E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 67
March 25, 2014
Have you ever had to look backward to move forward?
Four years ago . . .
Something drew me to the little fabric shop on Main Street, tucked away in the back corner, practically hidden by a huge vacuum store. I trudged toward the door, gripped the handle and paused. Why was I there?
"Belinda's" was the most expensive fabric store in Northern Utah AND their selection wasn't great--yet there I stood, with some stupid feeling that I needed to be there.
After going inside, and being blasted by the air conditioner, I sidled up to some watermelon-print fabric near the register.
I couldn't concentrate on that fabric though, too distracted from my dreams the night before. I'd fought with Cade (my husband at the time). We both went to sleep angry and I'd dreamed about my ex-boyfriend--from ten years before.
"What's wrong?" the elderly lady at the register asked, pulling down her glasses and studying how I'd literally been petting the watermelon fabric.
"Oh, my gosh!" I set the cotton down. "Just a long night." I sighed again and then shook my head--seriously what was I doing there?! I started to walk toward the exit, when the woman cleared her throat.
"I'm bored. And I love a good story. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"
That woman--who didn't know me AT ALL--pulled up two stools across from each other at the register and selflessly listened to how guilty I felt about fighting and then dreaming about my ex.
"Why do I dream about my ex? It's been forever since we were together! I told one of my friends and she said this isn't normal at all!"
The woman started laughing so hard, then rested a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. "Listen. I'm eighty-five years old. And what you're going through is completely normal! Do you have time to hear my story?"
I nodded, pretty enthralled.
"My husband died five years ago. We were happily married for nearly fifty years, but like you, every time we had problems, I started thinking about--or even dreaming about--my old beau from high school."
"Even after fifty years?" I balked.
She looked down and nodded. "Yeah. So last year, I contacted my old beau. Things seemed great at first, but guess what happened--I ended up remembering why I broke up with him in high school. AND he'd never changed. We broke up for the same reason a lifetime later. We were still the same core people."
I was utterly stunned.
"My point is: I spent all that time looking back on a man who wasn't worth my time. I remembered the good and forgot the bad, just to realize I broke up with him in the first place for a reason. All that time I wasted . . . wondering what if ."
We hugged each other before I left. And that woman gave me a red sucker, even though I'm a grown woman and everything.
Anyway, four years have passed and I know I'll never forget that woman and her story. Although I'm not married anymore, I want to hold that woman's moral close.
The past is never where you think you left it.
-Katherine Anne Porter
If you're struggling, looking back to a possibly deluded past, I'd like to leave you with one more quote: The grass is greener where you water it.
-Unknown
Something drew me to the little fabric shop on Main Street, tucked away in the back corner, practically hidden by a huge vacuum store. I trudged toward the door, gripped the handle and paused. Why was I there?
"Belinda's" was the most expensive fabric store in Northern Utah AND their selection wasn't great--yet there I stood, with some stupid feeling that I needed to be there.
After going inside, and being blasted by the air conditioner, I sidled up to some watermelon-print fabric near the register.
I couldn't concentrate on that fabric though, too distracted from my dreams the night before. I'd fought with Cade (my husband at the time). We both went to sleep angry and I'd dreamed about my ex-boyfriend--from ten years before.
"What's wrong?" the elderly lady at the register asked, pulling down her glasses and studying how I'd literally been petting the watermelon fabric.
"Oh, my gosh!" I set the cotton down. "Just a long night." I sighed again and then shook my head--seriously what was I doing there?! I started to walk toward the exit, when the woman cleared her throat.
"I'm bored. And I love a good story. Would you mind telling me what's going on?"
That woman--who didn't know me AT ALL--pulled up two stools across from each other at the register and selflessly listened to how guilty I felt about fighting and then dreaming about my ex.
"Why do I dream about my ex? It's been forever since we were together! I told one of my friends and she said this isn't normal at all!"
The woman started laughing so hard, then rested a wrinkled hand on my shoulder. "Listen. I'm eighty-five years old. And what you're going through is completely normal! Do you have time to hear my story?"
I nodded, pretty enthralled.
"My husband died five years ago. We were happily married for nearly fifty years, but like you, every time we had problems, I started thinking about--or even dreaming about--my old beau from high school."
"Even after fifty years?" I balked.
She looked down and nodded. "Yeah. So last year, I contacted my old beau. Things seemed great at first, but guess what happened--I ended up remembering why I broke up with him in high school. AND he'd never changed. We broke up for the same reason a lifetime later. We were still the same core people."
