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
Oct 2, 2014
Sep 4, 2014
Hope Sent .. The Book
Hello friends,
Can I say first off, thank you so much for reading this! It is my heart. Not the heart in my chest of course. Not the one that pumps blood into my veins, but more importantly, the one that pumps life into my soul. The one that makes life worth breathing. I ask you to please be patient and take your time. I know it looks so long but in the end, worth it. For all of us.
Three years ago, I began Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry with one idea in mind – meeting someone right where they are, in their very own home, with a tangible expression of hope and love. The idea came to me as I sat at my desk at work and chatted with another administrative assistant on the phone. I knew her husband had passed months before and so I asked her how she was doing, how her Christmas was, if she was hanging in there.
I mean, I can’t imagine.
Christmas.
Without my sweet love. Without my comfort. Without the stealer of my covers at night.
My heart skipped when she answered quietly, “I still miss him so bad.”
What do you say? If she had been in front of me I would have hugged her. But she wasn’t and so I couldn’t and I just sat for a moment, speechless.
After we hung up, I got back to work but Alice would not leave my mind and so just minutes later I spun around in my chair and quickly wrote on a yellow sticky note “Send Alice a card”.
My whole life my mom has always been a sender of cards. Cards with confetti. Cards with bows. Cards that sparkled. And always always she wrote so much in them that the words turned sideways and upside down and before long trailed along the backside, a last wave goodbye. I inherited my mom’s love for cards and all they give to the person that opens them. I buy them everywhere. I save them for the right time, the perfect person, a moment of need.
And so began Hope Sent. Not just my words written, but the love of God mixed in, the Giver of Hope, the Bestower of Grace. It’s been almost three years now. And I am touched always by the prayer card requests that continue to come in.
People submit card requests for themselves, for their kids, their fathers, their mothers, their husbands, and their wives.
What do they want prayer for? Life.
The nit and the grit of it.
Deployment. War. Affairs. Drugs. Abuse. Salvation. Loss. Death. Cancer. Divorce. Miscarriage. Abandonment. Suicide. Grief. Incest. Alcohol. Depression. Self-esteem. Hope.
Or rather.
The loss of it.
There are times I cannot speak, I cannot catch my breath enough to get the words out; my heart in a fist.
But this. This is what Jesus came for isn’t it? For the broken and the hopeless. The weak and the forgotten. The lost and the left.
And so I pray. And I write.
And I have faith in God’s promise that is given in Isaiah 55:11,
So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
I have always dreamed of being a writer. For as long back as I can remember, I kept journals, wrote poetry, and then began a love affair with essays. It has been an outlet, an escape, an accountability, a diary of hope, longing, future. Dreaming is not an easy thing for me. Most of my life has been spent surviving it ... who has time for dreams when it’s all you can do to pay rent, put food on the table, fold the laundry, and read bedtime stories to your kids?
I tell you.
That’s the perfect time.
My dream? A book. I had a few ideas what this book would be about and I have started many first drafts. But God told me to STOP. WAIT.
Not
quite
yet.
And so I have waited. Sometimes patiently. Sometimes with my foot tapping.
It was driving to pick up my son from school, at the most random of unholy moments, in workout clothes and flip flops, teeth possibly not brushed yet, failing to rock a sloppy topknot, when God spoke to me,
“You should write a Hope Sent book.”
Three years. Three years I have lived Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry. Three years with an abundance of volunteers, and sometimes only one. And not one time, EVER, have I considered a Hope Sent book. So I did what I usually do when God speaks to me… I asked Him if it was really Him,
And then I asked Him why.
Oh. My. Jesus.
You are so patient, patient, suffering long, for us.
For me.
Can I get an AMEN?!?!
Then it came. Thoughts. Not complete. Splatches of it. Here and then
there
and somehow God getting his point across and I just started bawling my eyes.
