Elora Nicole Ramirez's Blog, page 5

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Fourteen

We’ve been helping with the youth group at our local church for a few months, and one in particular has caught our attention. She’s the one with the lip ring, the pink hair, the tattoos drawn with Sharpie on her wrist and arm and ankle. She begins to open up to us. Starts telling us about the times her dad drinks, about how he once took her mom by the hair and pulled her outside into the front yard to beat her. We start spending more time with her. We call the cops when she messages me and says, “he’s drunk again and yelling. I’m scared. Please do something.”

We start talking about what it would look like if she moved in with us.

We move into a two bedroom apartment in the fall so she can have a space to make her own. We take her to Kohl’s and get her clothes so she’s not wearing sweatshirts with holes and shoes with no soles.

“I’m not okay with her staying there,” I say one night when Russ and I are talking about it. I’m leaning against his chest shaking after a run in with her father. We’d gone to pick her up for Christmas dinner and she wasn’t coming to the door.

“I’ll go get her,” I said. I opened the car door and started walking up the sidewalk only to have her kick open her front door and run outside, grabbing me as she passed.

“GO GO GO,” she wheezed. “Hurry!”

We dove into the car and I turned around to face her, eyes wide.

“What in the world?”

She was crying openly, something we never see. “He was drunk again….he was….he was threatening mom.” She wipes her cheeks. “I don’t know what he was going to do but I had to get out of there…” She points at Russ. “We need to leave. Hurry. He can’t see y’all.”

We called the cops again and find out later that a nearby neighbor lady vouched for him. “He’s a great dad!” she said. And just like that the police believed her and left her brother in his possession. He was still punch drunk, still whispering threats to her mom.

After we drop her off that night, she texts me.

“You probably shouldn’t come around here for a while. My dad saw y’all tonight and he’s pissed. I don’t know what he’d do if you came around here again…”

We feel stuck. We know if she’s ever going to live with us, we have to do it right, which means legal guardianship. We have no idea where to start, so we start talking with her mom about it. M is with us every time, talking about how she wants to go to another school and wants away from her father.

“He scares me, mom.” Her feet tap a rhythm against the floor. “He should scare you, too.” Her mom mentions she would be willing to sign over rights.

“That doesn’t mean she’s your daughter, though.” 

I lift my hands in understanding. “There’s no way I can take the spot. I consider this an agreement more than anything else.”

M starts staying the night with us, starts being around more than she’s not. I start talking with counselors at school to see what it would take to get her enrolled.

And then her mom changes her mind. I tell M on a February night that feels like spring, and she leans against the cinderblock behind her.

“I’m never getting away, am I?” She asks, her voice just above a breath.

I get close. I look at her until she’s looking back at me, her eyes welling up with frustration and fear.

“You’re getting out.” I say. I believe it too. I know it because I see the determination underneath the disappointment. “You’re one of the strongest people I know — you will survive because you are not meant to go to waste.”

She wraps her arms around me then, startling me with her display of affection.

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you for loving me. Thank you for accepting me. You and Russ mean so much to me and I seriously wouldn’t have made it if y’all weren’t in my life…”

We stay like that for a while, my eyes blinking away tears and her mascara leaving marks on my shoulder.

Driving her home is excruciating, and on my way back to the apartment I think about how close we’d come to having someone else live with us. It isn’t like she’d be our daughter — not really. I meant what I said to her mom. But we would have taken full responsibility for her. We would have fed her, kept her safe, made sure she got to and from school.

A feeling blossoms at the bottom of my chest and I press my hand against it to keep it from spreading. By the time I got home, I’m a wreck. Something is shifting inside, something I can’t articulate. Whatever it is, it feels like change and it scares the shit out of me. I wipe my cheeks and breath once-twice-three times to calm the desperate shakiness in my voice and pull in front of our apartment.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Thirteen

I’m not pregnant.

I surprise myself. The negative sign on the test does a number on my psyche and I call my mom later that day. She tells me to book an appointment with the doctor, just to be safe.

I manage to get into the doctor, but it’s not my doctor — it’s her nurse practitioner. The entire experience is a disaster. She says, “if the test said negative you’re not pregnant.” Her and others around me are rolling their eyes. I tell her about the symptoms, and ask if there’s anything at all that could make me feel like shit.

“I can’t stop crying,” I say. “I’m not hungry. Or I am hungry and then want to throw everything up after I eat.”

She makes me take a test to determine if I’m depressed. I stare at the sheet of paper attached to the clipboard and shake my head in disbelief. Does this actually work?

Do you think of hurting yourself? Check yes or no.

She tells me I should probably see a psychiatrist for the issue of me crying. Russell speaks up, saying that even though I am an emotional person, the past few weeks have been abnormal.

“She does cry a lot,” he says. “Enough for me to notice…”

They look at him then and I know even though he was sticking up for me, they only categorize it as a male who can’t handle his woman’s emotions. I feel completely unheard. The appointment ends and I’m left shell-shocked. Russ and I go to a nearby pizza place that night and I eat my weight in pepperoni rolls and Canadian bacon pizza. I know I’m going to regret it, I’ve eaten so little grease and carbs lately, but I don’t care. I feel worse than I did before the appointment and fully intend on eating my feelings.

The next day, I write a letter to my doctor explaining the nightmare of care that I received.  She books me an appointment with her later in the week.

“I’m going to do some tests,” she says. She hands me a slip of paper. “I want to check a few things: namely, your hormone levels. That will tell me a lot.”

I wait for weeks and finally hear back from her when I call and demand some answers.

“It’s your thyroid,” she says. “You should probably go to your primary care doctor and get some medicine to regulate these hormone counts.” She pauses, “and take some B12 pills for energy.”

I go see my doctor and get placed on hormone treatment. I start taking B12 pills. After researching cluster headaches and migraine causes, I realize Exedrin can create cyclical headaches and dependency. I stop taking it to treat my own pain and slowly see relief. After a few months, I start feeling like me again. They find something on my thyroid, something that looks like a cyst. I make an appointment for an endocrinologist but it’s stupid busy there and I can’t get in for months.

I take the medicine while I wait, and I dive into my second year of teaching. When I finally do get in, everything shows up fine.

