The Old Man; A Fading Church Part II

    This is a continuation from yesterday's allegory:  

Everything in the Darkness; A Fading Church Part I

    The altar was beautiful even if the stench remained. I no longer cared though. Somehow, I knew what I'd come for. I ran and threw myself onto the steps. Words were carved there, shining dimly in the light. "Cast Your Cares," the steps said, so that's what I did.

    "God," I cried, "do I really think I'm that terrible inside?"
    I closed my eyes and heard voices, like a multitude screaming for vengeance. They bellowed and cried, every one of them said different things I've heard over my life. They talked about what I'd done poorly, or how it wasn't good enough. Some told me I'd never get a book published, or never be the kind of strict mother who has kids with good grades. I heard how I need to pay attention, or stop acting so tired. Try harder--DO BETTER. Stop being so happy because people think I'm fake.  Stop acting so sad because people think I'm depressed!
    "You have no follow-through," a woman told me once. I remembered her face clearly as I heard her voice at the altar. "If you don't reprimand your daughters now, they'll never finish high school. They'll have terrible work ethics and children who are just like them."
    "What's bad about having children like them? I don't think they're doing anything wrong," I'd said. "Who cares if they want to play make-believe?"
    The woman laughed. "In my house, my kids work for everything. They do what I tell them to do, and what others tell them! Your daughters--especially the oldest--WILL NOT obey me. How sad, your kids WON'T have an education or follow-through. But . . . some things are genetic after all."
    I stared at her. "Didn't have follow-through?" My thoughts took me to a different time when I had a baby on life support. I held his hand, which was so tiny in mine. The doctors said he didn't have any motor functions, but he squeezed my pointer finger in that moment.
    I bawled because he'd only lived a short while and I couldn't believe what I had to do. I'd always wanted a boy, and there he was. His hair was so soft. The first time I'd been allowed to hold him, he stopped crying and nestled into my chest despite all the tubes in his mouth.
    I could barely speak as I caressed his soft hair. "Should we really let him go?" I asked the doctor.
    "He'll probably be better off if you do," the man answered sadly, refusing to meet my eyes.
    It took a while to build the strength, but after multiple infections and then seeing a couple who couldn't take their own baby off life support, we knew what had to be done.
    The day we pulled the plug, I felt like part of me died. Have you ever wanted something so bad it hurt? Only to be told you'd have to give it all up--yourself! Take your own child off life support and watch them suffocate because it was the right thing to do. 
    My own baby died in my arms BECAUSE OF ME, and some woman thought I had no follow-through?!
    I looked at her and laughed, being my sweet, non-confrontational self. "You're right. Me AND my kids must be losers.  We'll never follow through with anything."
    She stood, acting completely offended and she never came over to my house again.


    I thought of all those things at the altar. How most of my self-condemnation comes from not thinking I'm good enough. As I cried over everything I've done in an effort to feel like I'm worth something--ANYTHING--(starting a business, releasing my journal), I heard other voices.
    "I'm proud of you," I heard the words although I've never heard the woman's voice in person.  You see, I'd only read them as a comment on my blog.  "I'm proud of you," she wrote.  "It took a lot of courage to release your journal for everyone to see.  It took courage to do the right thing and let Zeke go."
   I thought of something another person wrote.  "You're such a good mother.  Those kids are lucky to have you."
    I sobbed into the altar--huge cries shook my body.  
    "Oh, God," I cried.  "These people are amazing.  They've helped me so much, but they don't even know me."
    "But I know you," a still small voice said.  "Stop looking for self-worth in everything you do.  Don't you know I created everyone?  I made them special.  I made YOU special.  Everything you've hoped to see.  Everything you've longed for or dreamed of, those things make you unique.  Stop looking for self-worth and REALIZE what's always been there!" 
   In that moment, so many tears came.  I stopped hearing the condemnation of others.  I focused on the good.  I knew.  It doesn't matter what mean things people say.  God loves me, and if HE loves me, I should love myself.
   I remembered leaving my journal at Zeke's grave, saying goodbye, hoping someone would find his story and benefit from it.  Then, my thoughts turned to the moment someone DID find the journal.  The different times e-mails flooded my inbox because by sharing Zeke's story, it took everything I had, but it'd been worth it--AND it always will be.
  I wiped my face and felt so much lighter.  I opened my eyes and turned next to me.  There were about a million people at the altar and even sitting in the pews.  "Everything in the darkness had come to the light."  Some of those people smiled and laughed into their prayerful hands.  Some sobbed and nodded.  I knew they'd always been there, even if I couldn't see them before.  I thought I was the only person struggling with self-worth, it turned out, I'd been wrong.
    A lady next to me whispered, "Oh, God.  You do love me just the way I am."
    I smiled at her, because I knew that woman.  She was the person I'd seen in my reflection, the old version of myself.  The more I looked at her, the more she changed, smelling of perfume instead of death.  She seemed beautiful and kind--somehow different in the church's lights.  I watched, realizing she wasn't the only person changing.  All the others became physically beautiful as enlightenment overtook them.  
    The church smelled of beauty, because fear and condemnation had lost their hold.
    I stood and waved goodbye to the woman who'd been next to me at the altar.  I walked from the church and laughed because life felt so much better, not worrying about the hurts of my past and what everyone thought.  I skipped from the church with the holey screen door, and I went to look in that special window.
    My reflection was beautiful--something it always had been, if I'd just had eyes to see.   
    "Everything in the darkness will come into the light . . . like the way you truly see yourself," I read the etching in the window and I smiled.  It's a good thing God made all of us beautiful. 


