E.C. Stilson's Blog, page 79
February 15, 2013
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 four--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?
"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 four--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?
February 10, 2013
When I was an Idiot (Part 2)
Here's the second part to my post yesterday:
When I was an Idiot (Part 1)
(I hate this story, quite honestly, but I love how I'm still sharing it with you. Please keep in mind that I was eleven AND I was . . . an idiot.)
My mom bought me some bras. So, when we prepared to go to church the next day, she told me to wear my bra, knee-high stockings and some deodorant. But the joke was on her--I didn't wear any deodorant!
When we got to church early, I slumped next to the alter. I should have been thinking about God, but instead I thought of itchy breasts. I cursed my bra then, right in God's presence, because bras were obviously of the devil, just look at this couple:
(Seriously though, I don't know who these people are.)
Christians flooded into the main room after that. I stood and watched as my mother sat in the second pew from the front. I swore everyone looked at me differently. They knew my secret--I wore a bra--and the knowledge almost killed me.
Now, the worst thing, the absolute most embarrassing thing, is that until maturation class (which I took shortly after this episode) I seriously thought people had sex with their boobs. Please forgive me for being crude and under 70, but that's what I thought. I mean hell, a lot of teens got pregnant and they always seemed to be hugging when I saw them. I didn't know how it happened, but it seemed reckless and complicated on animal planet.
Needless-to-say, I hadn't thought too much about boob sex, not until my mom made me wear that bra to church. I figured it was the first step toward the dark side. Maybe it meant I was a blossoming young-adult. If I hugged any young man, it might be the hug of doom. Did I have to hug him, or hug and fall asleep--I didn't know! I didn't even like sleeping with stuffed animals anymore, let alone people.
The pastor's voice suddenly woke me from my thoughts. "I'd like to share a few announcements before we greet each other, hug and shake hands."
Hug. I knew it. I'd died and gone to Hell. I had my bra on, I was prime meat. I couldn't let anyone close. I'd make a terrible mom. I'd been the one to tie my friend and myself to The Moving Dolly. I was the reason we'd crashed at the bottom of the hill. I was too young for all this stress, too young to hug!
I nudged my mom; I had to get out of that bra. If I just took it off, I could go back to being a kid, that carefree one who didn't worry about bras, boob sex or color TV.
I nudged my mom again. "I need to use the bathroom," I whispered.
"Right now?" she asked.
"Yes, now."
"Just wait until he let's us greet each other."
With a hug? Did she want grandchildren that badly? Didn't she know, people would probably try hugging her too? She was walking a very fine line, that woman who smiled at me like she had no idea why I'd turned red.
"Now, fellow brethren. Stand and talk in the love of God. Look at the person next to you. Hug them and say, 'good morning.'"
Who was he, Simon Says? He wasn't the boss of me. But my mom sure was. She had me stand up and shake hands. Some homely seventh grader inched closer. Him and his pimples almost greeted me, when I ran to the bathroom.
Why is it, that when it rains, it pours? I went into the bathroom, took off my dress, but couldn't manage to get my bra off. I tried imagining how people reach behind themselves to unclasp their bras. I fought with the thing, bumped into walls. A woman hushed in the stall beside me. "Is everything okay?" she asked.
Who was she to judge? I'd just heard her toot like a fog horn.
"I'm fine, just fine." I pulled my arms out of the straps, and shimmed the vile, lacy thing over my head. I think it was at this point, that I smelled something. It wasn't from the do-gooder on my right; it pulsed from my armpits.
I waited until all the gossipy, fart-loving "women of the church" left the bathroom. That's when I knew Meet and Greet Time had ended.
I put on my bra-less dress and felt alive once again. My bra and knee-high stockings rested in my left hand. I figured I'd go without stockings too since I was making a real stand against society.
I peered around, outside of the bathroom door. No one was in the hall, no one except the male usher. I felt safe. Nobody would come into the bathroom. I smiled with glee. Maybe my mom had told me to start wearing girly deodorant. Maybe she'd forced me to wear stockings and a bra, but I'd proof that woman wrong. Sure I'd shunned deodorant (a mistake I'd never make again) but I'd get away with it, no matter what!
I pumped the soap into my hand, smeared it on a paper towel and then used the best deodorant ever known--that cheap pink soap they have in Christian bathrooms.
I smelled great. I really did. The only problem was that pink had stained my white dress, right near my pits. I scrubbed the dress with water, stood under the dryer and hoped that would help, but nothing took the stains away.
I put my arms to my sides and nodded. If I didn't move my arms, I'd be okay.
Only one problem remained.
I could throw my bra and stockings away, but then my mom would kill me and probably have me buried in a black bra. I searched the bathroom. I could hide the things and come back when church ended, but there was no place to hide stuff! Didn't they know, every bathroom needs a cabinet under the sink? Then I remembered Mark 4:22,
"There's nothing hidden that won't come out into the light."
That bathroom decorator had skipped a step. You can't find something in the light unless it's hidden!
I peered out the door again. I had to use plan C, my last resort. I could put my bra and stockings in between my thighs. If I walked like Marilyn Monroe, with hips swaying and knees together, I could make it to my mom. I'd stick the items in her purse (the front zipper she never looked in) and then get them back out before we headed home.
So, that's what I did. I stuffed the items in between my thighs and prepared to walk like a runway model to the very front of the congregation.
"It's wonderful to see you here today." The usher held out his hand to shake mine, but I couldn't move my arms--that meant I couldn't shake hands OR HUG! Ha ha!
"Everything okay?" he asked as I sauntered a few steps away, arms down to hide the pink stains, hips swaying and knees practically glued together.
"Oh, everything's great, just great." I nodded, like a queen of the waddling penguins.
"Well, the sermon started. You'll have to walk in while he's talking."
I wanted to prepare myself a bit more. It was a long way to the second row, but that stupid usher opened the door and a bunch of people looked back. I started walking, slowly at first, but then my girly bra and stockings moved and shifted until they bunched up and made me look like I packed a frontal load. I nearly died, knees still touching, arms down, hands out. I waddled more, hoping the mass bump in front of my dress would go away and no one would notice.