“Your organs can get sick, just like you can,” the doctor explains. “I imagine your thyroid was just fighting something and looked inflamed. You do have a goiter, but it’s nothing to be concerned about — I don’t see why you need the medicine still.” He shrugs, “you can take it though if it makes you feel better. At this point, either the medicine worked or you battled a virus.”

I stop taking the medicine.

Russ and I haven’t talked about kids since before the appointment, and at this point, I’m avoiding it all over again. It’s been months. No need to change our rhythm, no need to stir the pot if nothing is going to happen. We’re in the middle of year two and without even discussing it, both of us are back on the five-year plan. We keep moving. There are fights, and there’s a learning curve that wasn’t there before in our relationship. The tectonic plates of our personality are starting to merge and shift. Our imperfections, the ways we wound the other, they’re becoming heightened.

We celebrate our anniversary that summer with a trip to Austin. I’ve always told Russ, “I could never move here” but that weekend I feel a fondness for the city. We start making trips consistently, start finding spots the locals love. Our relationships in Belton are growing distant. Russ tries to throw a surprise birthday party for me and our friends spend the entire evening playing Rock Band. We feel more and more separate, more and more different, more and more alone.

After a trip to North Carolina to serve as camp counselors, we begin to entertain the idea of moving to San Diego. While in Asheville, we connect with some friends we know from Invisible Children, an organization that works to raise awareness about Joseph Kony and the Lord’s Resistance Army. No one really knows what Kony is resisting, but there are multiple references to the conflict being a spiritual one with Kony claiming to have the same spirit as Alice Lakwena, his predecessor. It’s a heavy week, and it comes with a lot of clarity for Russ and me.

First of all, I need to be writing more. For as long as I remember, stories have run through my veins. I’ve survived off books during the darkest moments of my life, and it’s impossible for me to not build a narrative with how I see the world. There are always characters moving, always stories building, always a pulse within that beats with the desire to spend my life helping others see that story — more specifically their story — can change the world.

There’s also something happening between us as a couple. Before the trip, I knew we needed to come but Russ resisted.

“We don’t have the money,” he said.

I waited, knowing we needed to meet our friend in her hometown and be on the bus when it pulled out of Biloxi. With days to go, he texted me while I am at a conference.

Let’s do it, the text reads. I can’t say why we’re supposed to go. It just feels like there’s something waiting for us there. Perhaps it’s as simple as community. Perhaps it’s a little more complex. It’s not until the end of the week that we begin to understand. We know that the comfortable lifestyle we’ve been living isn’t enough anymore. Back home, we’re feeling more and more dissonant with the white-picket-fence mentality of our small town. We know there’s something more out there for us. And even though we don’t quite know what “it” is, we think San Diego may be the answer.

Some friends of ours live there, and they’re thinking about starting up a local 826 chapter. They tell us about their hopes, about how I could serve as Educational Coordinator and Russ could serve as chef while taking classes at the CIA. We would mentor kids in writing and business and create a program where we swap books created by our students with books written by students in Haiti and Uganda. It fits perfectly with where we feel movement within our own lives and our lives as a couple, and there’s huge benefit in knowing we’d actually have a community of support around us.

One day, we’re talking to a friend on the phone and we tell him we’re praying about San Diego. He’s ecstatic.

“I can’t wait for y’all to get here. I’ll be praying for everything. Just don’t be surprised if, now that you’re open to hearing where God wants you, he asks you to move to Austin or something.”

We all laugh because of the absurdity and make tentative plans to move after the school year — after I graduate with my M. Ed.

It’s one of those seasons where things begin to click into place. Grad school has a sense of ease to it, Russ is excelling at his position within the district, I’m chosen as team leader for Pre-AP and AP English. Any sort of change outside of our plans for San Diego are not even considered. I even draft a letter of support for when we announce our move.

And then we meet the girl who changes everything.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Sixteen

Within a few weeks, I’m back at the apartment leasing office on the weekends. I’ve worked here before for a few months when we first moved to the complex as a way to get some extra spending money into our monthly budget. It’s a good gig. I get paid hourly as well as commission if I rent an apartment, and that money immediately goes off our rent. Plus, if we’re slow, I can work on lessons and read and update my blog.

It’s something I’m doing now — blogging.

It’s actually something I’ve been doing for about five years, but just now I’m taking it seriously. It’s not a place to update what’s happening in my life anymore. I’m trying to be intentional with it — trying to write about things that move me and inspire me. Now that I’ve graduated with my M. Ed, I have all of this free time. Professors are pushing me to consider getting my doctorate, but there’s something else I want to try first: writing a book. Working at the leasing office gives me ample time to focus.

Russ gets a job as a server at a local restaurant. What he really wants is to work in the kitchen, but getting one of those jobs is just about impossible so he settles for the next best thing. He hates it, and I know he would rather be doing just about anything else, but if this position gets him closer to where he really wants to be, he’s going to stick with it. We’ve had about ten million conversations since that day in February when I came home to him on the living room floor, but it took him a while to actually fill me in on one important detail. We’re on our couch one night, our legs overlapping each other, when he clears his throat and looks at me.

“Do you remember when we thought about moving to San Diego?”

I notice the past tense but say nothing. I thought we were still thinking about it — still trying to move toward that eventuality. I nod, encouraging him to keep talking. We can cover San Diego later.

“Well, I knew if we moved, I would have to leave my job. I also knew I didn’t have the strength to actually find the reasons to leave.” He looks at me sheepishly, “I may have prayed that if God wanted us somewhere else, he would take the job from me.”

I’m quiet for a moment, unsure of how to respond. And then I start laughing. It’s a strange feeling, laughing. I haven’t really had much to feel joy over in a long time. It’s not even that this is a particular joyful moment, but for some reason, I can’t get over the perfection of Russ’ admission that this was all the hand of God. It makes so much sense when I think about the craziness of the past year. I start laughing even harder, the tears making their way to my eyes. Russ starts laughing too, the belly laugh I grew to love when we were in college. When I finally stop laughing, I’m wiping the tears from my eyes and shaking my head.

“I really need you to take a step before you say any other crazy prayers.”

He agrees. “I guess I just didn’t think about what it actually meant when I prayed it in the fall. I wasn’t really paying attention to the fact that like…He would do it, you know?”

We bust into another round of giggles, our evangelical roots finding humor in the one thing we’ve been told over and over and over again: God finishes what He starts. God fulfills His promises. God does what He says He will do.