All of us, so many of us, suffering, and thinking we are so very alone but we are not, we are not alone, not even a little bit. Wouldn’t it just be awesome, I mean, wouldn’t it just be God-Awesome, to read someone else’s prayer, someone else’s pain and struggle and heartbreak, that sounds pretty darn close to yours and then read the prayer that was written over it and laid before the heart of God?!?! To see the words of hope in your hand, highlight them in neon yellow, underline them in blue, and then pray them for yourself? Share it with someone you know?
I think yes.
Yes it would be so very God-Awesome.
And so here we are. Here I am. Ready to write the book.
And you, yes my dear sweet loves, YOU, are going to help.
And we are going to rock the world with love. And hope. And the peace of God.
Together.
HOW IT WORKS
1.Spread the word.
2.Mail in your prayer letter. You don’t have to sign your name or give a real address. You don’t even have to tell me if you’re a boy or a girl or how many times you have turned 29. Be as anonymous as you want to be.
3.Or you can email it. And still be fairly anonymous.
4.Wait.
5.I write the book.
6.Then I ask God how we’re going to publish it. I’m sure He already knows. He also knows a control freak like me is still learning to walk by faith and not by sight.
SOME OTHER STUFF
1.You will not get a Hope Sent card back. This is for the book only.
2.You will not get your prayer letter back either. Sorry.
3.This is not through the church or any organization.
4.You don’t have to go to church to do this.
5.I hope some of you don’t.
6.Let it all hang out. Even if you think it may shock me to the bones, God’s got this.
7.I’m praying for at least 120. Why 120? That’s the number God gave me.
Thank you. I love you. Let’s do this.
EMAIL: hopesentministry@gmail.com
ADDRESS: P.O. Box 3648
Ramona, CA 92065
Can I say first off, thank you so much for reading this! It is my heart. Not the heart in my chest of course. Not the one that pumps blood into my veins, but more importantly, the one that pumps life into my soul. The one that makes life worth breathing. I ask you to please be patient and take your time. I know it looks so long but in the end, worth it. For all of us.
Three years ago, I began Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry with one idea in mind – meeting someone right where they are, in their very own home, with a tangible expression of hope and love. The idea came to me as I sat at my desk at work and chatted with another administrative assistant on the phone. I knew her husband had passed months before and so I asked her how she was doing, how her Christmas was, if she was hanging in there.
I mean, I can’t imagine.
Christmas.
Without my sweet love. Without my comfort. Without the stealer of my covers at night.
My heart skipped when she answered quietly, “I still miss him so bad.”
What do you say? If she had been in front of me I would have hugged her. But she wasn’t and so I couldn’t and I just sat for a moment, speechless.
After we hung up, I got back to work but Alice would not leave my mind and so just minutes later I spun around in my chair and quickly wrote on a yellow sticky note “Send Alice a card”.
My whole life my mom has always been a sender of cards. Cards with confetti. Cards with bows. Cards that sparkled. And always always she wrote so much in them that the words turned sideways and upside down and before long trailed along the backside, a last wave goodbye. I inherited my mom’s love for cards and all they give to the person that opens them. I buy them everywhere. I save them for the right time, the perfect person, a moment of need.
And so began Hope Sent. Not just my words written, but the love of God mixed in, the Giver of Hope, the Bestower of Grace. It’s been almost three years now. And I am touched always by the prayer card requests that continue to come in.
People submit card requests for themselves, for their kids, their fathers, their mothers, their husbands, and their wives.
What do they want prayer for? Life.
The nit and the grit of it.
Deployment. War. Affairs. Drugs. Abuse. Salvation. Loss. Death. Cancer. Divorce. Miscarriage. Abandonment. Suicide. Grief. Incest. Alcohol. Depression. Self-esteem. Hope.
Or rather.
The loss of it.
There are times I cannot speak, I cannot catch my breath enough to get the words out; my heart in a fist.
But this. This is what Jesus came for isn’t it? For the broken and the hopeless. The weak and the forgotten. The lost and the left.
And so I pray. And I write.