"Dear Jesus," I prayed inside. "I know I suck at being a dainty girl. I haven't asked you for anything except salvation. So, can you help me now?"
That's when one of the bra straps swung down and tickled my ankle. Maybe God did that since I used the "suck" word. I heard an ancient lady giggling about how she remembered being my age. I turned; it was Old Agnes. She was ugly and bitter. I suddenly knew what awaited me in my future if she'd been just like me. Poor woman, she must have been a beautiful child. And she never slept with her blanket pretty-side up!
I waddled faster after that, and jumped in the seat next to my mom.
I was even sly enough, my mom didn't see the strap dangling. I tucked it under my leg--like a d ainty n inja--a D inja! After the service ended, I held all the girly crap in my hand and decided to run to the bathroom first chance I got. Most people had already left and my mom still visited with the piano lady.
Agnes kept trying to talk to my mom, but thank God, my saint of a mother was too busy laughing about music. Creepy Agnes waited for a while, but finally went away like a bad fart.
I put all my stuff back on after that, accomplishing the crime of a century.
We drove home, then I hid all my bras and stockings under my dresser. I suddenly felt like a spy, the kind who does a bad job at first, but then becomes a Spy Master!
I'd tried walking like Marilyn Monroe, but failed miserably, just like a beginner spy would have!
I still remember laughing as my mom searched for my bras.
"That's so weird. Where did they go?" she asked. "And do you smell soap?"
I smiled into my mirror. Maybe I'd turn into an ugly adult, but at least I'd be a smart one!
That's the day I knew I'd become a D inja.
When I was an Idiot (Part 1)
(I hate this story, quite honestly, but I love how I'm still sharing it with you. Please keep in mind that I was eleven AND I was . . . an idiot.)
My mom bought me some bras. So, when we prepared to go to church the next day, she told me to wear my bra, knee-high stockings and some deodorant. But the joke was on her--I didn't wear any deodorant!
When we got to church early, I slumped next to the alter. I should have been thinking about God, but instead I thought of itchy breasts. I cursed my bra then, right in God's presence, because bras were obviously of the devil, just look at this couple:
(Seriously though, I don't know who these people are.)
Christians flooded into the main room after that. I stood and watched as my mother sat in the second pew from the front. I swore everyone looked at me differently. They knew my secret--I wore a bra--and the knowledge almost killed me.
Now, the worst thing, the absolute most embarrassing thing, is that until maturation class (which I took shortly after this episode) I seriously thought people had sex with their boobs. Please forgive me for being crude and under 70, but that's what I thought. I mean hell, a lot of teens got pregnant and they always seemed to be hugging when I saw them. I didn't know how it happened, but it seemed reckless and complicated on animal planet.
Needless-to-say, I hadn't thought too much about boob sex, not until my mom made me wear that bra to church. I figured it was the first step toward the dark side. Maybe it meant I was a blossoming young-adult. If I hugged any young man, it might be the hug of doom. Did I have to hug him, or hug and fall asleep--I didn't know! I didn't even like sleeping with stuffed animals anymore, let alone people.
The pastor's voice suddenly woke me from my thoughts. "I'd like to share a few announcements before we greet each other, hug and shake hands."
Hug. I knew it. I'd died and gone to Hell. I had my bra on, I was prime meat. I couldn't let anyone close. I'd make a terrible mom. I'd been the one to tie my friend and myself to The Moving Dolly. I was the reason we'd crashed at the bottom of the hill. I was too young for all this stress, too young to hug!
I nudged my mom; I had to get out of that bra. If I just took it off, I could go back to being a kid, that carefree one who didn't worry about bras, boob sex or color TV.
I nudged my mom again. "I need to use the bathroom," I whispered.
"Right now?" she asked.
"Yes, now."
"Just wait until he let's us greet each other."
With a hug? Did she want grandchildren that badly? Didn't she know, people would probably try hugging her too? She was walking a very fine line, that woman who smiled at me like she had no idea why I'd turned red.
"Now, fellow brethren. Stand and talk in the love of God. Look at the person next to you. Hug them and say, 'good morning.'"
Who was he, Simon Says? He wasn't the boss of me. But my mom sure was. She had me stand up and shake hands. Some homely seventh grader inched closer. Him and his pimples almost greeted me, when I ran to the bathroom.
Why is it, that when it rains, it pours? I went into the bathroom, took off my dress, but couldn't manage to get my bra off. I tried imagining how people reach behind themselves to unclasp their bras. I fought with the thing, bumped into walls. A woman hushed in the stall beside me. "Is everything okay?" she asked.
Who was she to judge? I'd just heard her toot like a fog horn.
"I'm fine, just fine." I pulled my arms out of the straps, and shimmed the vile, lacy thing over my head. I think it was at this point, that I smelled something. It wasn't from the do-gooder on my right; it pulsed from my armpits.
I waited until all the gossipy, fart-loving "women of the church" left the bathroom. That's when I knew Meet and Greet Time had ended.
I put on my bra-less dress and felt alive once again. My bra and knee-high stockings rested in my left hand. I figured I'd go without stockings too since I was making a real stand against society.
I peered around, outside of the bathroom door. No one was in the hall, no one except the male usher. I felt safe. Nobody would come into the bathroom. I smiled with glee. Maybe my mom had told me to start wearing girly deodorant. Maybe she'd forced me to wear stockings and a bra, but I'd proof that woman wrong. Sure I'd shunned deodorant (a mistake I'd never make again) but I'd get away with it, no matter what!
I pumped the soap into my hand, smeared it on a paper towel and then used the best deodorant ever known--that cheap pink soap they have in Christian bathrooms.
I smelled great. I really did. The only problem was that pink had stained my white dress, right near my pits. I scrubbed the dress with water, stood under the dryer and hoped that would help, but nothing took the stains away.
I put my arms to my sides and nodded. If I didn't move my arms, I'd be okay.
Only one problem remained.
I could throw my bra and stockings away, but then my mom would kill me and probably have me buried in a black bra. I searched the bathroom. I could hide the things and come back when church ended, but there was no place to hide stuff! Didn't they know, every bathroom needs a cabinet under the sink? Then I remembered Mark 4:22,
"There's nothing hidden that won't come out into the light."