There’s one caveat to this line of thinking, something that’s never really talked about in the flannel graphs and revival themes and youth retreats:

When God finally does what He says He will do, it’s never, ever, ever what we thought it would look like. Which is why we shouldn’t be surprised when we start visiting Austin more. Specifically, the culinary school.

The decision comes slowly. We’re talking one day, and I ask what he would want to do if he could do anything.

“Well, I’ve always loved to cook,” he says.

“Of course. Your food is amazing. You thought about culinary school in San Diego. Is there a closer one?”

What I’m thinking is him being able to start now, instead of waiting until we’re able to move to San Diego. What happens though is something completely different. Suddenly, Austin is now on the table. I think back to the conversation we had with our friend a few months ago when he said don’t be surprised if you move to Austin… and wonder if he knew something we didn’t.

One night, we take a tour with the admissions counselor at the school in Austin. She asks if Russ wants to go ahead and put in his application. He hesitates, and then I look at her. Without thinking, I nod my head.

“He does. How much is the fee?”

His eyes go wide, but there’s a relief in his shoulders that I haven’t seen in months. This is where we shine as a couple. We push the other toward doing our dream. It was Russ who, right as we started dating, pulled a microphone out of his bag when I told him I couldn’t sing unless I had a mic in my hand.

“It makes it feel official, you know? Like I’m not just singing under my breath in the shower.”

And at the end of my first year of teaching, when I made the decision to quit the private school in favor of getting my certificate and pursuing a job in the public school system, he was the one who calmed my fears about working in a completely different environment.

“I know you, love. You’re going to thrive in the public school because you’re going to fall in love with any student who walks into your classroom. They need you there. And you’re brilliant enough to really make a difference.”

It was also Russ who saw the very first words of a book I started to write one night after graduate school.

Sunrises make me come alive was the first line, and he was the only person who knew that I came up with it during class when my favorite professor talked about how sunrises reminded him of life.

“You’re going to keep writing, right?” He asked me back then, giving me space and time when he knew the words were resting heavy in my gut.

It was him who pushed me into the doors of the university, telling me that I would “knock ‘em dead” with my graduate degree. I wanted to go, but didn’t know why. I didn’t want to be an administrator. I didn’t want to run a school. I just knew something was calling me to get a graduate degree and it needed to be in Education.

I was returning the favor now. Here was his dream, waiting for him on the other side of an admissions slip. I didn’t think twice when I told her we would apply. And it was a “we” because I knew he would never agree if I didn’t hold his hand and let him know I was okay. We could do this. It wasn’t what we expected, but it most definitely was our next step.

He filled out the information and was approved on the spot, so we made it official. Russ would be attending Le Cordon Bleu, one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the world.

That night, we talked about what this would mean for us. Would he commute back and forth? His classes would be at night: would this mean he would need to quit working at the restaurant? And the big question: did this mean we needed to consider moving to Austin?

It was the decision that made the most sense, and one that took a lot of people by surprise. Some family members told us they were worried about our choice because Austin was “a city of sin and shame.” We weren’t concerned about that — we weren’t concerned about much outside of what felt right for where we knew we supposed to be next. Some people thought our desire to find community was odd. They were the ones who would wrinkle their noses in confusion.

“Don’t you have friends here?”

No one our age. In fact, because of us helping with the youth group, the people we spent the most time with were in high school. Not the most conducive for twenty-somethings looking for a place to put down roots.

Even thought we knew our next step, there was a lot we still didn’t know.

We had no idea if this meant I would be teaching in Austin, no idea how or when Russ would find a job — all we knew was that compared to a city that felt more and more suffocating and more and more foreign, Austin felt like home. That was enough for us.

We find our future apartment, a cozy one bedroom, over Spring Break. My first day back to school, something shifts internally. I remember the night driving home M, how the weight pressed into my gut and made me think change was on the way. At the time, I was scared shitless. We were so comfortable, so cemented in our ways. And yet, we were miserable. On the outside it looks like we are well on our way to rooting down and sinking deep into a community, but we know the truth. Any roots we’ve developed are rotting and quickly dying, begging for some reprieve.

Austin will be our escape.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Twelve

Well hello. Are you new here? I'm currently sharing pieces of my memoir every day. You can go here to read from day one.  

Our honeymoon is short: we only have two nights before we head back to Temple where we’ve already moved into our cheap newlywed apartment. Russ has to work, and I’m starting classes for teaching certification at University of Mary Hardin-Baylor. Our apartment is unassuming and suffers from a horrible foundation that has me tripping on the way to the bathroom at night, but it’s ours. We stay there until the guy delivering our washer and dryer looks at me and says, “get out of here. Make them open up a new apartment for you or let you out of your lease — whatever  — but you can’t stay here anymore.” He looks around and winces at the slope in our floor.

Russ is on it before I can even blink and within two weeks, we’re moving into another apartment across the property. They give us more square footage for the same price and beg us not to get anyone else involved. We agree. We knew our time there is borrowed, anyway. As horrible as it is, and has bad as I want to move, there are good memories here. It’s where we bring home Gatsby the Great, our daschund-golden mix. It’s where my family comes and stays for New Years Eve.

It’s also where we start talking about kids.

It’s not our first conversation, but after the shock of our first month where I seriously thought we’d be bringing home a honeymoon baby, we decide to make it concrete. I’m on birth control and it seems to be working (so far) but do I want to take it forever? Do we even want kids? Our answers are pretty unanimous: I don’t know how long I want to take birth control, but I do know it’s what I need to do. He supports me. He would like to try and wait five years before we have any kids. I agree.

“I just want to focus on us,” he says.

I nod. “I can’t imagine having kids right now…” I grow quiet, trying to picture it. Nothing comes. My mind is completely blank. “All I know is every time I think I might be pregnant, I freak. And maybe that’ll change in the future, and maybe we’re being completely naïve thinking we can control this, but five years sounds amazing.”

I’m not lying. I really can’t picture having kids. I don’t think much about it. It doesn’t feel as if I’m missing anything, and I’m so focused on surviving my first year of teaching in public schools I can’t see how a baby thrown in the mix would work for us. So we agree all over again that we’ll revisit the idea in five years, sooner if fate forces her hand.