And I have faith in God’s promise that is given in Isaiah 55:11,
So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
I have always dreamed of being a writer. For as long back as I can remember, I kept journals, wrote poetry, and then began a love affair with essays. It has been an outlet, an escape, an accountability, a diary of hope, longing, future. Dreaming is not an easy thing for me. Most of my life has been spent surviving it ... who has time for dreams when it’s all you can do to pay rent, put food on the table, fold the laundry, and read bedtime stories to your kids?
I tell you.
That’s the perfect time.
My dream? A book. I had a few ideas what this book would be about and I have started many first drafts. But God told me to STOP. WAIT.
Not
quite
yet.
And so I have waited. Sometimes patiently. Sometimes with my foot tapping.
It was driving to pick up my son from school, at the most random of unholy moments, in workout clothes and flip flops, teeth possibly not brushed yet, failing to rock a sloppy topknot, when God spoke to me,
“You should write a Hope Sent book.”
Three years. Three years I have lived Hope Sent Prayer Card Ministry. Three years with an abundance of volunteers, and sometimes only one. And not one time, EVER, have I considered a Hope Sent book. So I did what I usually do when God speaks to me… I asked Him if it was really Him,
And then I asked Him why.
Oh. My. Jesus.
You are so patient, patient, suffering long, for us.
For me.
Can I get an AMEN?!?!
Then it came. Thoughts. Not complete. Splatches of it. Here and then
there
and somehow God getting his point across and I just started bawling my eyes.
All of us, so many of us, suffering, and thinking we are so very alone but we are not, we are not alone, not even a little bit. Wouldn’t it just be awesome, I mean, wouldn’t it just be God-Awesome, to read someone else’s prayer, someone else’s pain and struggle and heartbreak, that sounds pretty darn close to yours and then read the prayer that was written over it and laid before the heart of God?!?! To see the words of hope in your hand, highlight them in neon yellow, underline them in blue, and then pray them for yourself? Share it with someone you know?
I think yes.
Yes it would be so very God-Awesome.
And so here we are. Here I am. Ready to write the book.
And you, yes my dear sweet loves, YOU, are going to help.
And we are going to rock the world with love. And hope. And the peace of God.
Together.
HOW IT WORKS
1.Spread the word.
2.Mail in your prayer letter. You don’t have to sign your name or give a real address. You don’t even have to tell me if you’re a boy or a girl or how many times you have turned 29. Be as anonymous as you want to be.
3.Or you can email it. And still be fairly anonymous.
4.Wait.
5.I write the book.
6.Then I ask God how we’re going to publish it. I’m sure He already knows. He also knows a control freak like me is still learning to walk by faith and not by sight.
SOME OTHER STUFF
1.You will not get a Hope Sent card back. This is for the book only.
2.You will not get your prayer letter back either. Sorry.
3.This is not through the church or any organization.
4.You don’t have to go to church to do this.
5.I hope some of you don’t.
6.Let it all hang out. Even if you think it may shock me to the bones, God’s got this.
7.I’m praying for at least 120. Why 120? That’s the number God gave me.
Thank you. I love you. Let’s do this.
EMAIL: hopesentministry@gmail.com
ADDRESS: P.O. Box 3648
Ramona, CA 92065
Jul 11, 2014
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.
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.
Jul 8, 2014
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.
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.
Jun 25, 2014
Kiss bigger
I have been looking around. I have been watching. Watching the joys and the sorrows, the pick-me ups and the let-you downs. Life.
It can be so brutal,
so lovely.
You just never know.
You never know who is going to fall in love with whom. You never know who is going to get their feelings hurt and hold it inside. You never know who is going to walk away, turn a corner, not look back.
You never think it will be you standing there all alone.
Brutal.
You never think you will be the light in someone else's life. You don't realize what cost you five bucks or a small smile, will make someone else's day. It could be what carries them through the night, to the next opportunity,
of hope.
Lovely.
I am an early riser - by necessity, not choice. I work at Starbucks and so most mornings I rush out the door, while most haven't even attempted to hit snooze yet, at the dark and foggy hour of 4:00 am. Give or take 30 minutes. It is a windy drive on a mostly two-lane road.