That bathroom decorator had skipped a step. You can't find something in the light unless it's hidden!
I peered out the door again. I had to use plan C, my last resort. I could put my bra and stockings in between my thighs. If I walked like Marilyn Monroe, with hips swaying and knees together, I could make it to my mom. I'd stick the items in her purse (the front zipper she never looked in) and then get them back out before we headed home.
So, that's what I did. I stuffed the items in between my thighs and prepared to walk like a runway model to the very front of the congregation.
"It's wonderful to see you here today." The usher held out his hand to shake mine, but I couldn't move my arms--that meant I couldn't shake hands OR HUG! Ha ha!
"Everything okay?" he asked as I sauntered a few steps away, arms down to hide the pink stains, hips swaying and knees practically glued together.
"Oh, everything's great, just great." I nodded, like a queen of the waddling penguins.
"Well, the sermon started. You'll have to walk in while he's talking."
I wanted to prepare myself a bit more. It was a long way to the second row, but that stupid usher opened the door and a bunch of people looked back. I started walking, slowly at first, but then my girly bra and stockings moved and shifted until they bunched up and made me look like I packed a frontal load. I nearly died, knees still touching, arms down, hands out. I waddled more, hoping the mass bump in front of my dress would go away and no one would notice.
"Dear Jesus," I prayed inside. "I know I suck at being a dainty girl. I haven't asked you for anything except salvation. So, can you help me now?"
That's when one of the bra straps swung down and tickled my ankle. Maybe God did that since I used the "suck" word. I heard an ancient lady giggling about how she remembered being my age. I turned; it was Old Agnes. She was ugly and bitter. I suddenly knew what awaited me in my future if she'd been just like me. Poor woman, she must have been a beautiful child. And she never slept with her blanket pretty-side up!
I waddled faster after that, and jumped in the seat next to my mom.
I was even sly enough, my mom didn't see the strap dangling. I tucked it under my leg--like a d ainty n inja--a D inja! After the service ended, I held all the girly crap in my hand and decided to run to the bathroom first chance I got. Most people had already left and my mom still visited with the piano lady.
Agnes kept trying to talk to my mom, but thank God, my saint of a mother was too busy laughing about music. Creepy Agnes waited for a while, but finally went away like a bad fart.
I put all my stuff back on after that, accomplishing the crime of a century.
We drove home, then I hid all my bras and stockings under my dresser. I suddenly felt like a spy, the kind who does a bad job at first, but then becomes a Spy Master!
I'd tried walking like Marilyn Monroe, but failed miserably, just like a beginner spy would have!
I still remember laughing as my mom searched for my bras.
"That's so weird. Where did they go?" she asked. "And do you smell soap?"
I smiled into my mirror. Maybe I'd turn into an ugly adult, but at least I'd be a smart one!
That's the day I knew I'd become a D inja.
February 9, 2013
When I was an Idiot (Part 1)
As a kid, I was a goofball--so much has changed. Maybe I was the backward cousin no one wants to claim. Maybe everyone loved me. Who knows . . . what's obvious is that I wasn't normal.
When I was a kid, I thought messed up eyebrows were the ultimate "no no." With messy eyebrows I'd look terrible and boys would leave me alone. I could live a life of celibacy, become a nun, be happy reading books to homeless children and dogs.
I didn't like regular TV. And even though I was born in the 80's, I INSISTED on watching Doris Day, Ginger Rogers, Katherine Hepburn, and The Inn of the Sixth Happiness.
I had a fuzzy blanket. One side was gorgeous, but the other side remained hideous with frays and fuzz balls. If I wanted to be an ugly sweetheart the next day, I'd sleep with the beautiful side of the blanket toward me. If I wanted to be a mean beauty queen, I'd sleep with the gorgeous side up. I'm embarrassed to say that the nice side stayed up more than it should have.
When I got into fourth grade, I shunned all my toys for a dolly.
Not this kind of dolly:
This kind:
I'd push my best friend everywhere in that thing. Who needs a car, when you have a dolly? We put a lawn chair cushion in it. One time we even tied each other to the thing and went down a huge dirt hill. She cut her finger really bad--didn't even cry--and we had the best time ever, laughing in the dirt.
When I was in sixth grade, I decided I was getting ugly. That's when I knew, ugly kids turn into beautiful adults, but gorgeous kids (like I thought I was) turn into the homeliest adults known to man.
I remember staring in my mirror, waving my beauty "goodbye." I even fixed my messed up eyebrows one last time.
That night, I slept with my blanket pretty side down--there was no point in longing for beauty when even my blanket couldn't save me! I nearly had a funeral for my beauty then. I was bound to grow ugly. It was a fact. After all, I thought I'd been an adorable kid, that meant I'd be worse than this dude when I grew up!
So, I woke up the next day. The blanket had worked. I seemed sweeter and uglier than ever. My mom pulled me aside. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes," I nodded, reconciling that there are much worse things than ugliness. After all I could have died, been blind or crippled like the ladies in "An Affair to Remember" and "Magnificent Obsession."
So with my pubescent face, I gazed up at my mother, hoping she'd see the sweet spirit that rested beyond my ugliness.
"Today's a big day," she said.
"Why?" I couldn't understand it. I'd just planned on taking The Dolly for a spin with my friend.
"Today is special because me and your sister are taking you bra shopping. It's time to get your first bra!"
I crumpled. I didn't want a bra. Wasn't it enough that God had turned me ugly. "Really?" I asked sweetly, remembering kindness was all I had.
"Yes." She squeezed my hands and giggled. "Let's go right now. We'll get you a few nice ones and you can wear them to church tomorrow."
I trudged out the door. I didn't mess up my eyebrows because it was unnecessary.
I vowed then, I'd never wear a bra. Nuns don't wear bras! Cool people in the old movies DIDN'T WEAR BRAS! (At least Rock Hudson didn't!)
And if my mom tied me down and MADE me wear a lacy boob catcher
. . . I'd never--ever--shave my legs! I'd never be nice again. I'd be homely AND bitter, the worst combination around!
I think all of that is why church the next day became such a horrid thing. I'll tell you about that tomorrow.