A year later, fresh off another move to a nicer apartment in Belton, I start experiencing symptoms right as I start graduate school. I don’t want to eat, and then I’m starving. When I start eating, I feel sick to my stomach. I’m crying randomly, and I can’t breathe, and I’m having these debilitating headaches, and I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life. A nagging thought persists, but I dismiss it. Eventually, I can’t anymore. One night while we’re lying in bed I wake from a dream of me holding a baby boy. When I open my eyes and see the fan above me, I know with a certainty. We’re having a baby, and he’s going to be a boy. I place my hand on my stomach and let out a small laugh.

Me. A mother.

I still have weeks before I can even take a test, but even still, I look at Russ one night at dinner and let him know.

“I think I’m pregnant.” There are tears in my eyes and they start to run down my cheeks. He pauses a beat.

“Are you sure?”

I shake my head. “No. Yes. I haven’t taken a test, but I can’t shake it — I’ve been having all of these symptoms…”

He nods his head. “I’ve been wondering, actually.” He looks away and then catches my eye, reaching across the table. “It’s okay, love. We’re going to make it.”

The tears come fast then, because this wasn’t our plan and yet Russ is not swayed. He knows our foundation is strong enough to handle the what ifs. We finish dinner, talking about what it might be like if I really am pregnant. Will the baby have his skin tone? My eye color? Will they love to write or sing or draw or will they be our complete opposite: invested in team sports and vying for football scholarships? I look at Russ sitting next to me and smile.

“You’re going to be a great father.” I say it without thinking. But now that it’s out, I see it. I believe it. I get up from my seat and wrap my arms around his neck. “Now or later, I can’t wait to see you with our kids.”

Kids. Plural. I’ve gone from not being able to think about tiny little feet running around us to having multiple. He places his hands on my hips and kisses me.

“You’re going to be an incredible mother, too — you know that right?” And I inhale sharply. I’ve heard those words before — my first year of teaching, during my yearly review. My principal sat in one of the desks in my classroom and wiped his glasses with his shirt, and then tapped the desk with his pen.

“You’re going to be a great mother, Elora. Your love for these kids…” he had trailed off then, saying something about how I cared for his son and under that care he started to love to read or something. I can’t remember the specifics now. But the statement did something to me and that I am remembering. It branded me. One of those statements of truth spoken over you that maybe you don’t necessarily want to hear because it hurts a little bit — burning away the extra pieces that don’t fit anymore. I brushed it off then, not being able to see myself as a mother. I think I might have even shrugged.

But in this moment, hearing those words come from Russ’ mouth, I feel like I can do anything. It’s always this way. I doubt myself and then he holds my hand, saying I can do it, that he believes in me, and suddenly I can do anything. My dreams build themselves with his belief.

I lean forward to kiss him and then his grip tightens and he’s guiding me toward the bed and his breath leaves a trail of goosebumps down my skin.

Later that night, I’m still awake. Russ is next to me, his arm draped over my side. I’m watching the moon outside our window and tracing shapes into our sheets, thinking about our conversation over dinner. I’m realizing it’s the first time I actually admitted that I could see us as parents. The more I think about it, the more I know it’s only a matter of time.

Russ is meant to be a father.

Even more shocking: I know I am meant to be a mom. I don’t know when this changed for me. Maybe with the supposed pregnancy? The thought freaks me out a little bit, and I have to breathe a few times to get used to the idea. But me being a mom is not a maybe type of thing anymore. It’s a for sure thing. It’s just a matter of when.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Eleven

Well hello. Are you new here? I'm currently sharing pieces of my memoir every day. You can go here to read from day one.  

We get married two years later, on a scorching July afternoon. I look back at pictures and notice two things: how calm I am and how hot everyone else looks. You can see the sweat gleaming on their skin.

Our reception is in a dance hall, and there is no AC. We’ve rented swamp coolers to alleviate the heat, but it just may be the quickest dinner, cutting of the cake, first dance, and bouquet toss I’ve ever experienced. We thought it would be cooler. I know, summers in Texas and all that — we probably should have known. But the past three summers gave us incredible temperatures over the Fourth of July, and we anticipate the same result. Even that morning proves our theory: the clouds blanket the sky and the temperature hovers around 70. But then, the sun peaks around noon and by the time everyone heads to the reception hall, we have 100 degree weather on our hands. People start dropping like flies.

“We’d really love to stay, but….”

It’s fine with us. Russ’ parents have booked us a cabin in Fredericksburg for a few days and we’re ready to leave. The past few years have had their fair share of drama, but we’ve created a stalwart team. Plus, let’s just be honest: we’re two twenty somethings in the midst of the evangelical movement about to leave on their honeymoon. The anticipation is at a fever pitch. We don’t even get past city limits before our hands are all over each other. When we pull into the driveway of our cabin, we can’t get in fast enough. We go straight to the hot tub in the back yard, and then from the hot tub Russ runs a bath for me, taking my hair down clip by clip while I soak.   We don’t really sleep that night. We explore and talk and laugh and snack and kiss and explore some more. I think it’s close to dawn before we finally give into the exhaustion and fall asleep in each other’s arms. It’s the first time we’re in front of the other naked — without any self-imposed limits. Yet, as we move from the hot tub to the bathtub to the couch to the bed, we realize that in so many ways, this feels natural. Nothing has changed about our circumstance, really. Only a ceremony and a sheet of paper if you think about it.

And yet.

I cannot stop thinking about it. This man is my husband. My husband. I roll the title around my tongue and smile blissfully as I fall asleep, his arms around me and his breath on my neck. When I wake, the sun is dancing through the blinds and I’m turned toward Russ, my leg wrapped around his. I stare at his face for what feels like hours, overcome with gratitude that I didn’t give into the ex all those moments he begged for me to stay the night. I realize how traditional I am: how important this morning is for me. It’s the first time I’m waking up to someone, and this someone is my husband. I will wake up to his face for the rest of our lives. My finger traces a path down his cheekbone and I notice the way my arm stretches across the bed. There’s too much space between us. I want to be closer. I move so my head rests in the crook of his neck, our bodies even more entangled. He wakes up, giving me a grunt of approval.

“You’re even more beautiful in the morning,” he croaks, his voice still scratchy with sleep.