I was utterly stunned."My point is: I spent all that time looking back on a man who wasn't worth my time. I remembered the good and forgot the bad, just to realize I broke up with him in the first place for a reason. All that time I wasted . . . wondering what if ."
We hugged each other before I left. And that woman gave me a red sucker, even though I'm a grown woman and everything.
Anyway, four years have passed and I know I'll never forget that woman and her story. Although I'm not married anymore, I want to hold that woman's moral close.
The past is never where you think you left it.
-Katherine Anne Porter
If you're struggling, looking back to a possibly deluded past, I'd like to leave you with one more quote: The grass is greener where you water it.
-Unknown
I. Saw. A. Corpse.
I'm not giving any names, but I had reason to believe that something died in a cave up Ogden Canyon. So I texted my friend Tony: "You wanna go see something dead in a cave?"
"How can I say no to that?" he replied because some people are born epic.
So we went to the cave. I threw Tony a flashlight, turned on the one I'd kept for myself, and we crawled combat style into the dark opening.
There were some gross things in there: beer bottles, wrappers, unfinished homework, an unused feminine pad. And I realized again, some things are worse than death--like being a girl AND having a period!
I was about to tell Tony that womanhood sucks, when I suddenly saw a black shape in front of us.
"Oh. My. Hell," I gasped and pointed the flashlight toward the shape of doom. "I think . . . that's dead!" I was nervous, honestly, and excited. Like a real-live Zombie Apocalypse was about to happen. That dead son-of-a-beast would probably rise up, since we'd disturbed its death, then it would totally-bypass-me 'cause I'm a gem, then go for Tony's throat.
I worried for Tony then; I'm selfless AND not a pansy--and I wanted Tony to know it! After all, he's the same guy who isn't afraid of nothin'--the same guy who got us kicked out of a hockey game 'cause I'd he'd smuggled in some Listerine bottles with whiskey in them. He's the same legendary man who won a ham at a bowl-off last Christmas--then gave the prize to a man in need.
He's part Filipino, part tiger, and damn it I wanted to seem like a badass too! So I crawled closer to the black shape--like I was unphased--my heart racing . . . until I realized the black shape was a jacket.
"A jacket, EC? Really? You were all worked up ABOUT A JACKET," Tony the Tiger said.
"Listen here, Buddy! That zipper, looked like a claw hanging over that rock. All dangerous and terrifying. Were you the one crawling closer? No! You weren't. EC go first--you said--EC crawl closer." I kept moving after that, laughing the whole way.
Tony snorted--that's what badasses do. "Only you would send me a text that says: something died in a cave--wanna check it out? Of course you should go first. Most chicks like watching movies. Or going to dinner. Not EC, man!"
The rocks were digging into my knees. "Damn, I wish I'd brought knee pads."
"I wish I had a helmet!" he said. Tony is bald. I've told him before I have no sympathy for bald men--one day he'll listen.
We went about another twenty feet farther in. And all I could think about were those damn rocks, and how there was a light coming from the end of the cave.
"What in the heck is this?" I suddenly knocked on a pipe running along the ground to the side of us.
"EC. It's. A. Pipe."
"I wonder what the hell it's doing here." I was flippin' mystified. "A pipe--there has to be no freakin' way!"
I thought Tony would be amazed--instead he nearly died in that cave--wheezing with laughter. "I don't think this is a natural cave, EC."
"But how did the pipe get here?"
"EC, man! It's a pipeline. For the water runoff. Ya know, we're in the mountains?"
"You mean to tell me, THIS ISN'T A NATURAL CAVE? And nothin' died in here? Screw this!"
"Ummm, EC. You're a jerk!" Tony sounded actually upset.
"Excuse me? Like it's my fault nothing died in here."
"No. You're a jerk 'cause you didn't tell me you just passed a corpse! Dude, you're the one in front of me. You coulda said, Tony, there's a freakin' dead animal. Don't put your hand on it!"
I scoffed because if there's anything I know about people who are part tiger, it's that they think I'm gullible.
"Oh, I'm sure!" I turned around, crawled back and shone my light on death personified--in rabbit form. Its innards were its outtards. Its claw . . . was disgusting. A rock covered its face. I'd showed up to the damn thing's funeral--and I DID NOT WANT TO BE THERE.
Then I freaked out as this imagine flashed through my mind!
"What the flippin' A--" I have never crawled that fast in my life. I never knew a rabbit--thing--could scare me so much. I wanted Tony the Tiger to think I'm tough since I need a good friend--but screw that. Moments before, I had crawled over: A. Dead. Animal. And if it was a rabbit, that made things worse! Haven't you read Bunnicula? The rabbit was totally a vampire, and that's scarier than hell. See!