When I was a kid, I thought messed up eyebrows were the ultimate "no no." With messy eyebrows I'd look terrible and boys would leave me alone. I could live a life of celibacy, become a nun, be happy reading books to homeless children and dogs.
I didn't like regular TV. And even though I was born in the 80's, I INSISTED on watching Doris Day, Ginger Rogers, Katherine Hepburn, and The Inn of the Sixth Happiness.
I had a fuzzy blanket. One side was gorgeous, but the other side remained hideous with frays and fuzz balls. If I wanted to be an ugly sweetheart the next day, I'd sleep with the beautiful side of the blanket toward me. If I wanted to be a mean beauty queen, I'd sleep with the gorgeous side up. I'm embarrassed to say that the nice side stayed up more than it should have.
When I got into fourth grade, I shunned all my toys for a dolly.
Not this kind of dolly:
This kind:
I'd push my best friend everywhere in that thing. Who needs a car, when you have a dolly? We put a lawn chair cushion in it. One time we even tied each other to the thing and went down a huge dirt hill. She cut her finger really bad--didn't even cry--and we had the best time ever, laughing in the dirt.
When I was in sixth grade, I decided I was getting ugly. That's when I knew, ugly kids turn into beautiful adults, but gorgeous kids (like I thought I was) turn into the homeliest adults known to man.
I remember staring in my mirror, waving my beauty "goodbye." I even fixed my messed up eyebrows one last time.
That night, I slept with my blanket pretty side down--there was no point in longing for beauty when even my blanket couldn't save me! I nearly had a funeral for my beauty then. I was bound to grow ugly. It was a fact. After all, I thought I'd been an adorable kid, that meant I'd be worse than this dude when I grew up!
So, I woke up the next day. The blanket had worked. I seemed sweeter and uglier than ever. My mom pulled me aside. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yes," I nodded, reconciling that there are much worse things than ugliness. After all I could have died, been blind or crippled like the ladies in "An Affair to Remember" and "Magnificent Obsession."
So with my pubescent face, I gazed up at my mother, hoping she'd see the sweet spirit that rested beyond my ugliness.
"Today's a big day," she said.
"Why?" I couldn't understand it. I'd just planned on taking The Dolly for a spin with my friend.
"Today is special because me and your sister are taking you bra shopping. It's time to get your first bra!"
I crumpled. I didn't want a bra. Wasn't it enough that God had turned me ugly. "Really?" I asked sweetly, remembering kindness was all I had.
"Yes." She squeezed my hands and giggled. "Let's go right now. We'll get you a few nice ones and you can wear them to church tomorrow."
I trudged out the door. I didn't mess up my eyebrows because it was unnecessary.
I vowed then, I'd never wear a bra. Nuns don't wear bras! Cool people in the old movies DIDN'T WEAR BRAS! (At least Rock Hudson didn't!)
And if my mom tied me down and MADE me wear a lacy boob catcher
. . . I'd never--ever--shave my legs! I'd never be nice again. I'd be homely AND bitter, the worst combination around!
I think all of that is why church the next day became such a horrid thing. I'll tell you about that tomorrow.
February 8, 2013
How to Break into a House
Before starting, let me tell you, this post was so touching it made me cry:
Author Spotlight: EC Stilson
Now, onto the story about breaking into a house. . . .
Have you ever been locked out of your house? Well, yesterday my neighbor was.
I sat eating a cream-filled donut when suddenly my neighbor came over and told me everything. We called a locksmith. The cheat said he'd come out and charge more than my life's worth! So, my neighbor and I made other plans. We both jumped the fence--even though I'm thirty now and my best years are behind me. After checking the back door and several windows, my neighbor, who's half runway model half fashion photographer, had an idea. "I think that window's unlocked."
"Really?" I looked up at the window, about seven feet from the ground, and suddenly remembered my wild teenage years.
Two friends and I had this crazy obsession with going into icy drains where the run-off from the Wasatch Mountains flows.
The clear water would rush past, smelling of spring. You never knew when it would flood the chamber. Brushing death (or whatever that saying is) really got to me. "Most girls wouldn't have done that," my friend The Boarder confessed on various occasions. Anyway, we never died, obviously. And I should probably stop writing about this because my mom never knew and if she reads this . . . Well, that's scarier than a storm drain.
Back to my runway neighbor . . .
I kept staring at the window, thinking I'd fit through worse.
"With a ladder, I bet I could fit through there," I said.
"Really?" the runway model asked.
"It'll be tight, but yeah."
So she climbed up a ladder and discovered the window really was unlocked. That woman even took off the screen before tag-teaming me for this:
It looks fun, right? And it was, until realizing my butt hung over a bathtub several feet below me and my legs were stuck.
"Are you okay?" my neighbor asked.
"Oh, fine." I smiled. "Fine." My legs were practically glued on top of each other. Should I go in, or out. In? Or out? Or just cross my legs and smile? I could even wave to the people congregating in the yard across the way. Too bad that donut really went to my thighs.
I shimmied then, remembered being a kid, playing on a playground and hanging from monkeybars by my knees. Yeah, that almost happened. Almost.
I suddenly pulled my right leg to my chest, leaned, and swiveled like a freakin' ninja. I balanced into the house, AND THEN SLIPPED ON THE TUB'S EDGE.
. . . It's the little things that'll kill ya! . . .
A good rule to know when breaking into a house--through the smallest window--is that one should never wear slippery shoes.
"Ahhh." I clasped my hand over my mouth, moon walking like Michael Jackson before clutching onto a beautiful towel that saved me.
"Are you okay?" my amazing neighbor asked again.
"I'm fine," I croaked still hugging the towel. "Fine."
But the truth is . . . I'm GREAT! I have to say that I kind of loved it. What an adventure! Sure it wasn't a life-threatening drain, but I still did something exciting . . . I did the origami AND the moon walk! Like someone said last week, maybe 30 really is just a number.
P.S. If you want to know more about my time as a crazy teenager, please go here.
Have you ever broken into someone's house?
Now, onto the story about breaking into a house. . . .
Have you ever been locked out of your house? Well, yesterday my neighbor was.