   So, in closing: Life can be hard, and we all have moments when we don't feel good enough.  But isn't it awesome how sometimes God can even turn bad times into great moments of realization?

    For more information about Zeke and my journal, please go here:

The Golden Sky

2 Corinthians 5:17

King James Version (KJV)

 ¹⁷Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.

Everything in the Darkness; A Fading Church Part I

This is an allegory inspired by yesterday's post: I Got Implants: What IS True Beauty?

What IS True Beauty?

The building looked terrible as if it came from my nightmares or some place even worse.  It could have been the opening setting for a Zombie Apocalypse--no kidding.  The bricks were crumbling.  The screen door had many holes in it, where flies passed in and out, enjoying the air conditioning that billowed through.  And yet some people called that smelly place a church.  
    I read the front sign in the yard.  "Everything in the darkness will come into the light."  That seemed different.  I was used to quirky church signs where pastors figured humor would pull in the crowds AND their paychecks.
    Many people walked into the building.  It's embarrassing to admit, but I judged them.  Some were gorgeous, in their furs and fancy hats; I couldn't understand why such high-class people would go there.  Others were homely--like Lucifer's cousins--and they didn't know a thing about hygiene.  I bet they stunk worse than the building, and that's why the flies swarmed around them instead of the door for a moment.
    One handsome man stood in front of a dirty window before walking through the entrance.  But the window didn't show his reflection correctly.  I stared at the glass.  He licked a dirty palm and tried slicking back his matted hair.  After several tries, a greasy lock still fell in front of his face.  He nodded at himself sadly and turned to go into the building.  But when he turned, he looked so different from what I'd seen in the glass.  He was handsome--striking even.  That's when curiosity got the better of me, and I wondered what my reflection would look like in the window. 
    I stood from my car; dust danced by my feet as I shut the door.  The ground seemed spongy, like the ground in a dream.
    It was musty there.  I remembered my appearance from earlier in the day; I hadn't looked too bad.
    My feet refused to move for a moment, though, until everyone had gone into the decrepit church.  
    I stepped toward the window.  The closer I came, the more clearly I saw myself.  With every step, a wrinkle etched my face.  With every movement, another section of my skin sagged, until I looked completely wretched.  Was that really me?
    I did the same thing the man had done.  I stared in the the window as I licked a dirty palm and tried slicking back my matted hair, but nothing could be done to make myself look better.  My eyes caught on the edges of the glass then, where words had been inscribed with painstaking dedication.  "Everything in the darkness will come into the light . . . like the way you truly see yourself."
   I grabbed at my face, pawing over every defect.  Surely, I didn't view myself that poorly.  I looked like a hag in a fairytale, the hag who tests people with her own hideous face! 
    I finally understood why I must go into the church.  So, the man who looked in the window before me; he must have felt terrible inside. We'd both discovered something few would ever see--our own self-worth.
    So, with nervousness as my only companion, I walked up to the screen door at the front of the church.  My trembling hand grabbed the handle and flies swarmed around me just like they'd swarmed around the other people I had judged earlier.  
    "Enter," a soothing voice whispered from the inside.  "But know, if you come, you won't leave the same."
    I opened the door and a foul stench overtook me.
    Maybe it WAS the beginning of a Zombie Apocalypse.  After all, nothing had happened to prove otherwise.  
    I walked into the church and became stunned because no one was there.  No one except me and a beautiful altar.

      
Look for the continuation in tomorrow's post: HERE

I'll be on the radio tonight 3/12! Wanna listen in?

Want to know 10 hilarious ways to avoid having sex?
Like "The Headache," "Death in the Family," "The Kids Can Hear Us."

Well, guess what--I landed a radio interview with famous comedian Brian Shirley!!!

I'm so stoked...

Today--March 12th at 5:15 pm EST, join us online at: The BTS Show

This is the book I'll be talking about:

Click HERE to find it on Amazon.

Have an awesome day, you guys!

I have a confession . . .

Ya know how I said I wouldn't get in a serious relationship for a year?
Well--get ready for a buffer--I always meet my goals, stick to my word, and try my hardest.

~When I said I'd blog every day for a year straight, I did. 

~When I said I'd lose 60 lbs. after having my first daughter, I lost the weight in a few short months. 

~When I said I'd write three books in a year--I did. 

~I pushed and got my Associate degree in record time.

~Once--when I really wanted a coffee, I got one. Errr--okay, that wasn't impressive...