We made it out of the cave; I dropped to my knees, trying to keep from peeing my pants--I was laughing that hard.
"Best. Pipeline-cave. Ev-er!" I squealed, then followed up with, "I told you something died in there!"
Tony raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Only you, EC."
So yesterday I learned that:
*People who are part Filipino/part tiger ARE NOT PHASED by death.
*I can be a pansy.
*And caves whether natural or just glorified pipelines are pretty awesome.
All in all, facing death has never been so ridiculously fun.
"How can I say no to that?" he replied because some people are born epic.
So we went to the cave. I threw Tony a flashlight, turned on the one I'd kept for myself, and we crawled combat style into the dark opening.
There were some gross things in there: beer bottles, wrappers, unfinished homework, an unused feminine pad. And I realized again, some things are worse than death--like being a girl AND having a period!
I was about to tell Tony that womanhood sucks, when I suddenly saw a black shape in front of us.
"Oh. My. Hell," I gasped and pointed the flashlight toward the shape of doom. "I think . . . that's dead!" I was nervous, honestly, and excited. Like a real-live Zombie Apocalypse was about to happen. That dead son-of-a-beast would probably rise up, since we'd disturbed its death, then it would totally-bypass-me 'cause I'm a gem, then go for Tony's throat.
I worried for Tony then; I'm selfless AND not a pansy--and I wanted Tony to know it! After all, he's the same guy who isn't afraid of nothin'--the same guy who got us kicked out of a hockey game 'cause I'd he'd smuggled in some Listerine bottles with whiskey in them. He's the same legendary man who won a ham at a bowl-off last Christmas--then gave the prize to a man in need.
He's part Filipino, part tiger, and damn it I wanted to seem like a badass too! So I crawled closer to the black shape--like I was unphased--my heart racing . . . until I realized the black shape was a jacket.
"A jacket, EC? Really? You were all worked up ABOUT A JACKET," Tony the Tiger said.
"Listen here, Buddy! That zipper, looked like a claw hanging over that rock. All dangerous and terrifying. Were you the one crawling closer? No! You weren't. EC go first--you said--EC crawl closer." I kept moving after that, laughing the whole way.
Tony snorted--that's what badasses do. "Only you would send me a text that says: something died in a cave--wanna check it out? Of course you should go first. Most chicks like watching movies. Or going to dinner. Not EC, man!"
The rocks were digging into my knees. "Damn, I wish I'd brought knee pads."
"I wish I had a helmet!" he said. Tony is bald. I've told him before I have no sympathy for bald men--one day he'll listen.
We went about another twenty feet farther in. And all I could think about were those damn rocks, and how there was a light coming from the end of the cave.
"What in the heck is this?" I suddenly knocked on a pipe running along the ground to the side of us.
"EC. It's. A. Pipe."
"I wonder what the hell it's doing here." I was flippin' mystified. "A pipe--there has to be no freakin' way!"
I thought Tony would be amazed--instead he nearly died in that cave--wheezing with laughter. "I don't think this is a natural cave, EC."
"But how did the pipe get here?"
"EC, man! It's a pipeline. For the water runoff. Ya know, we're in the mountains?"
"You mean to tell me, THIS ISN'T A NATURAL CAVE? And nothin' died in here? Screw this!"
"Ummm, EC. You're a jerk!" Tony sounded actually upset.
"Excuse me? Like it's my fault nothing died in here."
"No. You're a jerk 'cause you didn't tell me you just passed a corpse! Dude, you're the one in front of me. You coulda said, Tony, there's a freakin' dead animal. Don't put your hand on it!"
I scoffed because if there's anything I know about people who are part tiger, it's that they think I'm gullible.
"Oh, I'm sure!" I turned around, crawled back and shone my light on death personified--in rabbit form. Its innards were its outtards. Its claw . . . was disgusting. A rock covered its face. I'd showed up to the damn thing's funeral--and I DID NOT WANT TO BE THERE.
Then I freaked out as this imagine flashed through my mind!
"What the flippin' A--" I have never crawled that fast in my life. I never knew a rabbit--thing--could scare me so much. I wanted Tony the Tiger to think I'm tough since I need a good friend--but screw that. Moments before, I had crawled over: A. Dead. Animal. And if it was a rabbit, that made things worse! Haven't you read Bunnicula? The rabbit was totally a vampire, and that's scarier than hell. See!
We made it out of the cave; I dropped to my knees, trying to keep from peeing my pants--I was laughing that hard."Best. Pipeline-cave. Ev-er!" I squealed, then followed up with, "I told you something died in there!"
