AlphaLimaWhiskeyAlpha...

I have learned so much this week my head is near exploding.  Sometimes a week is filled with one main theme, or one thing in which we were busiest or made the most progress.  We can look back on a Friday afternoon as we count down the minutes until 5 o’clock and go, “Man, I ran like Usain this week!” or “Man, thank goodness that project is finally complete.”

Well, this week – as in hello today is only Wednesday – my entire body has caffeine shakes over the amount of sh*t I don’t have room to even fathom, let alone process.

Monday morning, 4:10am:  alarm, sigh and eye roll, out the door to run.  Badly, but the temperature was glorious and I was alone and felt empowered in the swearing at and shutting off of my watch.  Take that, you innate object that can’t talk back.  I win.

By 7:00am I was showered and out the door, ready to jump into the crazy world of work.  However before the house alarm was even set, my phone was lighting up as if it sixth-sensed an intruder.

Call me plz about a personal issue.

Two things:  I am a grammarian and shortcutting even in texts drives me insane, and personal issue?  Probably not the best person in your phone’s contacts to ask.  I haven’t heard from this person in almost a year, so my gut that I rarely listen to but is usually right told my stupid head that it was probably because said person was about to inquire about a divorce.

Yep.  Again, clearly not the resident expert on how to avoid. 

Yet because we have hometown ties, because I hate to let anyone down, because I am GASP! nice and compassionate and hate to see people hurt, I responded.  And, I think maybe even helped.  (Don’t divorce, valiant efforts, lots of counseling, even more prayer…we’ll see.  Or actually if my prayers are answered, I won’t see.)

Therein formed the theme of my week, all three fully completed days.

Yesterday as I was in the middle of working and reworking and thinking about how to handle an ongoing account, I received an email from Angela.  Her emails always cause me to stop whatever I’m doing and prepare to read either some issue regarding something we’re working on or some commentary on something we’re not.  She’s succinct, smart, beyond sarcastic and always a welcome break.

Side note:  Angela’s email arrived after I had finally stopped laughing at the one that I read about an hour earlier from a cohort in our Kansas office.  The stuff that flies out of his mouth or comes across occasionally on my PC screen is ridiculous.  You literally cannot make any of it up.  It went something like this:

“I think my customer meant to send this to you on this email chain, not Bethany Strange who is within his organization.”

“Thanks.  And yeah, like THAT’s all I need – a last name of Strange.”

“I went to school with a girl named Jodi Roudybush.  Freak’n awesome.  Had to date that.”

Ok, I know - but in the midst of our constant high-pressure and nonstop world of sales, childish humor sends me into fits of hysteria.  I’m sure I was laughing the hardest in that moment because I knew he would later confirm the answer to my very rhetorical question of, “Did you really date her?” with an affirmative. 

Angela’s much more mature email was forwarded and simply said, “Love this.”

So did I…

Months ago, I turned her on to The Skimm, which is a sardonic newsletter of sorts wherein two female writers “skim” the headline news and add their witty spin before pushing it out to incredibly thankful and fellow sarcastic folk like us.  Angela was apparently returning the favor now by sending me a newsletter (that I immediately subscribed to the second I finished reading) also written by women – smart women in Hollywood (and no, that’s actually not oxymoronic).

In the newsletter was a well-written article by Jennifer Lawrence.  Even more compelling than its sentence structure was the topic: gender equality.  The article was simply titled, “Why Do I Make Less Than My Male Co-Stars?”

I began reading that article which such fervor it was like I was lapping up chocolate ice cream at the bottom of a bowl that had been stirred around frantically in an effort to turn it into soup.

And I quote:

It’s hard for me to speak about my experience as a working woman because I can safely say my problems aren’t exactly relatable. When the Sony hack happened and I found out how much less I was being paid than the lucky people with dicks, I didn’t get mad at Sony. I got mad at myself. I failed as a negotiator because I gave up early. I didn’t want to keep fighting over millions of dollars that, frankly, due to two franchises, I don’t need. (I told you it wasn’t relatable, don’t hate me).

Obviously I have already carved out time to watch every movie this girl has ever made, and am seriously chastising myself wondering why in the name of all things holy have I not yet seen American Hustle.

How ironic.  That is the exact movie which caused her to stop dead in her (still fairly young) tracks and ask herself the question of, “Why in the **** am I paid less than these guys when without me, there is no movie?” 

<my hand straight up in the air>  Oooh Oooh!!   I know the answer!  She hustled.  She worked her ass off.  Her acting chops are solid, her screen presence is commanding, and she is…cough, ahem, hello again my dear friend feminism…every guy's dream.  Oh, wait.  What do I mean by every guy's dream?

I mean that in this clichéd fantasy freaking world in which we ALL live – actors and non-actors and salespeople and teachers and fill a profession in as you may – men absolutely think that if a woman a) knows sports b) has a potty-mouth c) is “just one of the guys”, i.e. cool chick d) can quote movie lines and e) still bake and do their laundry and put on knee pads at their very whim/any day that end in ‘y’ – that their dream has finally come true.

Only guess what?  That lasts about a minute.  Or a day, a week, or sometimes even a year.  I can assure you - that emotionally masked dichotomy does not last a lifetime.  One of two things inevitably happens.  Either the man begins to feel emasculated by his dreamy counterpart who is literally doing nothing differently that what attracted him to her in the first place – or – she will begin to feel resentment for being the lone wolf in the relationship, one presumably she thought would be based at a minimum on truthfulness and equality.

I hate the term “Alpha Female” when used to describe a kick ass woman.  But let’s be honest, it’s a real thing and any woman (Jennifer Lawrence, I’m lookin’ at you) who falls under that heading is pretty much screwed.

Societal expectations are hard to ignore, probably because, oh…I don’t know…we live in a society; the real-world actually exists.  And the real-world tells women that we should behave in a certain way as long as it is the “accepted” way - “accepted” being (short version, my blood pressure is spiking) synonymous with “in our places” and not stepping on anyone's toes.

Whose toes, you ask?  ANYONE’s, I said.  That’s the bitch of it.  We can’t step on a man’s toes because he, according to society, is supposed to be the “Alpha” and we sure as sh*t can’t step on female toes because they are competing to gain the attention and courtship of men.  Whaaaa?

Screwed. 

To JLaw’s point:  she said she felt as if she should apologize for making so much money.  Until she saw the salaries of her male counterparts, that is.  In that moment, she realized two things:  her male counterparts were definitely not apologetic and society teaches women – no, scratch that – it demands of women that we apologize for being us.  Wherein “us” equals unintentionally making anyone, male OR female, feel inferior.