...BUT you get the point!

I pride myself on making goals and meeting deadlines.


Now though, I don't think I can meet my new goal--to stay out of a serious relationship for a year--'cause I met someone so wonderful that I'm actually willing to bend the rules for him... And that alone tells me more than anything. 

    So, this is Mr. Italy.  (Cliff Note: He's part Italian just like me--thus the name--awesome, right!)

Check out that smile on Dr. Jones' face!

***
Dating is like skydiving. It's hard jumping out of that plane, but if you have the guts, it can be AMAZING!

#feelinghopeful

Those Stormy Eyes: An Allegory

Another Allegory, this time to explain what I've been dreaming of . . .

We stood on a mountaintop overlooking the sickness and war that overran the minds of men.  Neither of us had been born into an earthly existence yet, merely living in another dimension where pain and sorrow couldn't touch us.  Still, it wasn't enough and I longed to be mortal.      

    You talked excitedly about the love and adventure of Heavenly realms.  But I gazed down at the world--even war--with a desire I couldn't explain.
   We walked into our favorite forest after that. You told me how we'd become mortal someday, just not yet--not this time.  My breathing slowed as the scent of pine pervaded my senses.  I knew you were my other half, home.  And those had always been our woods.  We'd explored them a million times, always dreaming, always speaking of our eternity together.  We'd fished in those streams.  Made love by those riverbeds.  Hiked those trails countless times.  Yet, I let go of your hand.  "I want to be mortal. . . .  Will you go with me?" I pleaded because you were my everything and always had been.
    "I'm staying here," your resolve said more than your words ever could have, "staying in our forest.  You can't go either.  Experience pain and death on Earth. Why do you want that for yourself?"
    "I have to go," I said, and the betrayed look on your face tore through my soul.  "It's my time."  I stared into your green eyes; they mirrored my own--but a storm raged within yours, clouded with a desire to be free of suffering.  "What are the highs without any lows?" I asked, knowing you didn't understand.
    Tears filled my eyes as I buried my face into your chest.  You were always the logical one when it really came down to it.  "I would have followed you anywhere," I said, clenching my hands at the base of your back.  I'd never forget you--I knew--even on Earth.  
    You felt just like the rain in the fiercest storm, and had always been my piece of perfection, but it was time to let go.  We kissed goodbye, as if it were the first and last time, pulling each other close, the winds swirling as your lips pressed hard against mine.  And I truly wished things could be different.  But the need to be mortal, plays tricks on us all . . . and I left you alone on the mountain.
    
    And so I lived, searching, hoping to someday meet the man who's wild and free--something born of the forest. 
    Wishing someday he'd look into my eyes . . . and I'd see that a storm raged there, clouded with a resolve to conquer suffering, to be good, kind, and strong.  And I'd smile back at him, knowing that he'd found me. 


    And so: The pains of the past bad choices and decisions will be forgotten.  I'll let go of those bringing me down so I can start fresh, healing from a brokenness I no longer claim as my own.

How to make a spud gun.

There are so many awesome blog recipes out there; I thought I'd contribute one of my own.  It's not how to cook quiche or how to create a perfect potato soup.  Instead it's: how to make a spud gun.

Ingredients:

Flint igniter (grill igniter) I got mine at ACE.  I've heard you can get them at Wally World in the camping section

4" ABS cleanout plug (Make sure to use ABS pipe.  ABS will split from pressure, but PVC will shatter)

4" ABS fitting cleanout adapter

4" ABS coupling

4" x 24" ABS pipe

2" x 4" ABS increaser reducer

2" x 48" ABS pipe

ABS cleaner, primer, & cement

Sack of Idaho potatoes

Hair spray (aerosol) We discovered that Aquanet works the very best

Preparation Instructions:

1. Cut the ABS sections to length (or do what I did and convince the nice Home Depot employee to cut them for you.) Cement all the ABS parts EXCEPT THE CLEANOUT PLUG together.

2. Drill two 1/8" holes in the middle of the 4" x 24" ABS pipe then install the igniter with its included hardware. Use electrical tape to tape it down.  Don't use duct tape since it's conductive.  I left my wires long so I could detonate it from a couple feet away if I wanted to.

Note: My friend actually screwed the igniter right into the ignition chamber.  Her igniter got an arc without the wires, but mine didn't.  If your igniter gets an arc without the wires, then you don't have to drill two holes, instead you can drill one large one and screw the igniter into place.

3. File the end of the 2" x 48" ABS pipe so you can shove the potato in easier.  

Wait at least 24 hours for the glue to dry!!!

4. You're done.  I read somewhere that these only shoot 20-30 feet.  That is not true!  This went at least 250 yards. The bigger the barrel the greater the distance.  Find a nice big area and go have fun.  Stay safe.  These are very dangerous and not toys.  Don't ever aim at someone and if you can . . . avoid making this altogether!     