I sat eating a cream-filled donut when suddenly my neighbor came over and told me everything. We called a locksmith. The cheat said he'd come out and charge more than my life's worth! So, my neighbor and I made other plans. We both jumped the fence--even though I'm thirty now and my best years are behind me. After checking the back door and several windows, my neighbor, who's half runway model half fashion photographer, had an idea. "I think that window's unlocked."
"Really?" I looked up at the window, about seven feet from the ground, and suddenly remembered my wild teenage years.
Two friends and I had this crazy obsession with going into icy drains where the run-off from the Wasatch Mountains flows.
The clear water would rush past, smelling of spring. You never knew when it would flood the chamber. Brushing death (or whatever that saying is) really got to me. "Most girls wouldn't have done that," my friend The Boarder confessed on various occasions. Anyway, we never died, obviously. And I should probably stop writing about this because my mom never knew and if she reads this . . . Well, that's scarier than a storm drain.
Back to my runway neighbor . . .
I kept staring at the window, thinking I'd fit through worse.
"With a ladder, I bet I could fit through there," I said.
"Really?" the runway model asked.
"It'll be tight, but yeah."
So she climbed up a ladder and discovered the window really was unlocked. That woman even took off the screen before tag-teaming me for this:
It looks fun, right? And it was, until realizing my butt hung over a bathtub several feet below me and my legs were stuck.
"Are you okay?" my neighbor asked.
"Oh, fine." I smiled. "Fine." My legs were practically glued on top of each other. Should I go in, or out. In? Or out? Or just cross my legs and smile? I could even wave to the people congregating in the yard across the way. Too bad that donut really went to my thighs.
I shimmied then, remembered being a kid, playing on a playground and hanging from monkeybars by my knees. Yeah, that almost happened. Almost.
I suddenly pulled my right leg to my chest, leaned, and swiveled like a freakin' ninja. I balanced into the house, AND THEN SLIPPED ON THE TUB'S EDGE.
. . . It's the little things that'll kill ya! . . .
A good rule to know when breaking into a house--through the smallest window--is that one should never wear slippery shoes.
"Ahhh." I clasped my hand over my mouth, moon walking like Michael Jackson before clutching onto a beautiful towel that saved me.
"Are you okay?" my amazing neighbor asked again.
"I'm fine," I croaked still hugging the towel. "Fine."
But the truth is . . . I'm GREAT! I have to say that I kind of loved it. What an adventure! Sure it wasn't a life-threatening drain, but I still did something exciting . . . I did the origami AND the moon walk! Like someone said last week, maybe 30 really is just a number.
P.S. If you want to know more about my time as a crazy teenager, please go here.
Have you ever broken into someone's house?
February 7, 2013
How to Build A Writer's Platform
Interested in building a writer's platform? There's an upcoming workshop on EVERYTHING you need to know about blogging. And I'm one of the instructors.
Find out more here: http://voiceboks.com/workshop/
Find out more here: http://voiceboks.com/workshop/
February 6, 2013
Cade's Surprise: I could be a detective!
First of all, THANK YOU, everyone for wishing me a happy birthday. That meant so much to me. And it really did make my birthday wonderful.
Now, onto the story . . .
Cade's Surprise
Not to brag, but I could be a detective. I listened when Cade whispered to my parents in the other room. "Do you think she'll like it?"
"I'm sure she will," my mother said. And I heard every word.
But then my four-year-old son started yelling next to me, "Mommy! Mommy! What are you listening to?
"Elisa!" Cade said, a bit disappointed as he rounded the corner.
What had I done wrong? He was the one hiding things from me. Having a private party with my parents on my birthday! He shut the door and talked so softly, I couldn't hear them clearly after that.
I strained, and before nearly giving myself a migraine, I gave up and decided to do something truly smart, interrogate my children.
My four children gathered around. I promised them candy and treats. Extra allowance for a month if they'd just spill the beans. The baby (my three-year-old) stepped forward and nodded. I handed her some candy and she started babbling at once. "Ponies, Mama. I want ponies! Daddy wants ponies too."
"We're going horseback riding?" She nodded and I giggled with excitement.
My older girls smiled wickedly at each other. "She wants to watch ponies on TV," they said. "You just paid her that candy for nothin'."
My boy was next. "Give me candy," he said.
I handed it over. "What has your father been planning? What do you know?" I asked him.
"I don't know anything," he said. "Daddy won't tell me. He said I'd tell you." My boy--that theif--turned around and started playing with some trains on the floor while he chewed a HUGE mouthful of treats.
"Girls," I said to the Scribe and the Hippie. "You're my last hope. What is going on?"
"Nothing. We won't ever tell you. I don't care how much candy you give us, or how much money . . . " the Hippie said.
"Wait," the Scribe said, ever the opportunist. "How much money?"
"Five bucks!" I said.
She snorted. "No deal."
"Six?" I whispered, pulling the money from my pocket.
"That's only three dollars each." The Scribe's nose wrinkled sceptically.
"That's all I have. Come on, girls! It's my thirtieth birthday."
"Fine." The Scribe inched closer. "But it won't buy you much." She snatched the money.
I know the Hippie wanted to walk away. She lives by a code of honor few eight-year-olds understand. "Scribe . . . but Daddy said we can't tell."
The Scribe winked. "Like I said. Six bucks won't buy much. Don't worry, Hippie. Here's the deal." Her green eyes sparkled with mischief. "You'll be with Grandma most of the day."
"And?"
"And what? That's all you get for six bucks," the Scribe said.
I was about to take my fortune back when Cade hugged me from behind and kissed me on the cheek. "Ready? Your mom's taking you out really quick. Get ready for a great time."
They ushered me through the door, while the Scribe waved 'goodbye' still holding those bills in her left hand. The Hippie tried smiling, but looked too guilty to be truly happy on my big day. As if witnessing that one confession, would be the end of her.
Long story short, my mom took me for coffee. Then at noon--when I thought we'd go home--she brought me to a hair salon. Cade had found the best streaker in town--wait, that came out wrong. I mean "hair streaker." I had my hair actually done for once. Then when I got home, all of our parents waited in the front room. Cade put his hand over my eyes and led me to this!
A new curio with figurines!!!