You know what she said in response to that demand?  “F that.” 

Right answer.  I mean really, what else is there to say?  As we all totally grasp and as Rihanna sings…haters gonna hate whether you’re doing bad or good.  It’s on them, not us.

I once walked into an appointment years ago and was greeted by a CEO who was sitting behind a gigantic leather desk centered in a gigantic windows-on-all-sides office.  He looked up, dropped his jaw, moved his eyes up and down what felt like a hundred times and then uttered in a voice of disdain, “Legs like that should be illegal.  You can sell me anything you want.”

The first thing that popped into my mind as my stomach tried to keep down all the instant queasiness was, “I’m sorry.”  Literally that’s what I thought.  “I shouldn’t have worn a skirt and made you say that.” 

Thankfully, adrenaline and protection-mode kicked in and in the blink of an eye, I felt my cheeks replace the redness of embarrassment with the redness of anger.  I simply stood there, looked that idiot square in the eyes and said, “I will never sell you anything.  My brain is even better than my legs and you are an a**-hole.”

And then I cried all the way back to the office, like I had done something wrong.  It took me many years to figure out I was crying because I let myself down.  I had wanted to apologize for being me instead of sticking up for myself.  (Forty-two year old me says, "sorry me.")

Fast forward roughly 17 years later to last week.  I was on the phone with two male cohorts as we waited for a prospect to join the call, and we were making light about how busy things are lately.  I was enjoying the camaraderie until one them said, “Well if I made the money Beth makes, I wouldn’t care about working this hard.”

I have no idea what they think I make, nor do I care because it’d be inaccurate and more so because it is the platitude of all salespeople. Not exaggerating, that was the second time in two weeks that kind of comment was made, the only difference being the male voice saying it.

I immediately felt ostracized both by and from the team.  Further, it took everything in my power to neither immediately think I should apologize, nor respond sounding like the unemotional B that the “Alpha Female” is stereotyped (read: plagued) by.  Instead I said, “My kitchen has nothing but coffee creamer, wine and straight up Gluten spaghetti in it, and my kid is in college.”  All true. 

What I was silently thinking in my (non-stupid, much more experienced) head was, “This is ‘Murcia boys…land of the free, home of the brave – I’m not the one stopping you from making more money.  You are.” 

Women are not the enemy.  Nor are men.  WE are the collective problem.  Humans are greedy, fallible, sinful, and  a whole slew of other not so great things.  People are fragile.  We have breaking points.  We fall down and we get back up.  We laugh, we cry.  We try and we fail.  And we also occasionally do really well at things we care about doing.

Yes, there is disparity.  But there is also something called common decency, compassion, and an understanding that when we throw each other under the bus, we will never solve any kind of problem worth solving.  Blame is its own form of failure.

I'm sorry...is it Friday yet?

Prison Break

Not once did I check Facebook today.  Not once.  The second the urge struck, I instead picked up a real book with no face and studied about Paul.

Suck it, Mark Zuckerberg.

It's as easy as looking up.

Intramurals.  Classes.  Friends.  Football games.  Relationships.  Sorority life.  Volunteering. Socializing.  Sleep(?).  Midterms.  Exercising.  Family back home.  Internships.  Resumes.  This summer.  Next summer.  Next weekend.

College students are busy people.  Just ask any Mom who dropped her kid off at a Big Ten College campus seven weeks ago and has been catapulted into a brand new season of life and a totally unrelenting adjustment period.  

Her child must be busy, right?  That must be the reason Moms everywhere keep toeing the line in hopes of crossing into the land of communication, only to immediately circle-walk themselves away from their iPhones and potentially severed relationships.

But the truth of the matter is, our college kids are busy.  While they are putting on a resourceful and resilient front, venturing out into the land of the real-world is not easy for them.  There’s no way it could be after only a measly seven weeks of practice.

Behind the scenes they are worrywarts.  They are travailing new campuses and sometimes floundering at the waves of strangers and the great unknown.  And of potential failure.  Of uncertainty.  Of poor choices and resultant consequences.

College kids are notorious for planning, texting, scheduling and re-scheduling, networking and organizing.  They are, at this point in their totally free, completely (uh-huh) independent lives pushing toward the next cool thing on their To-Do-Lists so they can check them off in a flurry and go out.

Sure, their proactive sense of urgency prepares them for tomorrow, for the workforce, for running households and for “the real-world”…but, come on.

When are they, and we, going to stop living for tomorrow?

Maybe it's impossible.  Maybe we are wired in such a way that we always look for progress and the bigger and better thing.  Maybe that’s just how we are, and maybe we are also so stubborn that we continue to be unapologetic about it.

Save this:  I know for a fact that even if we are wired to look forward, even if we are busy, all it takes is a tilt of our heads to look up.

Work.  Groceries.  Kids.  Practices.  Volunteering.  Relationships.  Neighborhoods.  Church.  Exercise.  Volunteering.  Weekends.  Extended Family.  Holidays.  Coffee.  Hobbies.  Yard work.  This day.  This week.  This year.

Adults are busy people.  Just ask any kid whose parents dropped them off at a Big Ten College campus seven weeks ago and has been catapulted into a brand new season of life and a totally unrelenting adjustment period.  

God’s got it, yo.  Really, He does and always has.  As a self-and-others-proclaimed control freak, I categorically understand that letting go is easy in theory and ridiculously hard in practice.  Yet I absolutely believe His power is present over every single plan that we have ever concocted.  Every single routine.  Every single 4:45am run.  Every 8 a.m. class.  He is sovereign over our every friendship, date, and football game.  He is equally as sovereign over our every failure, heartache, and battle.  When we are weary, we only need to do is take it to Him (Matt: 11:28).  And trust me – sometimes that is all we can do.

God is bigger than any conflict, any study guide, any struggle and certainly any unknown.  The God who made us already knows how our kids' tests will go and if we're going to close that deal at work.  Or get a new job.  Or come home to a house that feels empty or just sort of empty.  He already knows who our closest friends will be - upon college graduation, retirement, and all the years in between.  He knows who and when we'll marry or if we ever do.  He knows our heart and as such, tells us to guard it at all costs for it is the wellspring of life (Prov. 4:23).

The good news in all of this?  For us busy folk, we can check worrying off our list of things to do so we can go get more stuff done.
Chill...and keep your head up.  (Beth.10:6:2015)

Vegas: Part 1

I  have been to Vegas and back three times this month.  Well, not really.  I have been to Las Vegas literally once during that time and metaphorically, twice. 