 

    My funny story of the day involves what a hassle it was finding the flint igniter. I went to five different stores.  Apparently the only people who buy barbecue igniters--WITHOUT the rest of the grill--make potato launchers.  I walked into one store and asked, "Do you sell flint igniters?"

    The man eyed me.  "What ya want with one of them?"

    I paused because I'm a sucky liar.  "Ummm.  I want to fix . . . something."

    "Your grill?" I looked down. "Are you making a potato launcher, Ma'am?"

    I acted offended, REALLY offended.  "Do I look like the type of person who'd build a potato launcher?"

    "I . . . I guess not.  I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to accuse you of anything."

    "I'll let it slide this time," I said.  

    But it turned out he didn't have the igniter anyway.  My whole "innocent act" had been for nothing!

    So I went to a couple more stores and by the time I got to the fourth one I learned to ask for a "barbecue igniter" instead of a "flint igniter."  It turns out people are less judgmental when you say the word, "barbecue."

    I expected our conversation to go similarly to the one I already told you about.

    "Do you sell barbecue igniters?"

    "Are you making a potato launcher?" the man asked--point blank.

    I paled, not believing my code word "bar-be-cue" hadn't worked on that man.  I shook my head.

    "Are you lying to me?"  He pushed his glasses farther up his nose and crossed his arms.  I watched his foot tap the seconds away.  "So?"  

    What was it, twenty questions!  I stayed silent and then realized I wasn't sitting in a principal's office; I was there to buy something.  I was the customer.  The big-fat ball of goodness was in my court!  "Do you sell them or what?"

    "Fine," he said.  "I'll show you where the igniters are."  He led me down rows of gadgets and gizmos.  I could almost hear the whirring of strange contraptions and the snapping of oblong lights going on and off.  "Here are the igniters."  He'd let me to the camping section.  That wasn't the lighter I wanted.  Sure I could buy it if I needed to start a camp fire and cook my potatoes instead of launch them.  

    "Thank you so much," I said.  "But that's not what I'm looking for."

    "Because you're making a potato launcher."  His eyes practically spurted flames. 

    "I'm not."

    "You ARE!" 

    "I'm not!"

    "Are too!"

   "Fine."  I glared at him.  "You wanna know so badly?  I AM making a potato launcher.  I love potatoes and I want to launch them!!!"

    "Well, then, I can't sell this igniter to you."

    "That's not the right kind anyway!!!"  I stomped from the store, but the man laughed as I walked out.  I think he'd had a great time. 

    So at the next place I found the damn igniter myself.  Sure it took me a long time, but I found it and finally got to launch some potatoes.  

    "Was it worth it?" you ask.  "All the heartache and time it took me to find that igniter?"

    Absolutely!  Because there's nothing quite as cool as flying potatoes.

Me and my spud gun

Also, congrats to Jodi Keller for winning the $50 giftcard to Novica.

Click HERE to visit the Novica website yourself. :)

How to Have an Ugly Baby

I swear I'm not making this up . . .

To have an ugly baby you must:

#1    Swoon Mr. Bean

#2    Eat unhealthily . . . healthy eating leads to cute babies.  Unhealthy eating--if it involves coke and chips--also leads to cute babies.  If you're wanting to pack an ugly, you must eat things like MSG and those gummy candies with loads of dye in them!

#3    You must have whoopie in the light.  Darkness leads to cute babies.  If you're going for an ugly one, please keep the lights on full blast.  Buy photography spotlights if you have to, construction lights, I don't care; just do it!

#4    Have your man drink three cups of coffee right before making "the ugly."  Three cups--to the drop--no more, no less.

#5    Never--UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES--eat cereal. This is a fatal 'no, no' as cereal leads to ultimate cuteness.  I've watched it happen time and again.  Mothers who eat cereal have prize-winning babies.  I know a baby named Sam who's a cover model--trust me, her mom ate cereal.

#6    The reverse cowboy position is your bane.  Don't do it!  Anything to do with cowboys . . . it leads to cute babies.


Well, I guess not ALL things related to cowboys.

Cowboy Mimes might actually help babies cross over to the ugly side!  I normally LOVE mimes, but this is just strange--in a Joker kind of way!

So, with all that being said . . . I'm totally kidding.  I googled "How to have a boy" and most of this information came up as what NOT to do.   Whether you believe it or not, that's up to you, but for me . . . I think it's hilariously awesome!

I've been thinking of babies filled with ugliness because of my friend's daughter.   She came over and randomly told me some of her theories on life.  "I know how to make an ugly baby," she said.
    I cleared my throat and after wiping the shock from my face, squinted in her direction and said, "Oh, really?  And how does one go about . . . making an ugly baby?"
    "Well, two ugly people, will make an ugly baby.  Two good looking people, will make an ugly baby.  The only way to have a cute baby, is if you have one ugly person and one cute person."
    "So . . . you better find yourself an ugly man," I said.
    "Exactly," she said and plopped down on my couch. 
    "But what about Depp?" I asked knowing she has a thing for good ol' Johnny.
    "Johnny Depp?" she asked.
    "Yeah."
    She thought for a minute.  "If I married him, then I'd adopt.  People have to make concessions sometimes."