My new hair
So, I may have lost six bucks, but I got something much better--a curio with beautiful figurines, an awesome family and fantastic friends (bloggers and otherwise). I feel like the luckiest 30-something in the world.
Now, onto the story . . .
Cade's Surprise
Not to brag, but I could be a detective. I listened when Cade whispered to my parents in the other room. "Do you think she'll like it?"
"I'm sure she will," my mother said. And I heard every word.
But then my four-year-old son started yelling next to me, "Mommy! Mommy! What are you listening to?
"Elisa!" Cade said, a bit disappointed as he rounded the corner.
What had I done wrong? He was the one hiding things from me. Having a private party with my parents on my birthday! He shut the door and talked so softly, I couldn't hear them clearly after that.
I strained, and before nearly giving myself a migraine, I gave up and decided to do something truly smart, interrogate my children.
My four children gathered around. I promised them candy and treats. Extra allowance for a month if they'd just spill the beans. The baby (my three-year-old) stepped forward and nodded. I handed her some candy and she started babbling at once. "Ponies, Mama. I want ponies! Daddy wants ponies too."
"We're going horseback riding?" She nodded and I giggled with excitement.
My older girls smiled wickedly at each other. "She wants to watch ponies on TV," they said. "You just paid her that candy for nothin'."
My boy was next. "Give me candy," he said.
I handed it over. "What has your father been planning? What do you know?" I asked him.
"I don't know anything," he said. "Daddy won't tell me. He said I'd tell you." My boy--that theif--turned around and started playing with some trains on the floor while he chewed a HUGE mouthful of treats.
"Girls," I said to the Scribe and the Hippie. "You're my last hope. What is going on?"
"Nothing. We won't ever tell you. I don't care how much candy you give us, or how much money . . . " the Hippie said.
"Wait," the Scribe said, ever the opportunist. "How much money?"
"Five bucks!" I said.
She snorted. "No deal."
"Six?" I whispered, pulling the money from my pocket.
"That's only three dollars each." The Scribe's nose wrinkled sceptically.
"That's all I have. Come on, girls! It's my thirtieth birthday."
"Fine." The Scribe inched closer. "But it won't buy you much." She snatched the money.
I know the Hippie wanted to walk away. She lives by a code of honor few eight-year-olds understand. "Scribe . . . but Daddy said we can't tell."
The Scribe winked. "Like I said. Six bucks won't buy much. Don't worry, Hippie. Here's the deal." Her green eyes sparkled with mischief. "You'll be with Grandma most of the day."
"And?"
"And what? That's all you get for six bucks," the Scribe said.
I was about to take my fortune back when Cade hugged me from behind and kissed me on the cheek. "Ready? Your mom's taking you out really quick. Get ready for a great time."
They ushered me through the door, while the Scribe waved 'goodbye' still holding those bills in her left hand. The Hippie tried smiling, but looked too guilty to be truly happy on my big day. As if witnessing that one confession, would be the end of her.
Long story short, my mom took me for coffee. Then at noon--when I thought we'd go home--she brought me to a hair salon. Cade had found the best streaker in town--wait, that came out wrong. I mean "hair streaker." I had my hair actually done for once. Then when I got home, all of our parents waited in the front room. Cade put his hand over my eyes and led me to this!
A new curio with figurines!!!
My new hair
So, I may have lost six bucks, but I got something much better--a curio with beautiful figurines, an awesome family and fantastic friends (bloggers and otherwise). I feel like the luckiest 30-something in the world.
February 2, 2013
It's my birthday AND I saw my shadow!
I love my birthday because it's Groundhog's Day. Like I wrote above, I did see my shadow and (unfortunately) I'm more accurate than any groundhog alive.
I've had some terrible b-days--like when Zeke died and his viewing fell on my birthday. I thought I'd hate February second forever. Sweet family members, trying to make my twentieth birthday better, gave me sympathy cards and birthday cards filled with money. That was very sweet of them to try making a devastating situation better, somehow.
But I think I've also had the most amazing birthdays.
Three years ago, after being on bedrest for months, I went into labor on February first and ended up having Doctor Jones thirty minutes before my birthday. This is quite amazing considering that the Zombie Elf is born on Cade's birthday.
Anyway, the next morning when I expected a single nurse to come check my blood pressure etc., an entire group of nurses and doctors came in and sang happy birthday. They bought me a cake, held the baby and gave us special birthday wishes. It was amazing. And it taught me two things.
#1
Strangers: People can often surprise us, being kind and generous without asking for anything in return
#2
Life: Our personal reactions to experiences make us who we are. But we need to remember, as bad as life gets, it can be the complete opposite--wonderful beyond our dreams
Today is also an awesome day because Cade has a huge, romantic surprise planned for my thirtieth. I'm dying to know what we'll be doing today. But nobody will spill the beans!
Also, my newest book went live as an eBook on Amazon today. Talk about great timing!
Amazon.com Widgets
I've had some terrible b-days--like when Zeke died and his viewing fell on my birthday. I thought I'd hate February second forever. Sweet family members, trying to make my twentieth birthday better, gave me sympathy cards and birthday cards filled with money. That was very sweet of them to try making a devastating situation better, somehow.
But I think I've also had the most amazing birthdays.
Three years ago, after being on bedrest for months, I went into labor on February first and ended up having Doctor Jones thirty minutes before my birthday. This is quite amazing considering that the Zombie Elf is born on Cade's birthday.
Anyway, the next morning when I expected a single nurse to come check my blood pressure etc., an entire group of nurses and doctors came in and sang happy birthday. They bought me a cake, held the baby and gave us special birthday wishes. It was amazing. And it taught me two things.
#1
Strangers: People can often surprise us, being kind and generous without asking for anything in return
#2
Life: Our personal reactions to experiences make us who we are. But we need to remember, as bad as life gets, it can be the complete opposite--wonderful beyond our dreams
Today is also an awesome day because Cade has a huge, romantic surprise planned for my thirtieth. I'm dying to know what we'll be doing today. But nobody will spill the beans!
Also, my newest book went live as an eBook on Amazon today. Talk about great timing!
Amazon.com Widgets
February 1, 2013
Happy Birthday, Doctor Jones
I can hardly believe that my baby is three years old today!
She sure does make life fun.