On Monday the 14^th, I arrived at The Venetian for a week long work conference.  We all know a work week in Vegas is about 4 days too many; however this trip, I decided the second my feet touched ground at McCarren that I had already been there too long.

The juxtaposition of extra oxygen pumping through the air entering every traveler’s lungs like they had just inhaled a wallop of Afrin and the incessant dinging of the slot machines was immediately unbearable.  I bolted through the airport, not only confused by why people looked even more preposterous and cockamamied since my last visit, but by my seeming impatience to arrive in hell.

Even after mustering up an attitude adjustment and a little self-talk in the cab (“Enjoy yourself!  There’s a pool and a killer room and like, Venice, on the second floor, you ungrateful Italian!”) I could not bring myself to understand the allure.  People spend way too much money, lose way too much sleep, and behave in ways that make no one proud.  Not even Cher and definitely not their mothers. 

Monday night football seemed like a safe bet.  We walked across Las Vegas Blvd. – and by “walked” I mean pushed our way through a crowd of people that rendered my eyes unable to stop frantically darting around looking for anything that resembled Midwest normal.  I saw men with women on their arms who had to be an eighth of their age; women with feathers and claws and bangles on their arms that had to be killed, boiled, and/or stolen; an overweight Spiderman; an underweight Superman; and more silicone and wax than what exists on the INSIDE of Madame Tussauds.

What’s real?  What matters?  What even makes sense?

I wondered that on the long flight back. 

I’m sure as I sat there staring out into the fresh air through a window which is insufferably too teeny to see the natural beauty on the other side, I looked sad.  And not the empty kind of sad, but the kind of sad when you realize – when you really realize - what is going on in the world today.

There are days I want no part of it.  I want to retreat, screaming “I AM OUT” at the top of my lungs with my hands thrown up in outstretched disgust, waiting for God to just swoop in and FIX THIS MESS.

Why should I try?  Why should I care?  Why shouldn’t I audition for the role in Cirque, swing from ropes, learn how to play craps and just ride it out until I can no longer fit in those little getups and turn a flattering shade of leathery orange?

But then my plane lands in Indy, I drive to Bloomington for family weekend, continue my prayer-talk-plea all the way there to keep that girl safe, and I have my answer. 

Divergence

Her mother had taught her many things, namely, that “one day when you become a mother you’ll understand.”

How right she was, not that Mary-Kate – MK to her friends – would ever admit it.  She loathed admitting anyone knew more than she did, let alone her own mother.

But that was when she was a typical teenager.  Twenty-five years plus later and about to send her only child off to college, she finally understands.  And, as luck would have it for her friends, only pretends she still hates it when they know more than she does.

MK’s Mom, Ellen, was born and raised in a generation where “things” were not discussed; rather, grace and class were demonstrated by what you did not say.  Restraint apparently took more strength than throwing a right hook or jabbing at an offender with cutting words.  Yet, mess with her kids and the gloves were off.

“Hi, Mom,” MK squeaked out.

“Are you sneezing or crying?” her mother responded over a cell connection and hundreds of miles.

“I can’t take this.  Why does she have to leave?” MK rhetorically pleaded. “I teach college classes on the side, you know I could totally have homeschooled her.”

“You’ve done your job,” MK’s mother said matter-of-factly of her oldest granddaughter.  “This will be tough, but you will both get through it and your relationship will be even better.”

Ellen was always the optimist.  While you wouldn’t want to catch her on one of the few non-sunny days, she was never without positive reinforcement, especially on the mothering or wife front.

Once recently, she told her still-learning-to-show-restraint-with-her-words daughter that they (Ellen and MK’s Dad - because ‘they’ have always been “they”) were at a get together a few weekends ago with two of their long-time couple friends.  Everything was going swimmingly and per usual - lots of food, lots of conversation presumably about their grown kids who would always be “kids,” and lots of happy in the hour(s).

“She’ll be fine, she always is,” Ellen told the other women as they asked about MK and her empty nest.  Of course the better question would have been asking about how much MK relishes stereotypes and clichés, but nothing kills alcohol flow like generational disparity.

The three men began laughing over stories about their respective jobs, mostly surrounding labor relations.  Joey, the husband of one of the couple friends, owns his own company where, ahem, not all of the employees have cards of the green variety; however, his job in a prior life was the topic of the evening’s discussion.

“I may have been a collector of sorts,” Joey began.  “You know, of things which certain suspect people living in the outskirts of Philly could not necessarily afford initially, or pay back in a timely manner when people like me told them face-to face-ish that the bank also knows they cannot cough up anything other than nicotine phlegm.”

Joey’s wife, Carolyn, cringed.  She was a debutante back in the day.  MK’s Mom did not belong to the Carolyn Coiffed Fan Club.

“Oh, Joe…” she said in her best I love the little people voice.

“What about that bothers you, Carolyn?” Ellen asked, poker face intact.

Ellen had a way of dealing with her dislike of certain people which subdued not only the offenders real-time, but also her propensity of wanting to choke them out and subsequently cause a scene absent of grace and class.

“It’s just…it’s just that I wasn’t allowed to date ‘those kind’ of people that Joe had to deal with when I was growing up.”  “Didn’t your parents tell you that you couldn’t date anyone that didn’t, you know, measure up?”

Ellen also had a way of dealing with anyone who was intolerant of the entire human race.

“No.  My parents liked people for who they were and how they made you feel based solely upon how they treated you.  It was a pretty simple methodology they employed, actually,” she responded, again miraculously devoid of tone or eye rolls.

“Well,” Carolyn went on obliviously.  “Even worse than those people, my parents said, were Italians.  I could NEVER date those kind.”

“Now that I think about it, my parents forbade me to date stupid people,” Ellen said without hesitation, grace, class, or apology. 

They shared a look and a grin that only they understood after all these years.

Comfortingly, MK comes from a long line of hot-tempered Italians and Irishmen alike, all of whom adore family even more than they do homemade pasta, Jameson’s, or putting idiots in their place. 

And she knew now just as she always had, that in the midst of generational “things” and life changing seasons, she would always have these kind of precious exchanges and memories – both old and new.  

Run Along Now

Yesterday I got a massage.  I’ve had hundreds over the years so it was nothing new, per se, and to be sure, I am definitely a massage connoisseur.  I know what I like and I know what I don’t; I am also completely unapologetic for reaching that self-aware benchmark as well as the ability to decide I’m going to spend money on them - frequently.  All this is rationalized, of course, under the 3-fold heading of I work hard, waited forever to get one, and paying a total stranger to rub you down is illegal in a lot of countries, so God bless America.