Tony raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Only you, EC."
So yesterday I learned that:
*People who are part Filipino/part tiger ARE NOT PHASED by death.
*I can be a pansy.
*And caves whether natural or just glorified pipelines are pretty awesome.
All in all, facing death has never been so ridiculously fun.
March 21, 2014
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 5:17King 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
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 5:17King 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.
March 19, 2014
Everything in the Darkness; A Fading Church Part I
This is an allegory inspired by yesterday's post:
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
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 Got Implants: What IS True Beauty?
Throughout my life I've had some major insecurities--and honestly still do.
In high school, girls teased me for being so flat. One said, "Elisa probably lost her virginity to her own finger," after making fun of my chest in the locker room. Some kids called me "Bible Girl." They teased me, always centering on my mosquito-bite boobs or the fact that my Bible was always with me. During that time, I had a crush on someone, and in confidence, he told me months later, "I really started falling for you and we would have dated in a heartbeat . . . if you weren't so small chested."
I know it's superficial, honestly. But comments like that stick. Somehow I felt my whole worth crumple. There I was the daring violinist, the same kid who would become homeless at seventeen because it sounded like an adventure. The same girl who was so loyal and always tried to be kind. Yet, that's all some people saw--my boobs--was that all there was to me? I packed a double . . . "A minus" and it wasn't good enough.
Years later I grew up, had five babies. I breastfed. In some silly way I felt confident and more womanly because I filled out a C. Then, we decided to be done having children (because I'd done enough 'time') and after years of size C bliss, my boobs shrunk even smaller than they were before! How was I supposed to be confident? My boobs no longer bounced. The birds didn't sing outside. Some kids in the Scribe's class WERE BIGGER THAN ME.
So, as dumb as this is, I started telling Cade about everything--when we were still married--and that man chuckled. "You're kidding, right? You want a boob job? If anyone is self-assured, it's you. Nothing like this can bother you. Nothing."
I started yelling in a monotone. "I feel like a man from the waist up! Do you know how much that sucks?"
I know he tried keeping a smile from his face because part of him must have STILL thought I was kidding. Then when I cried, he turned serious and held me. "OH, my Gosh! You aren't kidding?"
I gave him "the eye" before crying even harder.
Well, since my divorce, I've gotten implants. I'm really excited that I got them--proud in fact. But what I'm more surprised about is that I don't feel different--like I'd anticipated--I'm still the same girl who was made fun of, who was called Bible Girl years ago. The same sporty girl, who can be spunky and adventurous.
This poses the question: "Why did I think things would be so different?" And "What is true beauty?"
I asked myself this question and decided to write an allegory about it. Read that here: Everything in the Darkness; A Fading Church
In high school, girls teased me for being so flat. One said, "Elisa probably lost her virginity to her own finger," after making fun of my chest in the locker room. Some kids called me "Bible Girl." They teased me, always centering on my mosquito-bite boobs or the fact that my Bible was always with me. During that time, I had a crush on someone, and in confidence, he told me months later, "I really started falling for you and we would have dated in a heartbeat . . . if you weren't so small chested."
I know it's superficial, honestly. But comments like that stick. Somehow I felt my whole worth crumple. There I was the daring violinist, the same kid who would become homeless at seventeen because it sounded like an adventure. The same girl who was so loyal and always tried to be kind. Yet, that's all some people saw--my boobs--was that all there was to me? I packed a double . . . "A minus" and it wasn't good enough.
Years later I grew up, had five babies. I breastfed. In some silly way I felt confident and more womanly because I filled out a C. Then, we decided to be done having children (because I'd done enough 'time') and after years of size C bliss, my boobs shrunk even smaller than they were before! How was I supposed to be confident? My boobs no longer bounced. The birds didn't sing outside. Some kids in the Scribe's class WERE BIGGER THAN ME.
So, as dumb as this is, I started telling Cade about everything--when we were still married--and that man chuckled. "You're kidding, right? You want a boob job? If anyone is self-assured, it's you. Nothing like this can bother you. Nothing."
I started yelling in a monotone. "I feel like a man from the waist up! Do you know how much that sucks?"
I know he tried keeping a smile from his face because part of him must have STILL thought I was kidding. Then when I cried, he turned serious and held me. "OH, my Gosh! You aren't kidding?"
I gave him "the eye" before crying even harder.