A few months ago, after we left the dollar store, Doctor Jones tried crossing the street without me. I screamed, grabbing her and holding her close. "Honey, look out. That's dangerous!"
She studied the road and then turned to me. "Oh, Mama," she said, shining like the angel she is, "you're right!"
I paused. Did she really say those magical words?
Almost better than, "Will you marry me?" "I do." Or, "You won the lottery." My toddler said I'm right.
Folks, it was epic because validation is a beautiful thing! It only took five kids AND eleven years of being a mother. . . .
I've heard this'll only happen once in my lifetime. Do you think that's true?
She sure does make life fun.
A few months ago, after we left the dollar store, Doctor Jones tried crossing the street without me. I screamed, grabbing her and holding her close. "Honey, look out. That's dangerous!"
She studied the road and then turned to me. "Oh, Mama," she said, shining like the angel she is, "you're right!"
I paused. Did she really say those magical words?
Almost better than, "Will you marry me?" "I do." Or, "You won the lottery." My toddler said I'm right.
Folks, it was epic because validation is a beautiful thing! It only took five kids AND eleven years of being a mother. . . .
I've heard this'll only happen once in my lifetime. Do you think that's true?
January 31, 2013
I wrote another book :0)
How many heart attacks can a woman have before her spouse becomes
suspicious? Sure, that old standby—the headache—has served both men and
women well for years. But aren't you sick of the same old routines? It's
time for a change and this guide is the perfect solution.
Click the picture to view it on Amazon
Get ready to
discover ten creative (and hilarious) ways to avoid having sex with your
partner!
I had so much fun writing this one.
suspicious? Sure, that old standby—the headache—has served both men and
women well for years. But aren't you sick of the same old routines? It's
time for a change and this guide is the perfect solution.
Click the picture to view it on Amazon
Get ready to
discover ten creative (and hilarious) ways to avoid having sex with your
partner!
I had so much fun writing this one.
January 30, 2013
Today is the day my son died
We're walking along a beach. I find myself holding his hand even though we haven't seen each other in years. I keep gazing up at him and smiling. "I've dreamed about this," I say, tears in my eyes.
"So have I."
We keep walking, for miles and miles. My hair is well past my shoulders. It flutters as we walk. A bit of sand gets between my toes, and I would have giggled, but this moment calls for quiet--for peace. A chill runs through my body and I use my free hand to pull a shawl closer to my shoulders. I should have fastened it with both hands, but I'd rather die than lose contact with him now.
After we've traveled a while, we both turn to the sunset. "It's beautiful," I say.
"And it brings a memory with it," he says, knowing more about me than any living person.
"Yes."
"Will you tell me?" he asks, like a child.
I can't help but say yes; he holds my heart. "Once, when I was very young, when colors seemed more important than a career, and playing the violin in a nearby cave was more desirable than anything, I said a prayer."
He smiles. "And what did you pray?"
I look out at the waves tumbling from miles away. "I asked God to give me a sign that He still loved me."
We remain quiet. I bathe in our silence and will the moment to never end.
"Did you doubt His love so much?" he asks.
"I guess I did."
I paused, wondering over the small moments that make up our lives. "Well, nothing happened for the entire day that I prayed. I painted and drew. I went to my cave and played my violin. At one point, I knelt next to a rock and so much sadness overcame me. 'God, don't you love me anymore?' I asked.
"The voice seemed still, small. I didn't hear it at first because it was just a nudge. But before long the words filled my very being and I FELT them. 'Of course,' a voice replied and the air smelled of incense. 'Look,' the voice said.
"I looked at the sunset and my breath stopped. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen in that area. The clouds stretched orange and gold. They were amazing and beautiful. They were my favorite color, chosen as my favorite not because of its hue but because of its representation."
"What does orange represent, to you?" he asks.
"Eternity." It's a simple reply, yet I know he understands. It tells more about me--about the desires of my heart--than almost anything.
"How interesting; eternity is what you long for more than anything," he says. "Some wish only for fame, fortune, or even death after years on Earth--you . . . You, seek eternal life." He pauses, still holding my hand gently. "And you knew God loved you . . . Because of the beautiful, orange sky? You thought he answered your prayer?"
"Yes," I said. "I knew He answered it. In some way, it made me realize how He painted the sky for me . . . for each of us, every single day. His love shines everywhere, through almost everything."
"And that's what you hold onto whenever bad things happen in your life?" He studies a shell by our feet and I don't say a word. "You remembered that, even when I died . . ."
I don't want to talk about his death, not when he's standing beside me. I need to answer his question though. He deserves the truth. "Not at first, but yes. I remembered that sky. I knew how much God loved me, and all of us. I couldn't lose sight of His answer to my prayer or the gifts God has given me each day of my life."
Zeke--MY son just nods. I can tell he's thinking hard about something before he breaks the silence. "I'm glad God picked you to be my mom."
His words hit me like a hot iron, shaking my very core--they're something I always longed for, but never thought I'd hear, even in my dreams.
"But we will see each other again," he continues. "Orange is my favorite color now, too, a reminder that someday we'll be together in eternity."
Tears fill my eyes. He's so strong and healthy, much different from the infant who died after two and a half months of being in the hospital.
He did love me. He WAS proud, although I let him go and pulled the plug. I remember how hard he fought to live--even as he took his last breath in my arms.
"I'm so proud you're my son. You never gave up on life. You never would have given up on me." I try acting brave in that moment, so my pain, guilt and regrets can't hurt him. "I've done everything I can so people will know you; your life won't be forgotten. I can't make up for the past, but I'm trying my best for the future. Every day I spent putting my journal--the moments from your life--into the computer . . . Every moment brought pain, but with it, you came back, just like today."
My eyes close and a deep part of myself starts fading. A heart once full, seems a bit empty, and my fingers close on themselves because HE's no longer holding my hand.
I breathe slowly, willing peace to come again.
It's okay, though. The warmth of his touch stays on my skin like perfume, and somehow it will never leave. "Please know I won't forget you," my voice drifts away just like my son did.
I look back, but Zeke really is gone, washed away with the wind and the waves.
As I turn to the crazy ocean, I don't feel quite as sad or alone anymore because the setting sun proves I'll see Zeke again.