Now, there are not only myriad reasons my back is as messed up as the 2016 Presidential line-up, but also a ton of local places from which to choose to receive a decent massage.  The question yesterday was one of timing.  I had a two-hour window that would work and a two-hour window only.

I arrive 10 minutes early as I was explicitly told on the phone by the exceptionally talkative new owner that, “Amanda has only been here two weeks and we’re trying to build her clientele, so you can have 90 minutes for the price of 60 – or even more time if you get here earlier!”

Yay me.  America is gonna be blessed times two. 

Way to go, new guy.  Improving upon prior horrible customer service renders two thumbs up and a hard-to-summon-lately smile from one knotty, massage-ready traffic violator.

Except when I roll in, slam the car into P and throw open the door, he doesn’t shut up in his quest to fall all over himself while explaining Amanda is running behind schedule.

“You know, I thought she had an hour and a half slot and she is new and then so and so called right after you did and you know right when you tell someone that they can have extra time…”

(I’m already tuning him out as I feel my neck tense up like maggots about to be dumped into a frying pan - a good ploy on his verbose, entrepreneurial part)

“That’s ok,” I tell him in my best whispering tone as I look down at the book I’ve been reading the last couple days.  Who Do You Love:  A Novel by Jennifer Weiner.  If I don’t officially end up a writer, maybe I can at least get a gig titling well-written work so people like me don’t have to feel like an ass walking around with what feels like a neon flashing billboard-sized arrow under our arms.

Out comes Amanda calling my name.

Thank goodness, I was just about to pummel your boss and plead Sharon Stone.  Read About her 'Brain Damage' Here

Amanda is a petite blond – at least I think she is blond but I couldn’t really tell because her hair was greasy and pulled back into what looked like days of unhappy.

Already at the mercy of her behind schedule, losing relaxation and un-knotting by the second, I summarily provide my likes and dislikes in record time.  Is this what some genius thought speed dating works like?  It feels more like Bingo to me.  Weird either way.

As I’m lying there, face-down in the toilet bowl inducing ring around your face contraption, I hear Amanda incessantly chattering in the hallway over the gentle rolls of faux waves crashing through the ceiling speakers.

I am not relaxed.  I am seething.

Focus.  Focus on just “being.”  What the heck do those re-re’s call it?  Namaste or something.  Whatever.  I’m not there or on a rubber mat or in a steam room.  I’m definitely not zen.  I am paying for this and it sucks already and it hasn’t even started yet.  Shut up, brain.  Just…SHUT UP.

Amanda knocks (as if I’m not ready by now), she starts, and it’s fine.  She’s off to a very slow start, but it’s fine.

…until it’s not.

“Can you maybe not ram your elbow into my 12^th vertebrae like you’re Ronda Rousey?”

“Oh!  Sorry, does that hurt?”

I do not like Amanda.  I do not like the massage.  I do not like anything.  The only saving grace in that moment was that I was going to use the money she was not getting for a tip to buy a bottle of wine on my way home after these 90 minutes I can never get back are over.

Begrudgingly, I began to cry.  And not because an elbow to the back coming out my sternum hurt, but because everything did.  Everything does.

I called Liv’s Dad yesterday on the race-drive to obtain an immediate, magical fix to the pain.  I dialed him demanding to know if he had heard from her.  Our daughter.  The one in her first week of college who apparently has forgotten I gave birth to her and fed her every once in a while.

“Yeah, I just talked to her again last night, why?”

Again?  A-freaking-GAIN?  What the hell does he mean again?  He must be confusing me or Liv with other people, in a different situation, in a different life, in a different stratosphere. 

“Because she’s only called me once and I…”

Tears.  Again. 

I refocused and asked Amanda a question.  She went on to tell me that she had moved to Fort Wayne from Las Vegas only two weeks ago – to get here in time for her twin 13-year old daughters to start 8^th grade.  As an aside, she added that they just make the school Cross Country team and were about to start their first meet, but since she was running behind, she wouldn’t be able to make it.

“It’s a long story,” she lamented.  “This change definitely hasn’t been easy so far.  I did it for them, but it’s been harder on me than I ever imagined and I feel guilty for feeling this way.”

I pretended the tears falling faster through the contraption thing were all swishing through the bottom of a net from outside the arc as I listened more intently.

“They wanted to be in the Midwest, a little closer to their Dad, before a whole new phase of their lives started.  I don’t know anyone here and my life feels a bit out of control, like I have no idea what to do or what my schedule is anymore and I am lonely.  But, to see them so happy makes me happy.”

“I know this will sound crazy, but I can’t take any more of this,” I announced as I raised my ring-around-the-head and turned to see her face. 

“Oh I’m so sorry to tell you all of that!”

“No, no - I meant that you totally worked out whatever was in there, and my back feels amazing.  Since we started a little late, I really need to get home and…”

She looked at me with tears in her own eyes, texted her girls that she was on her way, and walked out.

New Life

“What?!?” I scream-typed back in a text.

“I’m pregnant!” she responded again, as if we had different English teachers growing up and I was now somehow unable to read.

“I AM SO SO HAPPY FOR YOU GUYS AND WHY ARE WE STILL TEXTING?”

Three seconds later I heard her laugh as she picked up the phone.  After 33 years, no “hello?” is necessary when we call.

One of my life-long best friends is finally pregnant.  She was the smart one of the rest of us and waited to get married until she was thirty-five.  I think that’s right.  Since I feel about a thousand years old right now, I cannot remember how old she actually was but it was roughly seven or eight years ago.  The only other thing I quasi-remember is that I wore a horrible dress to her wedding and she came to both of mine.  Even Steven.

“Yeah.  We are thrilled.  But I’m scared.  I have NO idea what to do,” she admitted out of the gate.

That makes two of us in the parenting realm, I thought.  “Ok, well, get the vitamins, some Ritz, 7-Up, and the obligatory books STAT,” I advised, ever the ready at the helping helm.  “And seriously?  Between Chels and me?  No worries.  We got this.”

Chels had both her kids without an epidural.  I had wanted to, but after I got to 8cm dilated, a SWAT team and Liv’s Dad had to pry the bathroom door open where I had barricaded myself in and was hanging on to the handicap rails, squatting like I was in a gas station, trying to give birth on my own.  Apparently that rendered me in trouble so my wishes for completing the task in isolation were overlooked amidst the confusion.

I continued to reassure her with the minor details.  “We can tell you the difference between so many things, like breast-feeding or not, a natural birth vs. having an epidural, oh and also I don’t think she had to have an episiotomy either.”