Well, since my divorce, I've gotten implants. I'm really excited that I got them--proud in fact. But what I'm more surprised about is that I don't feel different--like I'd anticipated--I'm still the same girl who was made fun of, who was called Bible Girl years ago. The same sporty girl, who can be spunky and adventurous.
This poses the question: "Why did I think things would be so different?" And "What is true beauty?"
I asked myself this question and decided to write an allegory about it. Read that here: Everything in the Darkness; A Fading Church
March 14, 2014
The Scribe's Mama and a Baseball
"I'm not like anyone in this family," she said.
I smiled, remembering something I did in fifth grade. "Oh yes you are. I was always hatching crazy schemes."
"You were?"
"Yep. Do you want to hear a story about how I tricked the boys into letting me play baseball with them?"
She wiped her tears and nodded.
"All right, well one day . . ."
I never thought the story was anything special--not until the Scribe heard it.
I was a dorky twig, far better at playing sports than playing dolls. I knew I'd be a star on the boys' team if they just let me play, but those jerks were too good for me--a girl.
"We don't let girls play with us. Girls are bad luck."
That just proved it; they were idiots. The only time girls are unlucky is when you make them mad!
I started practicing baseball then, every day after school, until the sun went down. I got pretty good. My mom, dad and brother all taught me how to hit and pitch. I went through training--no kidding. If those boys would just say 'yes,' they wouldn't know what hit 'em. But the idiots kept saying 'NO!'
My dream almost ended. I could have stayed friendless and sad. Or I could've stooped to ultimate evilness and played dolls with Wendy Smith and her posse of girlie girls! That wasn't for me though. Too bad I hate giving up easily AND dressing dolls.
I watched the boys' whole setup one day after they said 'no' . . . again. The leader (Jeff) always brought the ball and the bat. He'd put it out in the hall during class, then at recess, all the boys would go and play.
Stealing that ball was easier than taking candy from a baby-brat. I still remember it. I raised my hand and told the teacher I needed to use the bathroom. That was a lie--a terribly sweet lie. I ran into the hall, looked back and forth, then stole Jeff's ball, not even thinkin' it was sinful to steal from an idiot. The prize fit great with my stuff in the hallway and no one even saw me! I wanted to give thanks to God, for helping me steal, so I went and used the bathroom since that's what I'd told the teacher. Maybe I didn't really have to go, but I sure tried anyway. It wouldn't be good to lie AND steal on the same damn day.
Well, when the recess bell rang, those boys scrambled and hooted. Everyone got out to the field. For once I stayed back, just watching. Jeff came out last. He explained something to the boys who looked awfully mad. They were just about to leave the field when I walked closer.
"Who would-a thunk he'd leave the ball home?" a kid whined.
I threw the ball up and down. Not to brag, but I caught the sucker every time. "Funny thing," I said to the boys. "I brought a ball today. What are the odds?" I tried spitting but I'd never done it before and the stuff turned to spittle. I wiped it away fast and cursed all those old movies for making spitting look easy.
"Give us the ball!" a boy screamed--good thing I didn't marry that dictator!
"Sure," I pulled it away, "on one condition."
"Name it," Jeff said. He walked closer.
"That you let me play."
All the idiots groaned, apparently idiots are great at whining and groaning. "But that's bad luck to play with a girl."
"Is it better to not play at all?" I asked and they FINALLY let me play.
I'd like to say I got a home run, even though I didn't. But I will say that I proved myself and they seemed really impressed. Jeff walked with me after last recess and smiled. "You know, this ball looks an awful lot like the one I bring."
I had to think fast. I looked up at him. My face couldn't charm him--too bad for the 'ugly phase.' But at least I could win him over with my wit. "You're pretty good at ball." I paused. "Well, so am I. Does it really surprise you that we both have such good taste?"
He laughed and hit me on the back. "You're all right, Stilson. You're all right." It was the first time someone called me by my last name and the first time a fellow classmate hit me on the back--it WAS epic.
The next day when Jeff's ball showed up by his stuff in the hall, he didn't even seem surprised. I went and stood by the field, a bit sad that I'd never get to play again. Maybe I should have just reconciled to playing dolls with Wendy Smith . . . forever.
I sat down on the grass and prepared to watch the boys forming their teams. It was time for the captains to pick their star players. John 'the cherry picker' went first--don't even ask how he got his nickname, let's just say no one wanted to shake HIS hand. When it was Jeff's turn, he smiled right at me and pointed. "Stilson, for first pick because that girl really knows how to hit a ball. And because she didn't give up."
I stood by him and beamed. "Isn't it funny how my ball just showed up today?" he whispered.
"Yeah," I nodded. "What are the odds?"