I let go of my shawl and the wind carries it away along with my regrets and pain. My hands fold as if in prayer since the warmth of his touch still lingers.
"Zeke, I love you. Always will." My heartbeat slows and I speak the one question that always plagues me. "Do you still love me?" I ask although he's gone and he's been dead for years.
Then, I feel something--it's just a nudge at first, but so much peace comes as I hear his words. "Of course, I love you, Mama," says a still, small voice. "Look."
My eyes turn forward. The sunset is so warm and vibrant, those colors wrap around me, giving me new reasons to live. I no longer simply long for eternity, but I realize the truth in its meaning--eternity is part of right now, just like my memories and my dreams.
My spirit wakes up and the moment ends. For some reason, I'll never forget it; I saw Zeke as a healthy man--everything I wanted him to become. Plus, he made a promise and I know that kid wouldn't break his word. Someday we'll see each other again, someday beneath a golden sky.
If you'd like to see him, and pictures
from the time written about in my book, "The Golden Sky" click here:
Amazon.com Widgets
"So have I."
We keep walking, for miles and miles. My hair is well past my shoulders. It flutters as we walk. A bit of sand gets between my toes, and I would have giggled, but this moment calls for quiet--for peace. A chill runs through my body and I use my free hand to pull a shawl closer to my shoulders. I should have fastened it with both hands, but I'd rather die than lose contact with him now.
After we've traveled a while, we both turn to the sunset. "It's beautiful," I say.
"And it brings a memory with it," he says, knowing more about me than any living person.
"Yes."
"Will you tell me?" he asks, like a child.
I can't help but say yes; he holds my heart. "Once, when I was very young, when colors seemed more important than a career, and playing the violin in a nearby cave was more desirable than anything, I said a prayer."
He smiles. "And what did you pray?"
I look out at the waves tumbling from miles away. "I asked God to give me a sign that He still loved me."
We remain quiet. I bathe in our silence and will the moment to never end.
"Did you doubt His love so much?" he asks.
"I guess I did."
I paused, wondering over the small moments that make up our lives. "Well, nothing happened for the entire day that I prayed. I painted and drew. I went to my cave and played my violin. At one point, I knelt next to a rock and so much sadness overcame me. 'God, don't you love me anymore?' I asked.
"The voice seemed still, small. I didn't hear it at first because it was just a nudge. But before long the words filled my very being and I FELT them. 'Of course,' a voice replied and the air smelled of incense. 'Look,' the voice said.
"I looked at the sunset and my breath stopped. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen in that area. The clouds stretched orange and gold. They were amazing and beautiful. They were my favorite color, chosen as my favorite not because of its hue but because of its representation."
"What does orange represent, to you?" he asks.
"Eternity." It's a simple reply, yet I know he understands. It tells more about me--about the desires of my heart--than almost anything.
"How interesting; eternity is what you long for more than anything," he says. "Some wish only for fame, fortune, or even death after years on Earth--you . . . You, seek eternal life." He pauses, still holding my hand gently. "And you knew God loved you . . . Because of the beautiful, orange sky? You thought he answered your prayer?"
"Yes," I said. "I knew He answered it. In some way, it made me realize how He painted the sky for me . . . for each of us, every single day. His love shines everywhere, through almost everything."
"And that's what you hold onto whenever bad things happen in your life?" He studies a shell by our feet and I don't say a word. "You remembered that, even when I died . . ."
I don't want to talk about his death, not when he's standing beside me. I need to answer his question though. He deserves the truth. "Not at first, but yes. I remembered that sky. I knew how much God loved me, and all of us. I couldn't lose sight of His answer to my prayer or the gifts God has given me each day of my life."
Zeke--MY son just nods. I can tell he's thinking hard about something before he breaks the silence. "I'm glad God picked you to be my mom."
His words hit me like a hot iron, shaking my very core--they're something I always longed for, but never thought I'd hear, even in my dreams.
"But we will see each other again," he continues. "Orange is my favorite color now, too, a reminder that someday we'll be together in eternity."
Tears fill my eyes. He's so strong and healthy, much different from the infant who died after two and a half months of being in the hospital.
He did love me. He WAS proud, although I let him go and pulled the plug. I remember how hard he fought to live--even as he took his last breath in my arms.
"I'm so proud you're my son. You never gave up on life. You never would have given up on me." I try acting brave in that moment, so my pain, guilt and regrets can't hurt him. "I've done everything I can so people will know you; your life won't be forgotten. I can't make up for the past, but I'm trying my best for the future. Every day I spent putting my journal--the moments from your life--into the computer . . . Every moment brought pain, but with it, you came back, just like today."
My eyes close and a deep part of myself starts fading. A heart once full, seems a bit empty, and my fingers close on themselves because HE's no longer holding my hand.
I breathe slowly, willing peace to come again.
It's okay, though. The warmth of his touch stays on my skin like perfume, and somehow it will never leave. "Please know I won't forget you," my voice drifts away just like my son did.
I look back, but Zeke really is gone, washed away with the wind and the waves.
As I turn to the crazy ocean, I don't feel quite as sad or alone anymore because the setting sun proves I'll see Zeke again.
I let go of my shawl and the wind carries it away along with my regrets and pain. My hands fold as if in prayer since the warmth of his touch still lingers.
"Zeke, I love you. Always will." My heartbeat slows and I speak the one question that always plagues me. "Do you still love me?" I ask although he's gone and he's been dead for years.
Then, I feel something--it's just a nudge at first, but so much peace comes as I hear his words. "Of course, I love you, Mama," says a still, small voice. "Look."
My eyes turn forward. The sunset is so warm and vibrant, those colors wrap around me, giving me new reasons to live. I no longer simply long for eternity, but I realize the truth in its meaning--eternity is part of right now, just like my memories and my dreams.
My spirit wakes up and the moment ends. For some reason, I'll never forget it; I saw Zeke as a healthy man--everything I wanted him to become. Plus, he made a promise and I know that kid wouldn't break his word. Someday we'll see each other again, someday beneath a golden sky.
If you'd like to see him, and pictures
from the time written about in my book, "The Golden Sky" click here:
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