“What’s that?” she asked, her voice telling me I needed to shut up 5 minutes ago.

“Oh nothing, let’s talk about it ALL in person because you know Chels and I are totally having a baby shower for you!” 

We said our goodbyes and I wondered if I still remembered everything, especially how to throw a party right now.

The entire time I was on the phone with her feigning loud enthusiasm, my heart was breaking.  Trying to hold back tears, I listened to her tell me how she was going to decorate the nursery, go shopping with her Mom, pick out necessities, and buy teeny-tiny baby clothes.  It was the clothes that threw me into hysterics.  I pushed MUTE on my phone and started walking in circles.

At some point during our conversation I had been folding Liv’s clothes and habitually placed them in the spot in the hallway which signify two things to her:  she has to put them away and I love her.

“Are you still there?” I vaguely remember my almost 43-year-old BFF asking, interrupting her nursery decorating harangue.

I had no idea how to answer.

Unstoppable

I hate today.  I usually wake up pre-alarm, happy, smiling, and ready to take on the day, but today was not like that.  Today I was crying before I even thought about the act of it, before I thought about the reason I would undoubtedly be crying again just like I have been every day for the last week.

And I am not a crier.

Today is the last day of July, the last day of the last month that my daughter will ever live with me.  I’ve lived with a lot a stuff, without a lot of stuff, and through a lot of stuff.  But somehow this feels as if the day she leaves I will somehow stop living altogether.

I know – you’re probably thinking I’m one of those Moms who helicopters or even worse – Dina Lohan’s with her kid.  Not even close, unless letting your only child who happens to be all worldly and “adult”-like since a calendar day flipped to the 23^rd back in February do things like drive to a train station, hop it to Chicago and attend Lollapalooza equals hovering.

Rather, I have raised her to be independent.  How could I not?  That’s the question my friends and family have been asking me when this topic inevitably enters into our conversations like the proverbial elephant on the phone line.  You are the most independent person I’ve ever known; you’ve always been like that; how can Liv not be the same way?

Well maybe if I did a better job of raising her she would actually want to be around me.  That’s what I usually think, silently, in response.  Oh sure, there are lots of textbook answers as to why she has barely been speaking to me all summer.  In no particular order:

1.        It’s normal

2.        You’d hate it if she wanted to be around you ALL the time and she had no friends

3.        This is her way of asserting herself

4.        She needs to do this so she knows she can be on her own

5.        It will make the transition when she leaves much easier

On and on the list continues.  Easier?  Easier??  Nothing in my life that I have been unable to stop from happening has hurt this much.  Nothing.  Not cancer, not divorce, not mile 19 of a marathon. 

Some of those things were planned, some were not.  Some were foreseen, some were unseen, and some were just plain stupid “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME THAT THIS IS HAPPENING?” moments in my life.  Yet they all pale in comparison.

With those things, I always had a plan.  Even in the eye of those storms, I knew how I was going to get out.  I knew it would all be over soon and I knew where I was going to end up.  I was always determined that I would make it to the end, pick myself back up and keep on trucking. 

Sure, in some cases I would be emaciated and bald, I would be out relationships, a house, some money and self-esteem, or in self-induced-trying-to-get-through-such-times, I would be out some toenails, some skin, and mostly my mind.  But yet I always knew.

I don’t know anything right now.  I know absolutely nothing other than I have known for eighteen years that this time was coming.  Knowing is stupid.  Knowing hasn’t helped me plan to feel this level of hurt.  This level of loss.

Somewhere on the endless list of reasons as to why this is all going to be ok, is number whatever:  She will come back.  It will be even better.

It’s hard imagining anything better than what has been the greatest blessing in my life.  She is the one thing I got right, the one thing I’ve never questioned.  Letting her go seems insurmountable.

That girl saved me.  She’s saved me from selfishness, from (additional) bad decisions, from the mundane, from myself.  With all the decisions and problems and fears and craziness we deal with day in and day out, over and over again every day until we are ready to throw in the towel and revert back to our own youth when the unknown seemed like hope instead of punishment – our kids are our lifesavers.

They keep us resolute and pull us back to shore.  They keep us grounded when we want to bail and fly away.  They force us to actually be adults, even when we secretly wish we could just be a kid and run alongside them. 

Parents are supposed to be the ones who teach their children.  Yet, without even trying or herself knowing a thing, my daughter has taught me about everything in this life which truly matters.  It's been the best eighteen year class a Mom could ever have.

I have even learned, for unwanted extra credit, that when there is nothing left to say, nothing left to do and nothing that can be stopped, saying fewer words actually says more.

 

 

 

#RealPeopleProblems

Just like I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook, I also have one with the daily news.  We've all heard the collective woes: reporters suck and the news is a downer.  No one disavows that age-old statement, but wowzers did Ivana disavow her old rape statement against The Donald.

Feeling the puke well up inside my stomach and northbound towards my mouth, I rolled my eyes and begrudgingly clicked the link.  Thanks, CNN.  You never let me down with the headlining teasers.  Now if only the thing about Sarah Palin serving in Trump's administration happens, it would be a complete dream come true. 

"Ex-Wife:  Donald Trump made me feel violated during sex."  I bet.  I felt violated just from reading the sentence. 

It also made me immediately think of a Netflix favorite in our house: Revenge.  I know.  Trust me, I do.  The whole premise is ridiculous, that I'm watching TV is ridiculous, and it is beyond ridiculous that one show can contemptuously suck you in until you actually want to know what happens next in the lives of fictitious people dwelling in the land of make-believe.  Or in this case, The Hamptons. 

(I always get myself back on track, verbose and ADD as it may be.  Hamptons -->  Kennedys -->  Clintons ---> gross violation-laden commander in chiefs -->  and...we're back.)

Ivana conveniently - or upon hearing "4 billion" slip out in the middle of what I'm sure was a sweet discourse from the lambkin The Donald - disavowed the allegation against her one-time husband and now "best of friend who incidentally would make a great President."  This was not dissimilar to every episode of Revenge whereby Victoria and Conrad are constantly threatening to expose one another for any of the following: lying, stealing, killing, cheating, blowing up 747's, faking diseases, selling multi-million dollar pieces of art <egads!> without proper signatures...you get the drift.

I turned to Liv during the last episode, our eyes glued to the scene while one of the above was happening and say: #RichPeopleProblems.  In turn, that got me some semblance of a snicker.  But real people please!  That's neither here nor there, that's just #Winning.

Let me confess: the only reason I watch that godforsaken show is because she does.  Alright, fine.  Maybe there is a secondary reason none of us can deny and that is, it makes us instantly feel better about everything going on in our own little lives, a/k/a airport watching-esque. 

