Dear Pregnancy Test: I Wish You'd Grade On A Curve

I took a pregnancy test on Friday.

I didn’t pass.

I wasn’t really surprised to fail but I was disappointed, and that surprised me. Mike and I talk about our future-babies quite often because we’re both excited to meet them and teach them things, like how long you should dunk your Oreo cookie under milk before it completely disintegrates into a soggy, crumbly mess at the bottom of your cup. Important things like that. We agreed to wait awhile before trying to have babies for grown-up, responsible reasons.  So I was very surprised when my friend suggested that the culprit behind my menstrual cycle mystery might be something far less sinister than I'd imagined:

A baby.

When someone says "baby", I don't think of baby powder and dimpled hands and feet and wet, gummy smiles.  I mean, I do but the mental picture doesn't stop there.  I also think of college tuition, teen angst, diaper rash, chaffed nipples, sleepless nights, mucus plugs, emotional outbursts, emotional breakdowns, insurance, teenage drivers, diapers and bottles galore, etc.  I know there's nothing glamorous about ear infections and soaked breast feeding pads.  And yet when I think about babies, I feel

love.

Call me crazy but I'm excited to be a mom.  This has a lot to do with my relationship with my mom but I'll save that for later. 

I thought about my future-babies as I scanned the aisles for the perfect pregnancy test. I knew there was one out there that was perfect for me and my urine. Unfortunately, there were many options.  To an indecisive person, selecting one out of many feels like a trick or some sort of test.  I'm sure shoppers wondered why I was crouched in the middle of the aisle holding three or four different pregnancy tests.  What if I picked the wrong one?  What if one brand really was more accurant than another?  I was drawn to the pink box because the silhouette of the woman on it just screamed fertility, like it would really read my urine sample more accurately than the others. But the pink box, though alluring, was pricey.  I ended up picking the purple box because I like purple. And because I had used it once before, only that time I was so nervous I forgot to remove the cap that covers the actual test strip. I peed all over it (and my hand).

I drank a lot of water and waited. I drank more water and thought about my future-babies. I skimmed the instructions without absorbing anything. I kept telling myself, don’t forget to remove the plastic cap. Don’t forget to remove the plastic cap. This time I remembered.

I put the cap back on the test and waited, still on the toilet, because I was afraid that if I moved or left the bathroom I would mess up the results. I wiggled my toes, scratched my calf and wiped up the excess pee.  Slowly, a single blue line appeared. Just one, not two. I waited a little longer. Perhaps the second line just took a little longer to appear.

Nope.

I know I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. But the thought of meeting our future-babies sooner than we’d expected flooded every cell in my body with sheer

Happiness.

Excitement.

Joy.

Wonder.

One day, I will pass the test. Today's just not the day.

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Distractions

Hello.

Sorry I’ve been gone so long. I’ve been distracted by
Dirty pennies
Sweaty string cheese in my purse
Pale spiders
The tiny new freckle on the top of my left foot
Angry in-grown hairs on my body
The way apples make my hands waxy as I wash them, and
How I always have to wash my hands after washing apples
Muffled voices though too-thin walls
Dust particles dancing in beams of light
Shadows and silhouettes
The ghost cats I always hear but rarely see
Baby snails
Hairlines
Hair loss
The hair art I make on my shower wall
Words
And non-words, too.
But recently—especially at night—I have been distracted by

The quiet,

Which has been my roommate this week while Mike has been not-with-me.

It used to be a familiar friend but now it makes me afraid, but only a little, and only deep on the inside in a wet sticky place beneath my spleen. But even worse than the quiet is the missing-him-ache I have in the lower ventricles of my heart. Don’t ask me how I know that’s where missing comes from—I just know that’s where all of the missing feelings are born. And when your heart is too full of missing, it tumbles out of your heart and fills up your stomach, and even if you’re full, it makes you feel empty.

I have been afraid of the quiet and full of missing all week. 

But every day

I sing silly songs about chocolate milk and poison oak and spiders that drink apple cider because these are songs I made up on our honeymoon. They make me laugh. If Mike were at home, he would laugh at them too (because he always does).

I play the same Iron and Wine record (usually the B side) on our record player because it reminds me of Mike.

I look at the blue shaving foam residue on the bottom shelf of our medicine cabinet. It reminds me that he will be back and that his can of shaving cream will go in that place. That light blue ring misses him, too, and that makes me feel a little better.

And every night

I stay up as late as I can to distract myself from the quiet and the missing.

I rub my feet together and wiggle my toes and slide them over to his side of the bed where his feet would be, because this is how my feet say goodnight.

I sleep with my bedside light on, curled away from where he is supposed to be because I don’t like that his side is empty.

But he is coming home soon.  Knowing this makes the quiet less scary and the missing shrink a little (but only a little). 

Knowing this makes me less distracted, which is good because there are some things I want talk about.

Later.

When I'm not distracted at all.

Not Ready For Goodbye: My thoughts and recent revelations about why I’m so afraid of making new girlfriends.

I.

