do this by pinning a zillion personal affirmations from Pinterest, although I do think I am a little awesome and ya know - God thinks so too.
It is not made possible in watching every episode of Oprah although I wouldn't mind attending her "Favorite Things" episode. That would maybe help. For a bit.
I am not following instructions from Dr. Phil, or Dr. Spock, or Dr. Anyone.
And while exercising certainly makes me feel better about how I look in my jeans and yes, my insides flow along a calmer river, I cannot run 24 hours a day. (Nor would i want to)

What has given me back my life? What has left me a hammer and nails and some 4x4's that aren't all dinged up and termite ridden? What is telling me how to rebuild a life that I tore down a long time ago?
It's not a mystery and is so simple I am sure for the self-proclaimed intelligent and perspicacious, there may be some eye-rolling and nose snorting.
but guess what?

I really don't care.

This is what has worked for me. And for countless others.
It is honest. And truth. And mercy. And grace. And life. And it is page after page of love in its purest form.

The bible. My happy ending. Under construction.
Right now.
and forever.

and now I see ...

It's been a long time
but I still remember what it was like to hate Him.
It didn't start out that way, me hating him. And I am not sure when it happened. What I do recall is when someone asked me to go see him, hang out, and be a part of what he was doing, my insides began to burn and my fists would clench.

All I knew about Him flashed in front of me, which admittedly, wasn't much. But it was enough. Enough to make me rage. Enough to make me say NO.
I remember saying ... "After all that has happened? After everything I have gone through? No. I'm not interested in any Jesus. I don't need a savior. AND I will never, ever worship (practically spitting the word out of my mouth) any God that walked around as a man."

You see, men made me want to want to step inside a scalding shower and scrub all my flesh off until I disappeared. Specifically, middle-aged, white, religious men, with poochy bellies, short statures, and glasses that doubled the number of eyes that stared at me with lust and hunger. Men that said "Jesus!" and "I am SAVED! I am FORGIVEN!" and "Gawd bless YOU!" and then took me upstairs for "naps". Men that made me do things I did not want to do and then told me I better ask for forgiveness later because I had been a bad girl, a naughty disgusting girl. Men that whispered to me in the dark and covered my head with pillows when I begged and cried.

Men. Man.

No thanks. I'm out.

I was told over and over by his daughters and my mother, that he had been forgiven. Jesus (Jesus!) had cleansed his heart and his life and the thing in his pants (he has been SAVED Shannon! Saved!)
and now I must forgive him too. (this is what good Christians do Shannon, this is what they do!)

I remember thinking to myself, "I don't want to be a good Christian. I don't want to be any Christian at all."

It took a long time before I understood how people can twist even a good God like Jesus into something mangled and different so they can feel better.

People can twist him up so much, he's not recognizable anymore.

I remember the day I sat in the church and felt Jesus next to me. I knew it was Him. I knew, because I wasn't looking for Him and I didn't want Him to be there. I was there to listen and then leave. I didn't expect anything other than what I had seen my whole life - empty words that weren't real.
And so when He was, it was so obviously plain to me. There was night. And now there was day.

I was almost offended by it.

I didn't want Him to be real. I didn't want to reconcile anything in my head or in my heart. I knew what the twisted Jesus looked like. It was safer to hold on to Him that way.

But I couldn't.

Because what was next to me wasn't twisted at all. The full force of His LOVE radiated on to me. It was warm. And gentle.
And it ... waited.
It waited for me to say "ok". It waited for me to say, "Yes, I will let you be with me".

Isn't it funny, in an incredibly heartbreaking non-funny way, we can become so used to the wrongness of life that any rightness that tries to introduce itself is threatening and shown the door? Don't let it hit you so hard you fall on your face and crack it open on the way out.
Or do.
It's all the same to me.

But this day, I did not show Him the door as I had so many times before. I couldn't. I felt a craving start to gnaw inside me, a fierce need I didn't even know I had.
My love-starved soul woke up. And it demanded to be fed. It had gone without nourishment for far far too long.
All I could do was sit in it.
and cry.

I could hear him, hear him (!) whispering to me, and not like the whispers before, not ones that made me afraid and want to curl into the tiniest of balls and hide....
No.
These were smatterings of love. Gentler than a moth's wings. Quieter than tall grass waving in the wind.