But nonetheless, it's our time together and the only time we have left inside of 3 short weeks before she leaves to start her own adult life...in the real world where there are real people with real problems...Where there are real violators with real hair.

And somehow we're supposed to be ok with letting our kids do this.

CNN out.  Deck of Cards/On the Throne in.

SUM-HER

You know those parents who are easy targets for a judgy eye roll because they live vicariously though their kids?  The ones who hit the 3 at the buzzer to clinch the league title, nail the landing off the beam, or god forbid even bend forward in all their thirty-two glimmering teeth smiles as the crown is placed high atop their heads, only to be jolted awake to the 25 years-has-gone-by-present?  Yeah. I'm not like that.

I AM however living in such a state of deja vu I can barely stand it.  My forever best friend and I looked nothing alike growing up.  Still don't.  Chels had a mess of dark Jewish curls and brown eyes; I had an on purpose mess of 80's dirty blonde hair and blue eyes.  Miraculously we now both have blonde hair, but that's neither here nor there.  The point is, we were best friends then and we are best friends now, only the hair color is not the only change in the landscape.

"This is hard," she told me.

"Dude, collectively we have like 3 divorces, 3 bouts of cancer, 3 teenagers, 3-ish we should never have (you know) with (you know)'s...this is a piece of cake," I replied, as utter hysteria had already erupted at the self-deprication under the heading of you can never make any of it up.

As I hung up with her moments ago and the standard exchange of "Love you, Bye!" was blurted out in tandem laugh-like English, I realized in a very profound way that she and I are Liv and Mariam.  Liv and Mariam are her and I.

Liv looks like me; Mariam has a mess of dark hair and brown eyes.  They speak their own annoying language and laugh at jokes that go beyond inside.  They spend seemingly every waking moment of free time together only to be texting each other when not sharing the same air space.  The only difference between them and us is what we can neither replace or get back - more than 25 years of shared experiences and memories from which to pull and reminisce in times of trouble in order to stay sane.  Or in some cases, not, I suppose.

I don't want Liv to go.  I never wanted to move away from Chels. 

I selfishly want Liv to revert back to any age before twelve.

I wanted Chels and I be the easy targets living vicariously through our daughters who would grow up together.

But we can't always (Cue my hatred for The Stones right now)...

Instead I find myself sitting alone in my basement office feeling so many emotions I can't even slow down enough to capture one of them.  My heart hurts; my heart is full.  My steel trap memory causes me to cackle belly laughs and be terrified all in one fell swoop because HOLE-EEE *$%@ if Liv and Mariam follow in our Big Ten footsteps.  Please, no.  Just...please.

Even though you know a day in your life is coming - that season of life which is inevitable - when it arrives there is literally nothing which could have properly prepared you for the ensuing loss of control.  Loss of direction.  Loss of appetite.  Loss of clarity.  Loss of any feeling other than the wetness of streaming tears down your face.  And especially the loss of a lifetime friend.

But thankfully, as Chels reminded me tonight - loss doesn't always equal gone forever.  It sometimes means only change for a season of life. 

And summer still has 7 weeks to go.

Code For

I love when I receive notifications that comments have been left on this blog.  They come right to my Gmail and always make me laugh.  The one I received yesterday (thank you, Anonymous!) in particular made me out loud crack up.

I will paraphrase in both the interest of time and cognizance of not wanting to commit anonymous plagiarism:  "Get the picture of you wearing the old man booger glasses off your blog.  You're way prettier than that."

OK!  I get it!  And lemme tell ya - I have been trying to find the time and patience to change that ridiculous picture.  When I first created this blog, it was on a mere whim to fulfill my passion for writing.  I can vividly remember where I was sitting and what I was feeling:  ready to write and really ready NOT to screw around with the setup of the thing. 

When I have a lot to say, I just want to say it.  Like, now.  Right now.  Messing with all the settings and HTML this and that and picking bubbles or rainbows or whatever else screamed NO wasn't going to happen.  It's like sticking up all that blue painter's tape around every window, baseboard, and corner in a room.  I JUST WANT TO PAINT.  (Well, not really, but I know exactly how the room will look when it's done and that's what I want.  Like, now.  Right now.)

Patience is a funny thing.  Sometimes I think I'm getting better.  Other times, say, oh, maybe 25 minutes ago when I was watching a YouTube video and reading forums about how to change a blog header picture, I realize I have a long way to go.  But in my defense, who in their right mind wants to read 1648 lines of code? (not embellishing and yes, I know there is the "ctrl+F" thing - no matter).

Ick.

Back in the day at OSU when green screens weren't even quite yet all the rage, I took a programming class because the sticking-hot-pokers-in-your-eyes elective class was all filled up.  As I'm sitting there in a room filled with people who I managed to offend with the very first sarcastic thing that flew out of my mouth, I realized right then and there what it means to say, "find your passion."  Mine was in the class which preceded that torture hour.  English Lit.  Henrik Ibsen.  Hedda.  Wow.

"If"... "Then"... and the inevitable valedictorian were all on my nerves so I walked out of that class and according to this blog's picture of me at the top of Mount Arbel, apparently never looked back.  If this is what awaits me upon college graduation, then I better figure something else out in a hurry.  Like, now.  Right now.

(Please leave me a comment on here if you have instructions for how to change that crazy picture which my non-programmatic impatient brain can understand.  Oh and if you wouldn't mind - then please tell me why the stupid TV won't turn on either.)

Living

"Wherever you are, be there.  If you can be fully present now, you will know what it means to live."
--Steve Goodier

"Where art thou?"  That's the question I received via a comment on my last blog post.  Which, in and of itself was a fair question to ask; even better, it was only a loosely-veiled pretend hater comment from a friend instead of a poorly written, straight up hater comment from (my 2015 new leaf of kindness continues)...elsewhere.

Here's my view:  if you don't take a stand or do anything or are trying to make a difference by stepping outside of your comfort zone, then you will live a boring little life filled with much less negative feedback.  Well, boring I ain't and this lapse in writing I can no longer handle, so bring on the comments - even the hater misspelled ones in the form of not even close to a sentence.  As Ini Kamoze likes to say, here comes the hotstepper.

Under the heading of "good problems to have," part of what felt like the 400 years of silence stems literally from the fact that I have too much to write about.  Is that even possible?  Yes.  Is that even a thing?  Yes, I assure you, it is.