"So, that's how I started playing baseball with the boys," I told the Scribe.
"It sounds like something I would do! Mama," she said seriously, "you're all right."
"You too." I smiled, then patted her on the back and thought I just might start calling her by our last name. She's always doing crazy things like scaring children and holding fundraisers FOR HERSELF, but she's one hilarious child. She makes life fun. I'm thankful for her and her siblings every day.
For another post about the Scribe, please go here: The Scribe and a Scheme.
I smiled, remembering something I did in fifth grade. "Oh yes you are. I was always hatching crazy schemes."
"You were?"
"Yep. Do you want to hear a story about how I tricked the boys into letting me play baseball with them?"
She wiped her tears and nodded.
"All right, well one day . . ."
I never thought the story was anything special--not until the Scribe heard it.
I was a dorky twig, far better at playing sports than playing dolls. I knew I'd be a star on the boys' team if they just let me play, but those jerks were too good for me--a girl.
"We don't let girls play with us. Girls are bad luck."
That just proved it; they were idiots. The only time girls are unlucky is when you make them mad!
I started practicing baseball then, every day after school, until the sun went down. I got pretty good. My mom, dad and brother all taught me how to hit and pitch. I went through training--no kidding. If those boys would just say 'yes,' they wouldn't know what hit 'em. But the idiots kept saying 'NO!'
My dream almost ended. I could have stayed friendless and sad. Or I could've stooped to ultimate evilness and played dolls with Wendy Smith and her posse of girlie girls! That wasn't for me though. Too bad I hate giving up easily AND dressing dolls.
I watched the boys' whole setup one day after they said 'no' . . . again. The leader (Jeff) always brought the ball and the bat. He'd put it out in the hall during class, then at recess, all the boys would go and play.
Stealing that ball was easier than taking candy from a baby-brat. I still remember it. I raised my hand and told the teacher I needed to use the bathroom. That was a lie--a terribly sweet lie. I ran into the hall, looked back and forth, then stole Jeff's ball, not even thinkin' it was sinful to steal from an idiot. The prize fit great with my stuff in the hallway and no one even saw me! I wanted to give thanks to God, for helping me steal, so I went and used the bathroom since that's what I'd told the teacher. Maybe I didn't really have to go, but I sure tried anyway. It wouldn't be good to lie AND steal on the same damn day.
Well, when the recess bell rang, those boys scrambled and hooted. Everyone got out to the field. For once I stayed back, just watching. Jeff came out last. He explained something to the boys who looked awfully mad. They were just about to leave the field when I walked closer.
"Who would-a thunk he'd leave the ball home?" a kid whined.
I threw the ball up and down. Not to brag, but I caught the sucker every time. "Funny thing," I said to the boys. "I brought a ball today. What are the odds?" I tried spitting but I'd never done it before and the stuff turned to spittle. I wiped it away fast and cursed all those old movies for making spitting look easy.
"Give us the ball!" a boy screamed--good thing I didn't marry that dictator!
"Sure," I pulled it away, "on one condition."
"Name it," Jeff said. He walked closer.
"That you let me play."
All the idiots groaned, apparently idiots are great at whining and groaning. "But that's bad luck to play with a girl."
"Is it better to not play at all?" I asked and they FINALLY let me play.
I'd like to say I got a home run, even though I didn't. But I will say that I proved myself and they seemed really impressed. Jeff walked with me after last recess and smiled. "You know, this ball looks an awful lot like the one I bring."
I had to think fast. I looked up at him. My face couldn't charm him--too bad for the 'ugly phase.' But at least I could win him over with my wit. "You're pretty good at ball." I paused. "Well, so am I. Does it really surprise you that we both have such good taste?"
He laughed and hit me on the back. "You're all right, Stilson. You're all right." It was the first time someone called me by my last name and the first time a fellow classmate hit me on the back--it WAS epic.
The next day when Jeff's ball showed up by his stuff in the hall, he didn't even seem surprised. I went and stood by the field, a bit sad that I'd never get to play again. Maybe I should have just reconciled to playing dolls with Wendy Smith . . . forever.
I sat down on the grass and prepared to watch the boys forming their teams. It was time for the captains to pick their star players. John 'the cherry picker' went first--don't even ask how he got his nickname, let's just say no one wanted to shake HIS hand. When it was Jeff's turn, he smiled right at me and pointed. "Stilson, for first pick because that girl really knows how to hit a ball. And because she didn't give up."
I stood by him and beamed. "Isn't it funny how my ball just showed up today?" he whispered.
"Yeah," I nodded. "What are the odds?"