We always have the funniest conversations.  I'm just glad I'm not the only one who has such awesome theories.
Do you have any golden theories?  I hope you do because I'd love to read them!

The Foretold One WILL have a bellybutton!

    "I want a story, Mom," the Zombie Elf said.  
    "Kid, it's late.  Just go to sleep?" I pleaded, pulling a pillow over my head and hoping he'd run back to his bed. He's not a toddler anymore--old enough to sleep through the night.
    "Mom, I'm scared. Please tell me a story so I can have good dreams?"
    Who could refuse that logic.  Sleep or logic?  Sleep or logic?  "All right. But it's gonna be a short one."
    The little bundle of joy jumped right into my bed, under my covers and snuggled close.  "Once upon a time, in a land where evil monsters roamed and a terrible king had taken control of the land, there was a prophecy."
   "What's a propety?" he interrrupted.
   "Something that people believe will happen in the future.  Anyway, before I tell you the prophecy, you need to know something."  I leaned close and whispered, "No one in that land had a bellybutton!"
    His eyes widened.  "No way!"
    "Yes way."
    "Mom, I came in here because I was having bad dreams.  But no bellybuttons . . . that's even worse."
   "Do you want to hear the story, or not?"
    "Yeah." He finally nodded.
    "The prophecy went something like this: One person will be born into this evil land. One person with the power of . . . the bellybutton.  Only that person could defeat the bad king!"
    My boy gasped.  "Was it me?  The one who could fight the bad guy?"
    "Of course!"
    "Mama, wait. Why's it called a button?"
    "Ummm. . ."  Some things are just too hard to answer wittily in the middle of the night, so I dodged the question and continued with the story instead. 

    "Well, you didn't want anyone to know that you had a bellybutton!  You were the only one in the entire world who could fight the bad guy."  The story went on and on.  I thought my boy would fall asleep, but he didn't.  He just listened about his valiant fights and battles until he stormed the villainous castle (located in the heart of some sand dunes).
    "You fought and fought."
    "Wow and all because I had a bellybutton!"  He lifted up his shirt and smiled fondly at his own tummy.  
    "After hitting the bad guy in the head, he fell into a deep sleep," I said, trying to finally end the dumbest story known to man.  
     I had my boy lie back.  "Then, you couldn't help it.  You had to see a stomach without a bellybutton!  You stared at the bad king . . . pulled up his shirt . . ."  I turned to my boy, eyes wide and said, "Guess. What. You. Saw?"
    "What?  What?"  he asked.  "Mama?  What was it?  A bellybutton?  No bellybutton?  A face?"
    "A face?  No!  Instead of a bellybutton there was a note written just to you.  'Zombie Elf,' it said, 'Go to Sleep.'"
    "No it didn't say that."
    "Oh yes it did.  By the way, the bad guy had a bellybutton too.  Turns out he was your father." 
    The Zombie Elf gaped, then as I giggled, he laughed pretty hard too.
    "Can I sleep by you tonight?"
    "Fine," I said.  "But go to sleep right now."
    "Only if you'll tell me this story again tomorrow."
    "I guess."  And that's how the story of the bellybutton began.


 Do you ever tell silly stories?     

At the end of my rope...

I was at the end of my marital rope, needing good, solid advice.  So I went to my closest friend and said, "My marriage isn't what it used to be.  Things have changed.  I'm not sure what's going on, but we need help.  Have you ever gone through something like this?"

    My dear, sweet friend, who always dressed at the height of fashion and always seemed so put together, refused to step down from her pedestal as she replied, "How strange . . . I've been married longer than you have, and we've never had any marital problems.  Never even fought.  Too bad you didn't marry someone like my husband."
    I got off the phone and cried.  Maybe I was a loser.  Maybe I should stop being so transparent because then other people can't take me down at any time.  Maybe I should just toughen up?

Need an example of my idiotic transparency? 

Go here: Love Sucks a Big, Hairy Eyeball

  
    But today I realized something quite ironic.  See, my divorce became official the day before Thanksgiving.  At least I've been honest enough that most people understood why Cade and I could no longer be together.  
    Well, yesterday, this friend came to my house and told me she'd just gotten divorced too. I was shocked. "But I thought everything was perfect," I said.
    "I wanted it to seem that way because things were so bad."  She broke down and started crying.  "I needed to tell you.  But I also wanted to apologize.  Remember when you called me, needing relationship advice?"
    I nodded.
    "Instead of telling the truth, I made my life seem perfect. . . .  Elisa, I'm so sorry.  He was having multiple affairs, gambling . . .  No one knew and I was so embarrassed.  Why would he spend the money our kids needed?  Why would he have affairs--wasn't I good enough?  And you--no matter what shit you're going through--you tell everyone all the good and bad like it's no big deal.   I could never be like that and it made me want to take you down a notch.  You don't wear the cutest clothes.  You let your skeletons out of your closet . . . you do these things that bug me!  But at the same time . . . they inspire me."
    Tears flooded my eyes as she said the words.
   "So I came over here to tell you," she continued, "I'm sorry and that my marriage wasn't perfect.  No one's marriage is.  And somehow you're the only person I can talk to because you'll understand and you'll tell me what you've been through too.  And that transparency, it helps everyone around you realize they aren't alone. . . .  So, do you hate me?"
    I hugged her then, this huge hug.  And. She. Hugged. Me. Back. Because in that moment--after years and years--we finally became true friends.
    The moment reminded me of a saying I heard recently: girls tear each other down; women build each other up. 
    "Sometimes life is shit," I said.  "But I'll always be here.  Now sit your ass down and let's have some ice cream."  
    I scooped us bowls overflowing with mint chocolate chip goodness because she was having a hard time and it seemed like a great excuse for me to binge too.