By proxy, as I watched one Taylor-I-wish-I-was-a-Victoria's-Secret-Angel-Swift in NYC on New Year's Eve, I remembered when she first hit the scene.  I remember watching the Tim McGraw video and really kind of liking her and the immediate transport back to innocence.  She seemed soft, sweet, charming, and sentimental.

Fast forward 8 years and I was watching her, thinking, "Man, how times have changed."  I'm all for growth and evolving into the best version of ourselves through age and experience, but I was shuddering at the thought of that being it.  You are not a stripper, Taylor.  You are not a VS model and NEWS FLASH, you are not a lesbian.  Trust me.  I get wanting to throw in the towel with G- to the exponential force and renounce the entire male population.  Truly, I do and praise God that I did not (see above: too much to write about - more on the man who leaves me speechless later).

Once I was done rolling my eyes and cleaning up the puke in my mouth, I proceeded to watch the ball descend on its way to a year which I have, for the past 18 years, tried to avoid.  That gigantic 2015 sign was a-blazin' and sparkling and shining and all in my face, and somewhere in between the tears streaming down it and a shaky smile, I remembered in an instant when my own soft, innocent, sweet baby girl first hit the scene.

Where hath time gone?

A New Day

What?  What is this?  She's writing? 

Ok, people.  I know.  You know I know. 

I love and appreciate all of you who have ever so nicely and gently reminded me that it's been months since I've touched this blog, pounded a keyboard with fervor, or divulged even one measly iota about the happenings in my life. 

It's as if you think I have stuff to talk about or something. 

Oh how right you are.

My Little Birdie

Secretly, I simultaneously love and hate clichés.  Love them, because they are typically true and the second they come to fruition, it is a tear-jerking, joyous moment.  Hate them, because they are typically true and the second they come to fruition, it is a tear-jerking, joyous moment.

It goes by so fast.  Your kid growing up, that is.  Understatement of a lifetime.

Over the years I have instituted ceremonies and rituals around the house which Liv can pass on generation to generation.  Think a little red heart-infested mailbox from Feb 1- Feb 14 whereby I leave her notes and treats.  Or, riddles at Easter (hey, big words and trivia don't just formulate themselves).  Christmas is insanity under the heading of tradition.

I decided about a week ago what I would do for her Senior Year.  The plan is two-fold:  one, I've hung a super cute blackboard on the spare bedroom door in Liv's "wing" of the house (read: don't bother me over here, Mom.)  It reads I'm Proud of You Because.  So, weekly I will write, in elementary chalk-like fashion because can she please be in 3rd grade again, one of the many reasons for which I am inexplicably proud of her. 

However, there is also this teensy-weensy little clip on that board.  And I am going to hang some of my favorite quotes on 3x5 index cards each day, gather them in a yet-to-be-made box, and hand that to her the day I take her to college.  Some of those (Scriptural) quotes have gotten me through the worst of times, and I want Liv to hear two voices, even when she refuses to call out of sheer determination under her own heading of newfound independence.

Secondly, I am going to journal every day with excerpts, fears, failures, joys, triumphs, and of course, advice.  She can take it or leave it - but it will be there for her nonetheless.  Because right now, I cannot stop crying that she won't be...

-------------------------------
8/13/14

Today is your first day of school.  It is the 13th time this day has come and gone, excluding your Montessori years.  It is so bittersweet for me, although not nearly as much as I already know - and can feel - your graduation day will be, as well as the day when I take you off to college.

Today I'm remembering our drives to the Montessori when we'd sing Winnie the Pooh OVER AND OVER AND OVER again, kissing Miss Witch on our porch every day in the Fall, riding the bus with you on the first day of kindergarten, Friday Folders, Fishes Wishes, 5th grade graduation, counting "bugs" in the parking lot every morning when I dropped you off at the front doors of school, usually without a hug but always with a "Love you," watching you from the dining room window as you maturely walked to the end of our driveway to wait for the bus by yourself, "running you over" at the bus stop on a rainy morning! (oops), taking you to the High School your Freshman year so you could walk the halls in all your glory and nerves, being awakened by the 5-0 as you and your partner in crime sat in cruisers...and now - as I drink my coffee to wake up because girl, all that made me tired!- I wonder truly how it is that I'm gonna get through all these emotions as you are continuing to spread those beautiful wings and fly this coop you're so ready to leave, beginning today - you're first day of school.

Happy Senior Year, sweets.  GO ROCK IT.

Snapshots in Time

Liv and I had lunch yesterday with one of my good friends and her daughter.  To say it was a ceaseless chatter-fest would be an understatement.  Somehow the endless laughter seems to be always at my expense, but that's ok.  To refute her "There's always something big going on with you!" would be silly and furthermore, the woman is a little fireball and totally never loses any argument.  Mercifully, I only see Pina Coladas in Cabo in our future. 

Her daughter just completed her undergrad at GVSU with a psychology degree and is on her way later this month to IUPUI to begin her graduate studies in social work.  Liv has every intention of acquiring the same degree(s), so we thought it very motherly of us to bring those two together and selfishly catch-up and laugh over (fine, my) hideous mistakes again.  It kind of never gets old.  That content is rich alrighty.  Whew to the we. 

Today.  Today my baby is applying to college.  It's surreal, it's scary, and it is here.  For now, I am tabling all emotion in favor of opening the mail to find an acceptance letter glistening with the letters WELCOME TO and a shopping trip to find an eight-semester-lasting chastity belt.

As part of the application process, incoming freshman are required to write an essay which must not exceed 650 words.  Great, no problem, my academic-excelling child thought.  Five to ten words is certainly less than 650.  (She killed the Math section on the SAT, by the way.  Nailed it.)

My mini-me chose to write about friendships.  As she sat in the kitchen, I tried to help by sharing one of my very first blog posts written about Chels.  Begrudgingly, Liv began to read.  Almost immediately she looked up in disgust at me, interrupting the clearly Pulitzer flow.

"I can't write like this," she announced.

Smirking, I did what any all-knowing and prideful mother would do and responded encouragingly.

"Of course you can, honey.  I haven't always been able to write like that either."

"No.  It's not grammatically correct.  This is for college, Mom.  No way would I get in with anything like that."

Maybe it won't be quite as hard when she leaves.  Wishful thinking, but I'm looking forward to a returned sense of my self-esteem nonetheless.

I wish we would have been required to submit an essay back in the day.  If that were the case, I definitely would NOT have chosen the "Share a life experience in which you failed" prompt.  650 word max and all. 

But, if the prompt would have been "Write about the person you are today and your progression over the next 5 years - what you hope to experience, your dreams, your passions and the role they will play in your future.  Do not provide specific events; rather we are looking for a deep soul conceptual snap shot," I would have been all over that one. 