Mountains. Coyotes. Stillness.
Today I didn't have to be there until 5:30. A reprieve. Although 4am doesn't bother me like it used to. Normally when I make the drive I am alone, one pair of headlights zig-zagging through the silence.
Today was not like every other day. Like I said, I didn't have to be there until 5:30. I rushed out the door by 5:05, grabbing my water, my apron, my tupperware of grapes and strawberries. I gave my husband the quickest kiss on the planet and tossed out an "I love you" over my shoulder, as I walked out the door.
Normally no one else is on the road.
Normally I drive a little on the quick side.
Today was not normal.
I was in my daughter's truck, which does not go nearly as fast as my Prius. I had already been warned, "Yo. Take the truck. Don't speed." by my daughter's post it note on my purse. A reminder to not forget - she needed the car for the day.
Fifteen minutes later, I made the left onto Poway road. It winds and cuts and corners for several miles, with just a few turnouts and dark driveways, like hidden mouths, waiting to swallow you up. Two cars were behind me.
weird.
Several others passed me going in the opposite direction.
weirder.
I ate my apple. Sipped my water. Listened to my "Jesus Jams" playlist. Sang in between bites.
And I went around another bend.
That's when i stared, head cocking to the side, mouth opening in a question I did not know yet.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyeballs.
It wasn't two headlights headed towards me.
It was four.
It's not uncommon to see one car pass another on a two-lane rode. No big deal. No offense taken. Let's get moving and be on our way.
It's a bit of a different story when the two-lane road turns every 8 seconds and you can't see what's next. Not too smart. Not too legal. Not enough time.
It was only seconds. Seconds that stretched and snapped back at the same time.
I didn't have time to pray "Oh, Jesus"
I didn't have time to say "Oh, shit."
I only had time to say "oh ..." and suck in my breath.
I couldn't stop. Two cars behind me. I couldn't pull over. There was nowhere to go but down the side of the mountain. I couldn't do anything but stare.
Frozen.
I felt fear in the center of my bones. I felt it leak into my bloodstream. I felt it pause my heart. People die on this road.
And then the truck yanked away from me, cutting off the bigger, construction truck it successfully passed, barely avoiding killing us all.
Or just me.
My chest began to heave. I was gasping for air as I struggled not to shake. I couldn't help it though. Fear morphing into relief beat into each cell in my body.
So I did the only thing I could think of right then.
I called Jeff.
I needed to hear his voice. I needed to connect, just for a minute.
I didnt even think of how completely freaked out he would be when he answered the phone and i couldn't speak because i was crying.
"Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?! babe. babe. Oh my God."
I manged to calm down. Reassure him. Tell him what happened. Tell him I just needed a minute. I just needed to breathe. I just needed to hear his voice.
And then I said this before we hung up, "I wish i would have kissed you bigger before i left today."
And there it is. The truth we manage to ignore most minutes of our lives.
You just never know.
When that last kiss will be. The last goodbye. The last walk out the door. The last drive away from home.
Our last.
I still have not seen him yet. But when I do.
I will kiss him bigger.
Because today was a reminder, we are not promised tomorrow. We are not promised two hours from now.
It happens every day, to everybody else.
But one day it will happen to me. It will happen to you.
Just that fast.
Treat each other well. Forgive quickly. Love until your heart explodes.
And kiss really really big.
What else is there?
It can be so brutal,
so lovely.
You just never know.
You never know who is going to fall in love with whom. You never know who is going to get their feelings hurt and hold it inside. You never know who is going to walk away, turn a corner, not look back.
You never think it will be you standing there all alone.
Brutal.
You never think you will be the light in someone else's life. You don't realize what cost you five bucks or a small smile, will make someone else's day. It could be what carries them through the night, to the next opportunity,
of hope.
Lovely.
I am an early riser - by necessity, not choice. I work at Starbucks and so most mornings I rush out the door, while most haven't even attempted to hit snooze yet, at the dark and foggy hour of 4:00 am. Give or take 30 minutes. It is a windy drive on a mostly two-lane road.