I tilt my face toward his and he smiles at me, his hands roaming across my hip, my thigh, my back. It’s not long before both of our hands are roaming and we’re throwing back sheets because they’re just in our way. Eventually, we leave the cabin, squinting against the summer sun. We never last very long, though. After a few hours we’re always back in our own little world, back to the exploring and talking and laughing and snacking. I don’t know this then, but it’s the last time we’ll ever be anywhere without our phones constantly attached to us. Always on, always waiting, always a breath away.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Ten

He proposes twice, and both times I say yes.

The first time comes a few months after he surprises me at school. It’s summer, and the heat from the day radiates off the sidewalk when he gets on one knee and asks the question. Third Day is playing in the background, something about being a shelter when it’s raining. Everything around me moves to a hyper focus, and yet it feels surreal.

I say yes before he can even finish asking the question, but we both know our families aren’t ready for that level of commitment. We decide to keep it our secret. From that point on, I have a fiancé, but everyone else knows him as my boyfriend. Maybe it’s not the smartest move, but it’s the only one we have and that point we’ve been through such hell in previous relationships it doesn’t take long for us to realize oh this is what it’s supposed to be like. We’re in it for the long haul.

The second proposal comes on Christmas day, six months later.

My parents are slowly getting used to the air of finality within my relationship with Russ. I’m acting different. I’m looking to him more than I’m looking to them, and this freaks them out. I totally get it. I’ve always been a rule-follower who wanted nothing more than to please mom and dad. I am the one who breaks a rule and then feels so guilty I confess before even trying to get away with it. I cannot stand them not being in agreement with me. My confidence shakes them, especially after my run-around with the ex. They still don’t know half of what happened, and it’ll stay that way for a while, but for now all they can see is a relationship they thought was a rebound developing a sort of permanence.

I’d be freaking out too.

When Russ asks to ride with my dad when he goes on an errand, I know something is up. He does not voluntarily offer to spend time with either of my parents, knowing the unease he creates. And yet, something in my gut is telling me that everything is about to change, and the next morning he catches my eye across the room and asks me in front of everyone the question I’ve already answered.

I say yes. Again.

Everyone celebrates, and my dad looks at me. I’m resting against Russ in the kitchen, his arm around me. Both of us are quiet. We’ve had six months to get used to the idea that this is forever. I’m already rooted.

“Aren’t you excited?” He asks, leaning against the counter.

I look at him and smile.

“I am. I’m just….it’s hard to wrap my brain around it.” It’s not a lie. I look down at my ring that has only been worn whenever Russ and I were alone. I look back up at Russ and find him staring at me. He leans in and kisses my forehead.

“I love you,” he whispers, and my mind flashes back to the seven year old girl dancing in her mama’s workspace.

You will be my air, and you will be my roots, and falling in love with you will feel like Truth.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Nine

We get to his apartment and there are people waiting there. My old roommate, some friends from freshman year — mostly acquaintances. Apparently, our dinner we planned for us three has turned into a thing.

He looks at me apologetically. “I told her you were coming into town, thinking she knew, and she immediately wanted to plan something. Said they would want to see you.”

It was fine, really. Just like freshman year, I’m completely oblivious to any sort of intention he has for the evening. Despite my moment of clarity back at the store, I’m still trying to play it cool. So I smile and shrug and he reaches around me for a plastic trash bag.

“I got you something,” he says. A secret look passes between us.

“You got me something in a trash bag?” I raise an eyebrow. He laughs.

“Just open it.”

I glance at Heather who lifts her hands in surrender. “I had nothing to do with this,” she says. I know she didn’t. She would have demanded he wrap it properly. I reach my hand inside and feel my fingers brush against plastic.

Plastic like a tube.

Plastic like a…funnel.

My eyes grow wide and I look at him.

“You didn’t.”

He winks and my heart skips a beat and I pull it out of the bag completely and dissolve into gleeful laughter.

My old roommate grimaces. “What…is that?”

I ignore the question. I’m holding it in my hands like he got me a puppy or something.

“You got me a cola bong?” My voice is a whisper. I can feel the tears beginning to form and I have to blink fast to prevent them from growing.

For a moment, he doubts himself. I can see it in his eyes. But then I start laughing and I wrap my arms around him and I wipe my cheeks because the tears are coming and I’m looking at Heather and I feel like I’m in one of those movies where someone gets a gift that only they can interpret because this? How can I explain that it’s so simple but it means so much? I look down at it again and rub my hands along the curve of the tube.

This says everything.

Heather leans in close.

“Is that…is that what I think it is?”

I swallow and nod because I can’t find my voice.

“It is.” I finally manage to whisper and her eyes go wide because she knows and I start laughing all over again. My old roommate asks why it’s such a big deal, and I just look at Russ and smile, thinking about the couch and the carpet and his sticky legs and the look.

“It’s just part of our story.” I say. And I leave it at that. I don’t know if she remembers. I don’t know if it even would matter to her. It means everything to me. I think of his arms around me again and a buzzing fills my pores.

Something is happening. Something alchemic.

Things move fast after we get back to Oklahoma.

We talk every night, now by phone. My friends are expecting updates every morning. By Spring Break, he stays with me for a couple days and meets my parents. Our first kiss is in the stairwell after everyone goes to sleep. I cuddle next to my sister afterwards and whisper in her ear, “he just kissed me.”

At sixteen, she’s less than impressed. She mumbles something in her sleep and turns away from me. Nothing can stop my grin, though.

On my way back to school, I stop and spend a few hours with him and meet his family. His roommate takes pictures of us and before I even get back to my dorm I’m dropping off the film to develop. I can’t even get to my room that night. All of my fellow RA’s plus Daree are waiting for me and want to know everything. I tell them we’re official, that our first date was on the riverwalk, and I think my parents are freaking out a little bit.

They’re squealing. It’s loud. I’m sure we’re waking up some of the residents, but I don’t even care. My smile keeps growing.

Two weeks later, he surprises me at school. He’s supposed to be on his way to Port Aransas for a concert. I have a feeling though, call it a gut instinct, that he may be on the way to see me. No one has said anything, but before he signed off of instant messenger he called me love and I remember thinking, “if he’s coming here — if he’s surprising me — he may say I love you. In fact I’m pretty sure he’s close to saying it. And I’m not gonna say it. You hear me, self? I’m not gonna say it back.”