    And the point of this story is that we're all different.  But everything will come out into the light someday.  Maybe my approach to life isn't too bad after all.  I'd rather tell the truth, showing the good and bad, rather than pretending everything is perfect when it's not.  After this experience, I've decided that people who hide their imperfections are either just insecure, or trying to bring other people down. 

    How do you approach life's problems?  Would you rather ignore them, or face them head-on?  What have your results been like?  
    Also, how do you think she should have handled my initial question when I was crying out for relationship advice?   

Something Worth Believing In--Plus Enter to win a $50 gift certificate

Novica, a company that lives by the mantra to "Spread Happiness," really lives up to their motto.  They promote global artisans, while still making products that really will amaze buyers!
    I recently had the opportunity to review one of their products, and I'm absolutely thrilled.

Here's the sweater they sent to me:

    Not only was I impressed with the quality (which says a lot since I'm a seamstress), but I was also inspired by the design and comfort of the product. 

    I wore this to church yesterday and was floored with how many people complimented me on my clothes.

Anyway, I wasn't paid to give this review, just asked to give my honest feedback after receiving the product.  

    And (drum roll please) I absolutely LOVE it!

    If you'd like to check out Novica, or enter to win a $50.00 gift certificate to their store, please enter the rafflecopter below.

Click HERE to visit the Novica website yourself.

Additional links that might interest you at their site:

Brown Belts

Indian Cashmere Wool Shawls

Long Skirt

Batik Sarong

Women's Clothing from Peru

Black Tops

 a Rafflecopter giveaway

Taking a year off from serious relationships!

I'm in the mountains.  My hangover is killing me, just another reminder that I'm not doing well.  I keep drowning my sorrows in red beer.  People want to hang out.  Guys ask me on dates.  But I'm depressed, trying my hardest to survive this.  So I'm in the damn mountains alone, weaving near a stream, wishing I had a fishing pole with me.
    At one point my side of the shore ends.  I have to cross to make it to my destination--just around the bend on the other side of the river--but the water is rushing past like crazy.  I look across the raging waters, wondering if I should stop.  My head pulses again and I shake my head.  Screw that stupid water, and screw my life.
    I tap my pocket then; I'd gotten two letters in the mail and somehow they were my lifelines, from two people more dear to me than most.  That morning, I'd decided to read those letters in my favorite cave.  It might sound silly to anyone who hasn't been depressed, but I needed to be up in my mountains, read those letters and feel peace even if for a moment.
    So I strip off my shoes and socks, throw them over my shoulder and roll my pants up.  It's 20 degrees and the water bites my skin as my slender white feet dip through the surface.  I'm up to my shins, then my knees.  And it's so icy that after a moment I can't feel my feet sinking through the mire beneath.  But I won't stop.  I'll find my cave and read those letters there amidst the bats, the howling, windy entrance, me in the darkness, with only a flashlight to be my guide and help me read words written from people I love.
   Then I'm back in the moment.  The water is so deep, I'm pulling the letters from my pocket, holding them high over my head so they won't get wet.  I'm up to my waist in water, and the current is strong.  I've lost so much weight, down to 105 pounds, that soon I'm slipping as the water pulls, tugging so hard.
   I cry out, almost losing one of my letters, barely saving it and myself in time. 
    I feel like I can't hold on . . . but still reach for a massive, slippery boulder at my side.  And I'm thinking, Is this how I die, thinking of you in the mountains we love, as the waters take me away?
    The smell of mountain air and pine trees fill my senses--that gives me strength to climb, struggling hard to get onto that boulder while still holding my letters.  My upper body muscles are killing me.  And I still can't feel my bare feet.
    But I make it--somehow, like I made it through all the other shit I've gone through these past months.  And I stand on that rock, look at my reddening feet and my soaking pants.  This situation is so me--not something I've done recently, but rather something I used to do when I was single before I met Cade 13 years ago.  And as the thought hits me, I can't help smiling. . . .
    Even though the wind hits me hard and I'm freezing, I don't care so much.  I can jump to the other side of the shore from my rock.  The opening of my precious cave is finally within sight.
    My fist still clutches the letters tightly; they're awfully crumpled from my trek through the water.  Despite that, I keep grinning; the emotional pain isn't at the forefront of my mind anymore.
    I put my socks and shoes on.  My feet come back to life with tingles and heated pains.  And my pants are still rolled up, soaking.  That's when I start running to my cave.  I can hardly wait to sit inside its jagged opening, like being in a lover's caress.
    Suddenly I'm there, my hands feeling every part of the cave's sides.  I don't even turn my waterproof flashlight on.  Instead, I'm eagerly touching the rock, inspecting every part, just like it's the first time.  
    The farther I go inside those rocky hallways, somehow God's love radiates from the innards of the mountains.  And my heart is racing, beating with the same soul I haven't felt since I was an uninhibited kid, knowing exactly what I wanted and who I truly was . . . all by myself.
    After a while, I feel the back of the cave, knew it would end soon; I've been in there a million times.  I sit with my shoulders to the wall, breathing hard, emotions rushing around as I gasp, intrigued and passionate.
    And as I mold myself to that rock, it cradles me softly.  I pull out my flashlight, click it on and hold it between my teeth.
    Finally reading those letters makes me cry for the thousandth time this year, sweet tears mingling with the mud and river water that's dried on my skin.  And the sentences that stick out to me are at the bottom of both letters--and although they're from two different people, the words are shockingly the same: "I love you and your kids so much! Elisa, enjoy!"
    "Enjoy . . .  Enjoy . . .," I repeat the word.
    Soon the flashlight is turned off.  The letters are placed gingerly in my jacket pocket.  And even though I'm in complete darkness and my pants are still freezing cold, I'm content, really happy for the first time in a while.
    I put my hand to the rock as if it's a lover's strong chest. Then I whisper to God, hoping He can hear me, "I love you, God. Thank you for letting me be alive.  Thank you for reminding me that I can enjoy life again, whether I'm alone or not."
    So I left my cave, struggled back through the water, and decided there's something I need to do for myself: I'm going to take at least a year off from having a serious relationship.  I'm going to focus on myself and my kids.  And by golly, I'm going to enjoy!  