"It's ok", He said. "I love you."

I love you. I love you. i love you. i love you.

i love you. i love you.

i love you. i love you.
you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou

iloveyou.

I got up. I walked with shaky legs and a shakier heart to the front ... wanting so badly to throw myself down at the feet of Him. To crawl into his lap and have Him hold me and rock me and tell me again how much He loved me, like a mother would do for her child. Or a father.

I knelt and I put my face in my hands and my soul ripped open. I couldn't stop the tears if I tried. My insides, my body, my spirit knew better than my head what I needed
and i needed to let go.
to be free.
to empty myself of all the junk and the black and the rotten that had taken residence inside me.

A good soul scrubbing.
A renewal.
A gift.

Now it is Easter. It is Saturday. The day after he would have been beaten and tortured and ripped up and nailed; left bleeding and naked and exposed.
And for what? Because He loved. Because He healed. Because He took away all the junk and the black and the rotten.

Because He is God.

I imagine how his followers felt on that Saturday.
Lost. Disappointed. Confused. Afraid. Bereft.

They didn't understand what was happening. They didn't realize what it meant. They thought all hope was lost. They thought it was dead. They thought they were on their own.

They didn't know
that on Sunday
Hope would rise ....

and they would never be alone again.

I
will never be alone
again.
And all the junk,
and the black,
and the rotten

is now white in Love.

You and Me / Take 2

My Sunshine called yesterday. I used to sing her that song, "You are my Sunshine", when she was small. But i still tell her, on the phone or in a card... I remind her of who she is to me.
Even when we are grown-ups, finding our own way, it is good to be loved.
There are so many things i could write about Bre, her fearlessness that makes anything i did or say look like a ride at Chuck-E-Cheese. Or maybe her determination, the way she focuses and moves forward, not letting anyone, or anything, hold her back. Maybe it is her heart, so beautiful and yet set way up with a wall around it, a defense against a man world, yet it beats hard in truth and justice. I am beyond proud.

But i think all i can say about how much i love her, I have already said.

Several years ago I wrote an essay about her. Reading it now, it sets me right back in each place with her.
So in honor of her and me and all that we have survived, some of it unknowingly, and how brave she is and how much i miss her; I will post it here. I warn you, it is lengthy, and you may want to stop now. Please forgive the format ... it doesn't carry over to blog so well, but, you'll get it.
And the italics, those are song lyrics. You and ME by Dave Matthews. I realize this is a song for married people but let's not get hung up on technicalities. I love Dave. She loves Dave. And we're both flying.
You'll get it.

For you baby girl, my Sunshine. XOXO
Mommy

You and Me
I don’t remember what the day was like, sunshine or rain, or what I was wearing or who I called, and I must admit I have forgotten the exact time. (Was it 11:16 or 11:20 pm?) I do know that I was so terrified of getting poo on the bed, I insisted they let me get up and use the restroom, even when the nurse insisted just as strongly (I’m a professional) that I don’t.
But I won. Your mama is so stubborn.
And then I got stuck in the bathroom for 20 minutes because the contractions came so hard I couldn’t get up. I thought for sure I would have you right there in a hospital toilet. But thankfully I finally got that slide latch to move. I mean, really, who puts a lock like that in a bathroom?? I don’t remember what time your dad came to the hospital or how many people saw my hooha when I pushed and screamed and grabbed my dad’s chest so tight I drew blood, as he chanted “You can do it. I’m right here.”
But I do recall I was starving and your Papa Gary snuck me a snickers bar. I gobbled the entire thing in seconds and I didn’t throw it up like the nurse (the professional) said I would.
The wonderful night of you still brings a soft smile to my face. I know it is soft because it doesn’t feel how my smiles usually feel – all stretched out and big and loud. This smile makes me feel gentle, like a white Egyptian cotton curtain, moving in the breeze.