I’m freaking myself out with this one. There is the gut-level knowing that feels completely different than the ex-boyfriend. With Russ, I feel home. It’s the only way to describe it. He roots me and makes me feel like I can breathe again. And yet, I’m terrified. Even though this is different and I know it’s different, I’m still psyching myself out over it. I’m still waiting and expecting the other shoe to drop. So that night, I’m hopeful but overly cautious. No need to expect something only to be disappointed because he’s actually going where he says he’s going. So I settle into the couch in the corner of our lobby and start watching a movie.

Here’s the thing — I’m not one of those girls who will run toward someone and leap in their arms. I’m just not. I think it’s sweet, and I will absolutely tear up when I see it happen, but typically when I lose my shit it’s still very….contained.

When he walks through the double doors, though, all bets are off. One moment I’m sitting, and the next I’m running toward him. I cannot get to his arms quick enough. He’s here.

He’s here he’s here he’s here he’s here.

All of my freak out moments vanish the moment he wraps me in his arms. Everything quiets. It’s like all I can hear our hearts in tandem because that’s the only thing that matters.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

“You’re here.” I mumble, nestled against his chest. I’m surprised by how emotional I feel. I blink away tears and try to settle the way my heart is going crazy against my chest.

“I am.” He kisses my temple and squeezes me tighter. “I couldn’t wait another day without seeing you.”

Before I take him to a room Heather reserved for him in the guy’s dorm, he pulls me to his car. He has a gift for me: a set of champagne glasses, a book, and some sparkling grape juice.

“I found these glasses a few years ago at a garage sale,” he says. “I’ve been waiting to use them for something special.”

I lean forward for a kiss, and he whispers against my skin, “I’m falling in love with you.”

The whole earth stops and I rock back on my heels. I stare at him, wide eyed.

“I love you too,” I whisper back. I don’t even think about the promise I made myself. We laugh afterwards, him admitting he never intended to tell me so soon and me filling him in on the promise I made in my room before he showed up at my door. This is who we are though: together, all bets are off. We cut to the quick. It feels like Truth because it is true and we can’t be anything other.

Two weeks after the surprise, we’re looking for rings. I don’t know this, but he’s already got one reserved. My friends know this, they’ve been chatting with him over AIM for weeks and I have no clue. All I know is everything is happening fast. I know it appears that way from the outside. But between us, we know. We know what it feels like when Truth guts you and starts you over.

One day that spring I walk to the student center to check my mail. There’s an envelope stuffed inside the small square, and it’s full to the brim. I have no idea what it’s for, but I recognize Heather’s handwriting. I open it up on my way back to the dorm and before I even reach the street I’m bawling.

Inside the envelope are pictures that have been cut to pieces. I know them immediately. They’re the pictures I gave Heather and Daree months ago when we cleaned out my dorm room. On every tiny piece, I’m smiling. What’s not there: my ex. He’s been cut from every single shot. There’s a slip of paper inside and I pull it out to see that all of my Precious Happy Baby Girls were behind it.

We are so excited to see this smile again, the note says. Don’t worry. We had fun with the other half of the pictures. I laugh and place the piece of paper against my chest and let the sun beat down on my face for a few minutes before walking inside.

When I see them next, I start crying all over again and they wrap me in their arms. I know then no matter what happens, no matter where we go after college, these hearts will forever be wrapped in my own.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Eight

At the end of the year, I decide to transfer to Oklahoma Baptist. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t all because of the boy, but there was a small percentage of truth in the fact that I just hadn’t found my tribe yet. I wouldn’t find them for another year, my hold on the boy and his friends a viselike grip in a reality I was constructing. I was determined to fit into his world. I would be irreplaceable.

So while my reality was slowly crumbling around me, Russ and I stayed in contact through AOL Instant Messenger. While my boyfriend told me he wanted space, Russ told me he had found someone and was fairly certain there were wedding bells in the future. I covered my ass and told him, “oh yeah. Me too. Doesn’t it feel great?”

He agreed.

Six months later, we were both single, but we didn’t start talking until junior year of college.

It starts in November. The ex just yelled at me over the phone, calling me all sorts of names because I had the audacity to believe that sleeping with someone else was, you know, a deal breaker. I sit in front of my computer one night and see Russ log on. It’s been months since we’ve talked, so I decide to say hi.

We talk that night for hours. Back and forth, back and forth, we play 20 questions until we can’t stay awake anymore. We do this almost every night until the end of the semester, and then he mentions something about coming down to visit over the break.

“Sure,” I say, noncommittal. I hope he follows through with the plan. But then the old roommate and I go to the lake with some of our friends from high school instead, so he stays on campus. I’m chatting with him one night at home and he asks for my number.

“Would that break some time barrier?” He asks, and I chuckle at how adorable he is

— how unpretentious. I call him a nerd, but end up giving him my number. When I do, something happens inside my gut. A movement.

“Stop by on your way through town,” he says. “Call when you’re on your way so I know when to take a break.”

It’s a good plan. He knows I have to drive through town on my way back to school, and for a few days, I tell him I will. But then I get in the car and press on the gas and my stomach starts rolling around and I can’t stop. I can’t pull over. My breath catches and I drive even faster, the college town and where he lives a blur as I pass them. Normally, it takes about nine hours to get to school.

I’m so scared about what’s happening — so terrified about intimacy and relationships and the way my insides move when ever his name pops into my mind — that it only take me six hours before I’m pulling into my dorm.

.::.

I can’t run from him forever. Over the next month, our conversations become more frequent. Our friendship deepens. We were close when I was at school with him, but there were always people in the way — his girlfriend, my boyfriend, our mutual friends — we never had time where it was just us. But these conversations are our secret moments. Kind of. At the time I’m an RA for a freshman hallway and the girls give me a run for my money. They want me to tuck them in. They want me to turn their lights out at night. They want me to go with them to search for houses. They want me to read their papers. They want me to mother them.

And for the first time, I welcome the challenge.

Every night, like clockwork, Russ messages me and I can’t hide my apprehension and excitement. Every night, like clockwork, at least one of the girls props up on my bed or leans against my desk talking with me. They know what’s happening. They also know what I’d gone through just a few months prior. Between their surveillance of our conversation and the not-so-clandestine copy and paste I partake in with my Precious Happy Baby Girls living downstairs, I know there is an entire group of women who have my six.

One night, I talk with Heather Diane about it.

“I’m just…intrigued.” I say. “I don’t know if I can put it into words.”