"So, that's how I started playing baseball with the boys," I told the Scribe.
"It sounds like something I would do! Mama," she said seriously, "you're all right."
"You too." I smiled, then patted her on the back and thought I just might start calling her by our last name. She's always doing crazy things like scaring children and holding fundraisers FOR HERSELF, but she's one hilarious child. She makes life fun. I'm thankful for her and her siblings every day.
For another post about the Scribe, please go here: The Scribe and a Scheme.
March 13, 2014
Buried Treasure
"I realized I'll never save enough to get a laptop, but at least I can buy a kindle," the Scribe said. "My friend will sell me hers. I just need eighty dollars."
Her friend--that sounded like a recipe for disaster. "And where are you going to get eighty dollars?" I asked. My four kids gathered around. For some reason even Doctor Jones (my toddler) wanted to hear what the Scribe would say.
"I just need a shovel," the Scribe said.
"What? Why?" It made no sense to me, but the other kids seemed to understand.
"Mom, I know what she's talking about," the Hippie said. "Buried treasure! Your buried treasure!"
"Exactly." The Scribe nodded, winking. She sat on the couch before her three siblings joined her. "Mom, can you tell us the story again? Come on, you know we love it. Plus, I need the dough."
I snorted--those kids kill me.
"Fine." I sat on the coffee table, suddenly understanding what they had referred to. "Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her name was . . . Elisa!" The kids giggled as I went on. "She worked, harder and harder, earning every penny, dime, nickle and quarter she could . . . She sold lemonade. She picked asparagus! She even scrounged change from her brother's room--when he wasn't looking."
It was true. I must have been about seven by the time I'd saved more than Bill Gates is worth. I toiled--feeling the joy that comes from a hard day's work. I hid all the money under my bed. Sure that sounds miserly, but I wasn't trying to be an angel. I stole a bunch of my brother's best socks after that--just the left ones. I filled those suckered with change. At dinner, I laughed into my soup when my brother asked where his socks kept going.
My mom smiled sweetly--so innocent--and said, "That's the mystery with socks. No one knows where they go."
Except me! I had them--dang it--I knew more than most grown-ups did.
Anyway, days crept into months and summer finally came. My mom knelt gardening, and when I snatched the hand shovel--she had no idea it was me. I tiptoed to the backyard and that's when I started digging.
The backyard was massive, stretching halfway with grass until it became dirt and went all the way back to a creepy alley that had my name written all over it.
I dug the biggest hole the world's ever seen--and I must have done it quick, 'cause my mom didn't even see me! I was a ninja, a rich ninja and nothin' could stop me--not even taxes.
I grabbed all my change that was still in my brother's best dress socks, then I threw them in the hole and covered 'em up. It was just a random spot in the yard--a place that needed some kind of marker. I didn't want to be obvious, so I took a rock and made a huge "X" in the ground.
It felt really great. My family didn't know how rich I was, and that was all right. I bet my mom would have let me out of chores and everything IF she knew I was a billionaire. But I didn't want them loving me just for my money--that would've been terrible. I smiled thinking about all of it. That night my dreams were wonderful about affording chocolate fountains and hosting big parties.
It wasn't until the rains came, that my hopes crashed to the ground. I stared out my window. The "X" was gone! All my hard work--was hidden.
My mom insisted on dressing me for school. I wore some pansy dress and bows that made me look like a kitten. When my mom wasn't looking, that's when I ran outside and dug into the mud. I made hole after hole, but I couldn't find my funds in the rain. That's the trouble with being good at hiding things--I even hid it from myself. I went inside and that's when I got in trouble. "What . . . Your dress! What have you been doing in the mud?" my mom asked. But I wouldn't talk--pirates NEVER reveal the location of their buried treasure. As I took a bath, my brother asked again about his missing socks and I did chuckle a bit--he'd never know. But it did bother me--maybe that's why God sent the rain. I'd hidden money in stolen socks--that made it sinful, practically.
I looked at each of my kids and finished the story.
"It wasn't until we moved to the big city that I cried. I waved to the house. My family all thought it was because I loved the place. That wasn't it at all though. I was just sad to be leaving my fortune behind."
"Wow," the Hippie said.
"How much dough did you bury?" the Scribe asked.
"I don't know. It might have been five bucks for all I know. But when I was little it seemed like a hundred."
"I knew it," she said. "How far away is that place--does someone still live there?"
"It's too far away. Plus, someone does live there. We just can't sneak in and dig up their yard."
The Scribe nodded. "I guess I'll have to find another way. But it was a good idea . . . and a good story. After all, how many kids have mothers who used to bury treasure, just for fun."