Mountains. Coyotes. Stillness.
Today I didn't have to be there until 5:30. A reprieve. Although 4am doesn't bother me like it used to. Normally when I make the drive I am alone, one pair of headlights zig-zagging through the silence.
Today was not like every other day. Like I said, I didn't have to be there until 5:30. I rushed out the door by 5:05, grabbing my water, my apron, my tupperware of grapes and strawberries. I gave my husband the quickest kiss on the planet and tossed out an "I love you" over my shoulder, as I walked out the door.
Normally no one else is on the road.
Normally I drive a little on the quick side.
Today was not normal.
I was in my daughter's truck, which does not go nearly as fast as my Prius. I had already been warned, "Yo. Take the truck. Don't speed." by my daughter's post it note on my purse. A reminder to not forget - she needed the car for the day.
Fifteen minutes later, I made the left onto Poway road. It winds and cuts and corners for several miles, with just a few turnouts and dark driveways, like hidden mouths, waiting to swallow you up. Two cars were behind me.
weird.
Several others passed me going in the opposite direction.
weirder.
I ate my apple. Sipped my water. Listened to my "Jesus Jams" playlist. Sang in between bites.
And I went around another bend.
That's when i stared, head cocking to the side, mouth opening in a question I did not know yet.
It took a few seconds for my brain to catch up with my eyeballs.
It wasn't two headlights headed towards me.
It was four.
It's not uncommon to see one car pass another on a two-lane rode. No big deal. No offense taken. Let's get moving and be on our way.
It's a bit of a different story when the two-lane road turns every 8 seconds and you can't see what's next. Not too smart. Not too legal. Not enough time.
It was only seconds. Seconds that stretched and snapped back at the same time.
I didn't have time to pray "Oh, Jesus"
I didn't have time to say "Oh, shit."
I only had time to say "oh ..." and suck in my breath.
I couldn't stop. Two cars behind me. I couldn't pull over. There was nowhere to go but down the side of the mountain. I couldn't do anything but stare.
Frozen.
I felt fear in the center of my bones. I felt it leak into my bloodstream. I felt it pause my heart. People die on this road.
And then the truck yanked away from me, cutting off the bigger, construction truck it successfully passed, barely avoiding killing us all.
Or just me.
My chest began to heave. I was gasping for air as I struggled not to shake. I couldn't help it though. Fear morphing into relief beat into each cell in my body.
So I did the only thing I could think of right then.
I called Jeff.
I needed to hear his voice. I needed to connect, just for a minute.
I didnt even think of how completely freaked out he would be when he answered the phone and i couldn't speak because i was crying.
"Are you ok? Are you ok? Are you ok?! babe. babe. Oh my God."
I manged to calm down. Reassure him. Tell him what happened. Tell him I just needed a minute. I just needed to breathe. I just needed to hear his voice.
And then I said this before we hung up, "I wish i would have kissed you bigger before i left today."
And there it is. The truth we manage to ignore most minutes of our lives.
You just never know.
When that last kiss will be. The last goodbye. The last walk out the door. The last drive away from home.
Our last.
I still have not seen him yet. But when I do.
I will kiss him bigger.
Because today was a reminder, we are not promised tomorrow. We are not promised two hours from now.
It happens every day, to everybody else.
But one day it will happen to me. It will happen to you.
Just that fast.
Treat each other well. Forgive quickly. Love until your heart explodes.
And kiss really really big.
What else is there?
Jun 5, 2014
-----
Some days there is just so much, so much to say
so much being felt.
so much being moved.
That for now, right now. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in five minutes,
but
right now.
Say nothing.
so much being felt.
so much being moved.
That for now, right now. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in five minutes,
but
right now.
Say nothing.
May 18, 2014
You say it's your birthday ...
A few months ago, in the too-tight back room of Starbucks, after a hectic night of slinging coffee, a co-worker guy asked me, "So, what's your secret? Like, how is it possible to stay happy all the time?"
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
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