One of my last caving trips where I took my oldest daughter, the Scribe.
    It was awesome seeing the love of nature blossom in her, just as it had within me at that same age.

    

***
This song kept repeating in my head as I hiked to my cave that day.

My Heart is in Heaven

I suck at poetry--really.  So, be kind :)

Rocking, swaying, 

on a rickety porch swing...

There's no one to comfort me, 

or anything...

Crying, sobbing, 

as I open the door...

Asking God, 

"What's this happening for?"

Trudging, slowly, 

up old wooden stairs,

Wanting to take back, 

all those love affairs...

But as I enter a room, 

with all its mildew and must...

I see my old trunk, 

covered in dust.

So I take out the key,

and I open the lid.

I'd hid something inside,

when I was a kid.

Buried under blankets

and toys that fell apart...

is something quite shocking;

it's a beating heart.

So I pull it from the trunk,

and I cradle it near.

I walk to an open window

as the heart fills with fear.

I sing to the wind,

calling its name.

Hoping that something,

will take away the pain.

A dove appears

on the window sill.

Studies my eyes,

then remains still.

So I hold out my heart.

The dove takes it for me.

Flying up to Heaven,

farther than eyes can see.

So I smile through tears.

Knowing it'll be okay.

God has my heart, 'til I'm ready...

to give it away.

Losing a Battle to Drugs

We were always meant to know each other.
    When we met at fifteen it seemed as if we'd been friends from lifetimes before.  
    We fell in love one night, crawling combat-style through a mine.  I wore ripped jeans, but had done my hair like a prom queen 'cause I wanted to impress you--the cutest boy in school.  Of course you wore designer clothes and a sporty shirt that made your muscles bulge.  We didn't look the part but were both willing to get down and dirty.  
    I remember looking back through that mine, shining a flashlight in your direction.  You chuckled, admitting you never pegged me for the adventurous type either.  The whole experience was unreal AND I couldn't believe you'd given the school nerd a chance.  
    We made it through those close mine-spaces, each reveling in the other's humor and ability to navigate through anything--I thought you'd be like that through life too . . . I hoped.
    That night I'd worn a gorgeous ring on my wedding finger--from another guy--but as I drove home from the mine, I threw the ring out my car window and it disappeared in the snow edging Parley's Canyon.
   Our relationship continued from there, and I swear all the other girls were jealous.  Why HAD you given me a chance when you could have anyone?
    Time passed. I learned about your home life and how you needed someone adventurous and fun like me, just to get your mind off things.  The shit you lived through appalled me.  I couldn't imagine a step-family like that.  I couldn't imagine a huge, muscular person being verbally abused . . . or physically hurt.
   We would dance back then, without any music.  Once we sneaked away from a school prom.  I wore an evening gown, then climbed a cold statue.  You talked up to me, like I was your damn Juliet, telling me I'd caught the stars in my glowing eyes.  I jumped down and you spun me.  We sat back-to-back on a cement wall afterward, then hugged for hours, me trying to take away every bit of pain you'd ever felt at home and school when you were severely bullied in younger years.
    You brought flowers to me during class when we were Juniors; even though you should have been in class too.  I heard rumors later that you'd sneaked out and your teacher didn't even know you were gone.  You filled my locker with gifts.  Always did the right thing. Always said the right things.  My friends agreed that "we" were the couple everyone idolized.  And no one knew all the shit both of us hid inside.
    When we broke up, I thought it would kill me . . . and maybe you too.  We held hands in front of your dad's house: You begging me to stop listening to my family when they said I needed to date a boy from church.  Me asking if you'd really done drugs.
    "We'll run away," we both cried.  "Pack up the stupid car and forget religion, judgment, and addiction.  Forget popularity.  Forget everyone's opinions."  
    BUT . . . I knew you were on drugs despite how strong and healthy you looked.  You even admitted it once, saying the drugs made you a tail-chaser . . . it wasn't your fault.  
          And I stayed . . .
                       for a while.