you & me together we can do anything, baby

Getting you home was easy but then your dad and I wondered for days, when were we allowed to drive with you in the car? I mean, we were running low on food and there was church and family… We wanted to ask someone, a parent maybe? But then we realized, with wide –eyed teenage faces, we were the parents. I did a very responsible thing then and I looked it up. “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” didn’t give a specific date, only stating a car seat was needed. We had that. But the way your tiny head would flop to the side, like a little stuffed animal whose neck had been stretched out, scared me to death and I was convinced the book left out vital information.
Changing your diaper furthered our concerns on the wisdom of being alone with you. It took two of us to do it for at least a week. The size of the diaper was the size of my hand and yet, I couldn’t get one out and the other in quick enough. The day you decided to stream out mustard from your butt all over my arm is one I will never forget. I sat there yelling at your dad, completely grossed out, “Get it off! Get it off!!” But he was laughing so hard, I was almost afraid he would pass out from not being able to breathe. There he stood, red-faced; clutching his belly, body heaving with his mouth wide open but NO sound coming out. It lasted forever. Ok, maybe 3 minutes. But when there’s poo running down your arm, that’s on its way to forever.
I wanted to ram my mustard-poo arm in his face.

you & me together yes, yes

Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift. I have always said that you saved me. And you did. You saved me from the monsters that lived under my bed, and in the closet, and in my family pictures and forced Thanksgivings full of pretend love. You. You let me feel real love, the fragility and solidity of it, all at the same time.

want to pack your bags something small

I’ve never lied to you.
Even though at times I wanted to.
I didn’t want you to always know the truth. I thought sometimes if you did, the heart that holds so much love would crack a little. Hearts can take a lot of cracks. A knick. Sometimes even a chunk.

And it will still be a heart that loves.

But I didn’t want to be the one to chip it. Like mine was. Chipped and taped and glued and band-aided and held together with toothpicks. That’s what happened when I became your mom. You were my mirror – reflecting all of my good, the laughter and openness and bravery, and all of my bad too; the fear and the rage and horrible emptiness of rejection and abandonment. There was so much bad. I had to teach myself to be a better person than I had seen. I had to learn that I could right all the horrible left hand turns, dead ends, and railroad tracks that had been done to me. I could make our lives straight.

take what you need & we disappear

A terrible mom moment haunts me always. Sometimes I just couldn’t get away from them; from her. I was my mom and her dad and my dad and her family, all rolled into one yelling, screaming, pulsating, frantic 19 year old. It was my rock-bottom mom loser mom crazy mom desperate mom moment. The words of my own mother shrieked inside me, “I hate you”, “I wish you were dead”, “I don’t want a daughter like you”. I could feel all of these rages trying to claw out of me; pushing on my fingers and straining against the confines of my own skin, gripping my toes, making my breath fast and my head thud and my eyes big. But nothing came out of my fingers or my hands.
It all came out of my mouth. Word vomit and soul sickness. It poured out of me and on to the floor, chasing you down the hallway.
You ran towards your room and I followed you, stomping my feet so you could hear me behind you, slamming my hands against the wall and bellowing from the bottomless pit of my fury. I didn’t say my own bad mom words; instead I let out a howl that sounded like the damned wishing for an escape. Thinking of it now I feel SHAME tattooed on my face, big and bold and red. My scarlet letter. You turned and looked at me, tears running down your small pale face, your big blue ocean eyes full of fear, and you sat, hunched down in the hallway, and said quietly, “ mommy, mommy, I’m sorry…” I stopped dead where I was.
It was waking up from the worst nightmare. Except I wasn’t dreaming.
I was the nightmare.

I remember I cried, and like any broken selfish person, I hugged you and let you comfort me.

All small 3 years of you.

without a trace, we'll be gone, gone

So many times in your life I have thought of this day and wondered if you remembered. If it pursues you the way some of my memories hunt me. So many times I wanted to beg you to forgive me. Forgive me for almost being them. Forgive me for not being... a heart without cracks and chunks missing. A mother.
But then I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want you to look at me different than you do now, trusting, loved, protected. My child.
Me. Mother. Coward.

The moon & the stars follow the car

I used to rub my belly all the time. I loved sitting on the couch, with my shirt up, and watching it roll and bulge and hiccup, as you moved and got comfy inside. I could see your little foot and I marveled that you were in me and I was giving you life. And you were giving me life back.