It would have been interesting to see what my 17 year-old self would have written.  My almost 41 year-old self would write something like this:

The person I am today is a compilation of  dreams.  From pipe, to shattered, to realized, there they have been.  Sometimes, they plague me.  Other times, they inspire me.  And every once in a while, they take me outside of myself for a peek into the world in which I have lived - kind of like when my Mom used to punish me or my Dad used to say nothing with a look, providing a simple reality check.  The reality of "it's never as bad as you think, but get on the right road already.  It's time."

Life is a series of progressions.  Experiences are attained, doors and chapters are constantly closing as new ones await, much like a swinging gate at the entrance of the next phase of your life.  And I want to LEAP over that gate and land in the second half of the game, for I am finally ready to play.
 
The first half was a beautiful, brutal warm-up in preparation for the difference I am going to make in this world, and the game clock is running.  But I don't, won't, and can't care about the time remaining.  There's only One behind the scorer's table anyway and He has already won the game.

Yet the beauty is, and always has been, that He knows what kind of role player we are; we just need to show up.

So what I want is to wake up each morning and sing praises for all the blessings which have been received and are renewed each day.  I  want to find a way to use every minute of every hour of every day to matter in profound ways - whether it's creating, talking, encouraging, or just being still.  I want to sit for hours and think only about what is happening in THAT moment with the person or people surrounding me instead of thinking about the never-ending to do list.  Stolen moments will be mine instead of ruling me and thus, robbing me. 

I want to pick and choose more wisely instead of filling my world and my head with diversions.  When I run, I want to enjoy it instead of always running to get somewhere, by a certain date, in a certain Kenyan-like time.  I want to stop dabbling in thousands of things and finally do the one thing I was meant to do.

I want to breath deeply, love with an intensity that cannot be surpassed, never take the important relationships for granted, and become a minimalist.   And mostly, in so doing, I want to model the unconditional love that has been shown to us.

Because someday, when the clock strikes 0:00...I want to be sliding into home plate instead of proudly trotting around the bases like I just hit the homer on my own.

The Plans He Knows

“What the?!,” I said out loud yesterday while opening the mail.  Any time the return address says IRS Department of Treasury, you know you're in trouble for something you don't remember doing.  While I'm totally familiar with that, all I could think was, Uh-oh.  I didn’t plan for this.

And so it goes.  Life doesn’t always go as planned.

Really, genius? you might be thinking.  Yeah, I know.  But give me a second here and I will explain my thought de jour.

We plan for a thousand things to go wrong, but in comedic life fashion, the only one which ever seems to is the one you didn’t plan for—the one you can’t do anything about right that very second, the one that leaves you feeling totally helpless in the overwhelming immediacy of the moment.

I owe you $2,264 my <expletive>.  Dear Tax Guy, I'm gonna send you a 'lil something in the morning.

While in the grand scheme of things it was not a big deal to open my mailbox and receive that correspondence (note:  I am a BIG BIG fan of receiving hand-written letters/cards, and if you write me something catchy with say, a quill pen, I will jump up and down in the middle of the street...even while wearing an unnecessary "you broke your foot, you moron" boot), I was unprepared for it, so my initial reaction was the standard eye-roll and subsequent verbiage.

However, what I also noticed as I was shawty like a pimp walking back into my house was that by the time I reached the garage, I was over it.  Can you say new perspective?  Can you say FINALLY?  Can you say...well, that part isn't for public consumption.  Suffice it to say he's freaking awesome.  And I even listen to everything he has to say, because I'd be even more moronic than running in wedges after four-ish Farmhouses if I didn't. 

It’s easy to talk about getting over your fears, living bravely, having faith and relinquishing control.  But lemme tell ya, it’s much harder to do when you have a memory like a steel trap and remember the pain you endured when you did NOT choose to do those things in the past.

Maybe the whole point of getting over our fears is learning to take that step into the great unknown and expect, understand, and appreciate that it’s not always going to go smoothly–that we have to trust despite the plans which either fall apart or cannot be executed right.that.second.

Things will go wrong.  A car breaks down.  The furnace stops working.  A child spikes a fever.  The IRS is bored.

The truth is we’re not in control of our circumstances no matter how hard we try. There will be stomach flus and accidents, broken dishes and spilled milk.  There will be broken metatarsals, broken hearts, and broken dreams.  There might even be a phone call from your super sweet daughter using her best super sweet voice to indirectly tell her loving mother that her boyfriend has totaled her (mother's) car.

And without question, there will also be the teeny, tiny little control freak issues which rattle around in our heads, making us think we want and need to be in charge, when the real truth is we need to just let it all go.  He's got it.  His hands are mighty.  It's not only prideful but kinda funny to think that God needs our input on anything to make sure His plans come to fruition. 

I can hear it now someday as I stand in awe:  "I was just trying to help...You didn't see me check THAT one off the list?" as He hugs me because thankfully, mercifully, He loves me unconditionally anyway.

I need to open these clenched fists and pray God help me, because all I’m really going to do is mess it all up by trying to make it right on my own.  Hey, better late than never as I like to say.  A lot.

What opening your mailbox after a long day at work teaches you is that you can't control your life or anyone else's for that matter.  But crazily and humanly, we let our worry and anxiety eat away at our peace of mind, the peace that surpasses all understanding.  If we could just let go of our own fear, our own selfish defense mechanisms to help ourselves, then we might actually know that peace - that shalom that comes only from Him.

When I am afraid, I will trust in you.  In God, whose word I praise, In God I trust; I will not be afraid.” (Psalm 56:3-4a)

I need this reminder on loop every day, a thousand times, until it completely reverberates in this faint heart.  And it's starting.  It started a few months ago actually.  What a lesson.  What a blessing.  What a time in my life.  The best place to be is in love.  Trust me.

We learn to trust by practicing trust.  Trust that if we let go, God will work it all out.  Find your place, your someone, your groove where you laugh until joy fills up the place where fear once lived.  The place where trust is born.  The place where we let go and hold on tight to what might be and what is to come. 

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose. (Romans 8:28)

Sometimes I want to hit my own self upside the head for not constantly remembering that He withholds no good thing, even the ones 189 miles away.

So yeah, life and timing doesn't always go as planned.  And to that, I say, "THANK GOD!"

Because you know what?  The real plan is the unplanned, the unpredictable journey we call life.

I close with that, as I simultaneously am reading an email which says, "The IRS screws up all the time.  You don't owe anything.  I'll draft a letter."

Cool.  Use a quill pen, dude.