She straightens and points at me.

“Then it’s decided. I’m coming home with you after J-term and we’re going to hang out with Russ. I want to meet this guy.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“You’re serious.”

“As serious as Juliette Lewis in The Other Sister.”

“What about Paul Walker in Joyride?”

She closes her eyes for a brief moment of bliss.

“Yeah. That too.”

The decision is final. We pack our bags and I tell my parents I’m coming down for the weekend. We have everything we need: Big Gulps, tons of chocolate and junk food, and Justin Timberlake. We belt Cry Me a River until we can’t anymore and then we put in Christina Aguilera’s Dirrty and pretend to flash truck drivers on their way past us. We have t-shirts under our hoodies, and most of them don’t even look our way, but it’s the wildness of it. The windows rolled down and the winter wind biting our cheeks while we giggle until we cry — it’s the perfect distraction while we drive down I-35, and I know Heather does it on purpose.

We’ve told Russ we’re coming, and we’re actually stopping this time, and he says that we can meet him at the hardware store where he’s working. We pull into town and my throat slowly closes. We turn right onto the street and my hands start to shake. By the time we park, I’m a mess of nerves. I stare at the front of the store for about three minutes before I even open the car door.

“I can do this, right?” I look at Heather and she walks in front of me.

“Well, you’re gonna have to because I’m walking in right now.” She smiles and turns away from me and I grimace. I kind of lovehate her in this moment. I feel frozen. I’m breathing heavy. I probably look like a hot mess.

I’ve been talking with him every single night for the past month, but I have no idea what to expect inside those doors. I put one foot in front of the other and as soon as I walk cross the threshold, I see him. We catch eyes. My heart stops.

And then I hide.

Quite literally. He’s with a customer, so I know I have some time. I pretend to be absolutely fascinated with PVC. I pick up wires as if that’s what I’ve been looking for — why I came into the store. I refuse to look up and see if he’s coming my way. I’m two seconds away from grabbing Heather’s wrist and pulling her back to the car. I can step on the gas and drive straight through, pretend we never made the stop. I’ve done it before.

I open my mouth to whisper that I think I’ve made a mistake, that I don’t want to be here, that it’s stupid and why don’t we just leave, and then I see him walking toward me.

He gets closer.

His smile gets bigger.

I turn into a statue, unable to function.

And then he wraps his arms around me and I know. I know immediately.

I know because I can breathe. I feel like I’m flying. I feel weightless. And yet, I feel centered. I feel….right.

“Hey,” he whispers into my ear. I mumble something against his chest.

It’s the end of January, and the sky is winter-grey outside.

But inside? Inside it feels like every single vein is flowing with sunlight. I can’t run anymore. I’m not the skittish colt. I am rooted, and I feel the air around us crackle. Everything before this moment doesn’t even matter — it disappears. Just vanishes. We pull away from each other and he catches my eye again and I remember the moment in the lower level lobby two years earlier. It’s the same look, and now I know what it means.

I’ve found my home.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Six

Well hello. Are you new here? I'm currently sharing pieces of my memoir every day. You can go here to read from day one. 

Ignoring Russ proves harder than I would imagine. He picks me up like we planned and the entire time roommate and I talk about my boyfriend, who just recently surprised me at the campus for Valentine’s Day. I’m still reeling from it all. I was so thrown by him coming down I completely forgot about a shift I had at the library and almost lost my job.

He also stayed with Russ.

Now, we feel as if we have a connection. A common ground. Something to talk about and fill the air with so I’m not freaking out because I am going to be talking to teenagers about sex or being in this strange boy’s car.

The strange boy that I am so curious about….I blink and shake my head.

“Did you get my note?” I ask, turning toward him for a brief moment before looking back down at the hem of my shirt. I wrote him a thank you note for letting my boyfriend stay with him at such quick notice. My heart skyrockets up to my throat and I try to clear it without being obvious. I’m always choking or coughing with this guy. The words clamor to get out and I am forcing them down, afraid of what I might say if they had the chance to breathe. He’s going to think I have tuberculosis or something.

Russ nods his head.

“I did.” He focuses on the road, not looking at me. “I’m glad he was able to come down. Did you guys have fun?”

I mirror his nod. It’s about the only thing I can think to do.

“I was…I was really surprised.”

He hides a grin and shrugs. “I guess it was successful then?”

My roommate interrupts from the backseat and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Has Elora told you about the time….”

My roommate is the real MVP that night, keeping the conversation languid and focused. It helps that we’ve known each other since grade school so the stories are so numerous there’s no way we’ll lack anything to talk about on the way there. I’m forever grateful for her filling in the quiet spaces because I’m sitting in the front seat losing my shit.

We get to the church and I give my talk, complete with Jessica Simpson’s song about waiting before she married Nick Lachey. I know. We all know how that turned out, but in the moment, it was sweet and fit within my evangelical mindset. I have the kids write letters to their future spouses, and like any good facilitator, I join them.

I sit down across from my roommate and grab a pen. She looks at me in confusion.

“Are you just writing a letter to your boyfriend?”

We both laugh. We’ve already had that conversation multiple times: I’m pretty sure he’s the one, but I don’t want to jinx anything so I try not to focus on it. But that’s pretty much what I’m thinking about when I put pen to paper — I’m writing to him.

Hey love,

I write. I think nothing of it. I don’t call boyfriend “love”  — I don’t call him anything other than his name. Whatever. He won’t mind.

You could be anywhere in the world right now. You could even be in this room….

Now there’s something.

My hand starts to shake a little bit and I tap the pen against the table before moving forward. I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe it’s just because of the emotion. This past month has moved at break-neck speed and I’m just feeling a little topsy turvy, that’s all. It doesn’t mean doubt. Not at all. I think back to my boyfriend and conjure the moments we had by the lake, at the diner, in his car, and suddenly Jessica Simpson is replaced with Lifehouse and I’m blushing because those moments were not so innocent. My pen starts gliding across the paper again and soon, I’m finished.

My roommate tries to glance at my paper but I hide the words with my hand.

This note has just turned sacred. I fold it multiple times and drop it into my pocket. No one is seeing this one.