___

    In the end, it didn't work.  
    You came to visit me where I waitressed.  I saw you with a million different girls.  They were gorgeous and perfectly dressed while my hair was in a tight bun, and a dirty work apron hugged my waist.  I always smiled and wished you the best.  And after time, our romance completely died within me like winter finally came into my young life.  And at the beginning of our Senior year that previous love blossomed into an unconditional friendship, the likes of which I'd never seen.

___

    Each of us got married, wished the other the best.  After that I thought I wouldn't see you anymore.  I moved up North.  Surprisingly, so did you.
    Somehow, we always found each other.  Chancing upon each other at a gas station.  A grocery store.  A bowling alley.  Even on the street.  And we'd catch up.  You looking skinnier and skinnier.  Me wrinkling with age.  
     Although things weren't perfect for either of us, people saw our outter appearances and didn't even comprehend what we'd gone through.  The only ones who really got it . . . were us.  And every time I ran into you, I wondered if I could have made a difference in your life if we hadn't broken up forever ago.  And you said, you wished we'd never given up.  Little did I know, what a difference we'd still make in each other's lives. . . .

    Years after you'd sobered up, things exploded in my life.  You found me at the women's shelter, told me everything would be okay.  I heard about your divorce, and then the tragic things that followed.  How you'd become homeless, barely surviving.  You were in a stand-off where you were almost shot.  
    I told you how my marriage ended too--that I'd also been homeless.  How I'd made poor choice after poor choice and lost relationships I could never get back.
    We sat back-to-back on a different cement wall from our youth.  You hugged me for hours, in those strong arms I never truly forgot.
    After that I started getting my life back together.  We hiked and went caving, so reminiscent of a mine in my most cherished memories.  

 
Me, on one of our infamous hikes 

Then as we sat eating dinner one night with my four kids, you said you'd always love us as family.  And I knew exactly what you meant because the feeling was mutual.  
    We said we'd always be honest.  ALWAYS stay friends.  Always have each other's backs.  But then our friendship changed. . . . 
    I threw another ring out my van window.  There were new flowers waiting for me, not in a high school class, this time they were arranged on my kitchen table with a beautiful card.  
    And memories came back, with more impact than I'd banked on.
    But although we're adults now, we're still the same core people.  No matter how much each of us pushed and tried, things didn't feel right between us, and so I cried because we both knew it would never work.   We were destined to only be friends.
    Then you started losing weight.  You started chasing tail like crazy.  I turned into a serious nag.  And our friendship almost died.
   So we sat down at last, made good on our promise and told each other the truth.  We were sobbing on my front porch, both husks of what once was: you skinny and sad, me tired and weak.  And as the neighbors walked past, asking if we were okay, I knew, people no longer envied us like they had in high school.
    Why does life cycle like this?  Why couldn't my friendship have been more to help you?  Why couldn't yours have saved me?  And why can't it ever be enough?  
    I'm losing my mind as it is . . . and now I'm losing you too.

___

    I've had dreams that you died from an overdose.  And there was a hole in my life--the kind you can't imagine.  I go to gas stations, bowling alleys, groceries stores, even the damn women's shelter--just hoping to catch a glimpse of your ghost.  But you aren't there--you're never there.
    And no matter how many rings I throw out car windows . . . Or how many times I'm smelling the musty dried flowers you gave me years ago, I won't get my friend back.  I lost you because I wasn't stronger than the damn cravings.  And you lost me because I'd been looking for a hero instead of finding the strength inside myself. 
    And so in my dream you're gone.  And in real life, you aren't here either.  
    And, my life will never be the same.
    

Dedicated to those who might be losing their battle to drugs.  

Please stop and think about what you're doing to your life and the lives of those you love.

This is my stand against drugs and the hardships that often lead people to drug abuse.

Do you know the Baby Dance?

Doctor Jones just turned 4!

   
    This video is from a while back,  but the "Baby Dance" still makes me smile. Love you, Doctor Jones!