"Not many." The Hippie laughed before continuing. "Maybe just us."
They all got up and left. I gazed through the window to our backyard. Rain splattered the dirt and for some reason I couldn't quit smiling.
Her friend--that sounded like a recipe for disaster. "And where are you going to get eighty dollars?" I asked. My four kids gathered around. For some reason even Doctor Jones (my toddler) wanted to hear what the Scribe would say.
"I just need a shovel," the Scribe said.
"What? Why?" It made no sense to me, but the other kids seemed to understand.
"Mom, I know what she's talking about," the Hippie said. "Buried treasure! Your buried treasure!"
"Exactly." The Scribe nodded, winking. She sat on the couch before her three siblings joined her. "Mom, can you tell us the story again? Come on, you know we love it. Plus, I need the dough."I snorted--those kids kill me.
"Fine." I sat on the coffee table, suddenly understanding what they had referred to. "Once upon a time, there was a little girl. Her name was . . . Elisa!" The kids giggled as I went on. "She worked, harder and harder, earning every penny, dime, nickle and quarter she could . . . She sold lemonade. She picked asparagus! She even scrounged change from her brother's room--when he wasn't looking."
It was true. I must have been about seven by the time I'd saved more than Bill Gates is worth. I toiled--feeling the joy that comes from a hard day's work. I hid all the money under my bed. Sure that sounds miserly, but I wasn't trying to be an angel. I stole a bunch of my brother's best socks after that--just the left ones. I filled those suckered with change. At dinner, I laughed into my soup when my brother asked where his socks kept going.
My mom smiled sweetly--so innocent--and said, "That's the mystery with socks. No one knows where they go."
Except me! I had them--dang it--I knew more than most grown-ups did.
Anyway, days crept into months and summer finally came. My mom knelt gardening, and when I snatched the hand shovel--she had no idea it was me. I tiptoed to the backyard and that's when I started digging.
The backyard was massive, stretching halfway with grass until it became dirt and went all the way back to a creepy alley that had my name written all over it.
I dug the biggest hole the world's ever seen--and I must have done it quick, 'cause my mom didn't even see me! I was a ninja, a rich ninja and nothin' could stop me--not even taxes.
I grabbed all my change that was still in my brother's best dress socks, then I threw them in the hole and covered 'em up. It was just a random spot in the yard--a place that needed some kind of marker. I didn't want to be obvious, so I took a rock and made a huge "X" in the ground.
It felt really great. My family didn't know how rich I was, and that was all right. I bet my mom would have let me out of chores and everything IF she knew I was a billionaire. But I didn't want them loving me just for my money--that would've been terrible. I smiled thinking about all of it. That night my dreams were wonderful about affording chocolate fountains and hosting big parties.
It wasn't until the rains came, that my hopes crashed to the ground. I stared out my window. The "X" was gone! All my hard work--was hidden.
My mom insisted on dressing me for school. I wore some pansy dress and bows that made me look like a kitten. When my mom wasn't looking, that's when I ran outside and dug into the mud. I made hole after hole, but I couldn't find my funds in the rain. That's the trouble with being good at hiding things--I even hid it from myself. I went inside and that's when I got in trouble. "What . . . Your dress! What have you been doing in the mud?" my mom asked. But I wouldn't talk--pirates NEVER reveal the location of their buried treasure. As I took a bath, my brother asked again about his missing socks and I did chuckle a bit--he'd never know. But it did bother me--maybe that's why God sent the rain. I'd hidden money in stolen socks--that made it sinful, practically.
I looked at each of my kids and finished the story.
"It wasn't until we moved to the big city that I cried. I waved to the house. My family all thought it was because I loved the place. That wasn't it at all though. I was just sad to be leaving my fortune behind."
"Wow," the Hippie said.
"How much dough did you bury?" the Scribe asked.
"I don't know. It might have been five bucks for all I know. But when I was little it seemed like a hundred."
"I knew it," she said. "How far away is that place--does someone still live there?"
"It's too far away. Plus, someone does live there. We just can't sneak in and dig up their yard."
The Scribe nodded. "I guess I'll have to find another way. But it was a good idea . . . and a good story. After all, how many kids have mothers who used to bury treasure, just for fun."
"Not many." The Hippie laughed before continuing. "Maybe just us."
They all got up and left. I gazed through the window to our backyard. Rain splattered the dirt and for some reason I couldn't quit smiling.
March 11, 2014
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!
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!
March 8, 2014
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
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
March 7, 2014
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.
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.