I’m quiet on the way home. Russ and my roommate fill the air with conversation and I laugh where I need to and moan appreciatively when Russ buys me a coke at a local gas station. I don’t want to deal with the feelings I’m experiencing, and so I go inward and look out the window at the wheat fields rushing by, my arm curled against my stomach so I avoid any accidental contact with Russ.

I think I throw the note away when I get back to the dorm. I’m not sure what happens to it. I don’t give it to anyone, and four years later when I need it, it’s nowhere to be found. I never forget those first few lines though. To this day I believe it was a mixture of my intuition and the Universe trying to get my attention.

See that boy over there in the corner? The one with the frosted tips? Pay attention to how you feel when you’re around him. It’s a lot like being rooted. And his smile and touch will send you flying through the air.

And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Five

Well hello. Are you new here? I'm currently sharing pieces of my memoir every day. You can go here to read from day one. 

There are some stories where in order to move forward, you need to first take a step back. Start at the beginning. Remember the moments. Give them their due.

This is what always happens when I share the story about Russ.

                                                                          .::.  

I sit at a table with my friend, wrestling through the revelation I learned the night before while talking with the boyfriend. This is freshman year. We’re months into our relationship at that point, new and fresh and totally absorbed in one another. He got me a ring for Christmas by that point. I had told him, with heart beating out of my chest, that I loved him. He responded by laughing.

“Elora, I wanna climb up on the rooftops and shout it out for everyone in Oklahoma. I love you too. I’ve known since I put that ring on your finger at Christmas.”

The night before though, we have one of our no-judgment-talks where we share every piece of information about ourselves we can think of without fear that the other person would freak out. It’s our safety zone. What’s said in those conversations are held in confidence that we won’t renege on our agreement to accept each other at all cost.

He says he needs to tell me something, and I think nothing about it. Was it another story about growing up watching his father deal drugs? Was it something about his mother’s struggle with alcohol? Did his sister punch the wall again out of anger?

“I’m not a virgin,” he whispers. He says he regrets it. He tells me it was his ex-girlfriend, and at the time, he thought he loved her.

“If I could do anything though, I’d take it back. I wouldn’t do it.”

I’m 18 and thick in the purity movement. For all practical purposes, this was a deal breaker. For a moment, I break our promise. I judge him. How can you just not say no? I thought. How can you not wait?! I’ve waited. I’ve said no.

The self-righteousness is thick, and I turn that into a battle cry that looks like forgiveness and understanding.

“It’s okay.” I tell him. “We can just go slow. Now that I know, I can help by not making it hard for you.”

(I cringe at this naïvety now. So many things I would tell my 18-year-old-heart in this moment. So many things that sound like grace and life and the messiness of everything.)

“I want to work with teenage girls,” I say to my friend the next day. “I want to help out with Disciple Nows and retreats and camps…I want to get involved in ministry. I miss it.”

My voice is shaky with determination. She looks at me.

“Why retreats? Disciple Nows are so exhausting.”

I lean forward, hoping that maybe my proximity will show how earnest I am.

“I just want people to know their mistakes don’t have to define them.”

Translation: the boy I am in love with, the one who I believe I will be with for the rest of my life, does not meet the very real requirements I’ve set for my future partner and I have no idea what the hell I am supposed to do with this information because if there’s truly grace here for him, that means I have to offer it. At the very least, I can’t hang it over his head…

There’s another story here about evangelicalism and the roots that wrapped so tight they almost strangled me. What’s important though, is what comes next. My friend looks at me and smiles. She’s excited. I’ve passed a test, even though I didn’t know there would be one. I just wanted to meet her and see if she knew of any opportunities.  She’s an older friend — a sophomore or junior — involved with the campus Baptist ministry.

“Well, I have a lot of connections. I’ll keep your name in mind.”

I take a deep breath I didn’t even know I was holding and smile.

“Thank you. Please. Just let me know.”

I start gathering my things, but a boy with khaki shorts and spiky hair with frosted tips walks up to the table and starts talking with my friend. I look at him closely, trying to place him. I know him from somewhere. He starts laughing and I remember: on our first day of class, while walking into a freshman “How-to-Survive-College” course, he was the one who turned and said How you doin in true Joey Fatone style.

“Oh.” He said, his eyes wide. “I thought-I thought you were my best friend.” And then he laughed, pointing at a girl who was talking with someone else. It’s the laugh that places him for me.

I smile and eavesdrop on his conversation. 

“I’m hosting a True Love Waits rally for my youth group in February. Do you think you would be able to speak?”

I choke on my orange juice and the boy throws me a concerned look. I wave him off.

My friend sucks in her lip, thinking, “I might be busy, but let me double check my schedule and let you know.”

He walks away and my eyes goes wide. The synchronicity feels like magic.

“Did that just happen?”

She nods and takes a sip of her coffee before gathering her things and standing up to leave. “Don’t worry. I know I can’t do it and am already planning on telling him about you.”

My heart rate skips a few beats. I nod, swallowing. This means I actually have to follow through — I actually have to speak. I gather my things and smile a thank you before running off to my English class.

He comes up to me a few days later, before chapel.

“Hi, uh…I don’t think we’ve met yet, but my name’s Russell, and a mutual friend said you would be interested in speaking at my True Love Waits rally in a few weeks.”

He shakes my hand and I smile. His eyes hold a depth I’m not used to, and I pause for a moment before answering.

“Hi. She told me she would be sending you my way.” I’m so awkward. This is awkward, right? I have no idea, but something feels bubbly at the bottom of my gut and I cough, trying to cover up my surprise.

Why do my insides feel so carbonated? It has to be because I’m so excited about speaking to his youth group. I can’t wait to talk to my boyfriend. That’s it. That’s why I’m excited. I get to talk with him soon. Yay!

I blink back into focus, realizing Russ is talking to me, and I smile again — playing off my brief freak out. We make plans for him to pick up me and the roommate on the night of his rally. I grab his arm when he turns away and let go as soon as he turns back toward me, the warmth of his skin against mine sends my brain haywire.

“Um. Sorry. I just realized…do you have anything in particular you want me to say?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Just, you know…true love waits.”

I laugh, a loud, barking laugh that raises his eyebrows. My heart is racing by now and I just swallow and nod.

“Perfect. I know just what to say.” I throw my hand up and wave and then turn around before I can trip standing up or something equally horrifying.

That was weird, I think to myself as I walk back to the dorm. And without even realizing it, I make a decision to avoid him at all cost.