& then when we get to the ocean,

I told your dad that I was afraid. I made him promise he would always be the one to give you a bath. I was terrified that if I gave you a bath, if I did it wrong, if I accidentally touched you or washed you then… then I would be like the monster.
I didn’t know until later monsters don’t happen by accident.
Your dad looked at me and I saw love. The warm hazelnut of his eyes reached out and swaddled me tight in a protective cocoon. Safe.

His heart trying to patch all the cracks on another.

Your dad gave you your very first bath. He was very gentle, delicate. I was in awe. I saw your dad’s heart. I saw him give it to you. And it was beautiful. It was whole.

we're going to take a boat to the end of the world...

I gave you your second bath, your dad standing next to me, borrowed strength. The moment I washed your tiny foot with its long finger-toes, and your little hand gripped mine (so strong so strong tiny brave girl), I knew I would never, ever, hurt you. I felt release. The fear lifted from my heart. It came out of the crack groove it had been embedded in for so long, the 8 year old me that had been forsaken had inhaled it and let it attach, permeate, become one with me. I could almost see it detaching itself.
And I felt hopeful freedom.
It wasn't contagious, the sickness of abuse and denial that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. I wasn't like him. Or her. Or any of them.

I saw my heart.

And a crack disappeared.

all the way to the end of the world

I like it when you climb into bed with me and we whisper about boys and friendship drama and movies and Dave Matthews, and we giggle and snort.
I admired you when we ran together. At 17 you could run the world round and round while doing jumping jacks and hurdles without breaking a sweat. I ran two miles and sounded like a mortally wounded animal looking for a place to die. I loved you and envied you and yes, parts of me were cussing you, when you hopped from one foot to another at the top of the hill, cheering me on, “Come on Mommy. You got this. Almost there!”
I love that you still call me Mommy. Its music words to my lyrical soul.

I felt so old, so mom-ish when I took you to your very first concert, Justin Timberlake, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a super cute (I thought) blazer and black converse but I was surrounded by teenagers and young twenty-something’s dressed in high heels and short skirts, hoping to be the “one” that gets noticed. I had to tell you and your sister, “You can’t sit at a concert. Get up and move!” I’m sure I embarrassed you with all my old lady gyrating.
I felt so privileged to calm you down on the phone when you got into a fight with your boyfriend because he didn’t want you to have other boy¬friends. Then we agreed how dumb it was and he was and boys can be in general.
Not all girls are this strong.
Not all girls have a heart so defined.

oh and when the kids are old enough

Moving you to Washington to, “the most remote Coast Guard station in the country”; an adult now, trained, training, working, rescuing, flying. I felt my heart grow bigger, loving the grown up you while treasuring the small you and so incredibly proud of everything you are.
Bre. Breann. Noble. Strong. Virtuous. Honorable. You.
How could we have known when we picked your name it would fit so perfectly? We were just kids - your dad and me. Did you grow into your name? No. No, baby girl. God knew. He knew what you would be from the start.

we gonna teach them to flyyyyyyy

Today I was looking around inside World Market, and they had all these really cool Christmas ornaments, some sparkly and bright, others eclectic and colorful, and I started thinking about how I get you a new ornament each year so that when you move out, you'll have your own. I wondered what I would pick for you this year, even though you are already gone.
I knew right then I will buy you your own ornament forever.

And then I started to cry.

Right there in the middle of the store because I missed you so bad. It didn’t last long. Soon after I started laughing because I could hear you so clearly say to me in your grown-up still a girl voice, "Oh madre - you're such a dork ".

you & me together we could do anything, baby

I can see your heart. It is whole, intact, beautiful, and safe. I did all I could, all I knew and all I wished for to protect it. I kept my monsters away. I fought them banished them cut them from your life my life our heart family.
But
I’ve also tried to warn you, without inhibiting you, that this won’t always be the case. The cracks will come. Sometimes a crack so big a piece may break and you may think you will die from it.
But you won’t.

It takes a lot to kill a heart.

Other hearts come that see inside and they share. They breathe and with each breath, love flows, filling in the cracks, leaving scars… long, deep, red, painful, and sometimes brutally ugly. But ugly scars are perfect. So so so perfect.

you & me together yes, yes