Dear God:

With regard to the recent revelations that have come about regarding my deep-seeded hurt and crippling fear of rejection, I wanted to say thank you for speaking through Mike. I realize that all of this could have been revealed some other way; You just picked the nicest way possible. I am grateful for the gesture.

Affectionately Yours,

Bean
II.

When I wrote about my reluctance to make new friends/open up/give of myself in “Green Eggs and Jelly Beans”, I didn’t think I’d write a follow-up piece so soon. But here I am, exhausted from crying, my eyes still swollen and waterlogged from peeing out of my eyes for hours last night. This sounds dramatic but it’s not far from the truth. I look like I’ve had an allergic reaction to shellfish. In my defense, the hurt I had buried deep within me was coaxed to the surface. When I finally had the courage to peek at it, which was more of a sidelong glance if I’m honest, I realized that my heart still bled over this wound. And that it was the root of my fear.

It started with an unassuming conversation over a cup of coffee at The Gypsy Den. Mike gently brought up my friends or lack of friends, to be more accurate. He cautiously, gently, kindly mentioned that he had noticed that I’d changed from the girl he first met:

“You immediately bring up some embarrassing story about your bodily functions—often times when it’s just shocking or inappropriate. Why do you feel the need to do this?”

Silence.

I didn’t answer because I really didn’t know. I’d never thought about it before. Heck, I didn’t even realize I had become this girl. He proceeded (gingerly) to share his thoughts about this new Bean:

“I think you talk about your armpits or farts to shock people; you use it as a way of ‘being real’, when it’s really not being real. The first thing I noticed and really liked about you was the fact that you were very interested in people, even if you’d just met them. You were engaged in conversation; you were present; you made yourself vulnerable by sharing so much of your life, but you were vulnerable without caring. You were just open and honest and sincere. Now, I think you keep people at arm’s length by just telling them funny and embarrassing stories about yourself. But whenever someone really wants to be friends with you—wants to get to know you—you just make up excuses for why you can’t or don’t want to.”

Pardon my language but

[Insert loud noises, fireworks, screeching tires, and high-pitched screams]

Of course, he asked why this had become my modus operandi. Of course, I didn’t have an answer. But I did start to cry. At this point he suggested we walk home. It felt like the longest walk ever. We walked in silence and listened to the sounds of our breathing, my sniffling, broken glass crunching underfoot, and the distant whirring of the freeway.

At home, Mike tried to help me figure out why I had changed so drastically. I cried a lot. I was sad I had embarrassed him on a few occasions. I was sad I had probably hurt really good, really nice girls by repeatedly rejecting their friend requests. I was sad because I knew that my eyes would be super swollen from my ridiculous cry-fest. But I think it was good for me.

I learned a few things that night:

1. Puffs tissue is soft on the nose but not very good at absorbing tears. I went through several tissues and discovered that the aloe moisturizers infused in the tissues make them somewhat water resistant. Okay, not completely water resistant but I don’t think they are as effective as normal conference room tissues. They felt slimy on my face.

2. I do keep girls at arm’s length, despite how nice and kind and perfectly wonderful they are.

3. I do this because I’m afraid to get close. I wasn’t always this way.

4. Mike is right: I am missing out on some amazing friendships by not giving anyone a chance.

5. I have never really gotten over her.

III.

It took us awhile to become friends. Our first impressions were off by a few degrees (to say the least). I saw her as the prettiest girl on campus, innocent and pure and the object of desire for almost every guy I knew. She saw me as a pretty b*tch. Needless to say, she was wrong about me (I was right about her), which led to our inevitable friendship.

And oh, how I loved this girl! She was fun and nice and lovely and innocent and wholesome and extremely bright and terribly beautiful. Despite my goofiness and emotional instability, she loved me and always seemed to bring out the best in me. It wasn’t long before I knew she was going to be one of those “forever friends”, you know—one of those people you know is going to be in your life for a long time.

We were practically joined at the hip. Everyone knew that where I was, she was too (and vice versa). She often took me as her date to sorority events even though I was not “Greek”. I felt loved and cool and special because this girl--this girl that was loved by so many girls and adored by so many guys--this girl was my roommate and one of my best friends. We shared our hopes and fears, our secret and not-so-secret dreams. I held nothing back from her. I loved her and wanted her to succeed, wanted her to find love and accomplish all of her dreams. I wanted the best for her, wanted to protect her from all the bad in the world and celebrate every victory and accomplishment with her. No matter what happened (and a lot happened to me), she always rooted for me. She was great at making me feel loved and special, like it was her job. In fact, it was because of her that I met Mike. That’s probably one of the best gifts—aside from her friendship—that she has ever given me. I experienced (and survived) some of the best, most volatile years of my life with her by my side.

The end was unexpected and heartbreaking. I can only speculate how she felt.

Our lives started to move in two different directions. She and another roommate were graduating after four years. I had another year to go because I had allowed my “extracurricular activities” to get the best of me. She had been accepted into the Master’s program at UCSD and was well on her way to becoming a doctor. While I celebrated their graduation I tried to hide my anxious fears and suppress my guts, which threatened to spill out at any time.

A beautiful boy who had talked marriage broke up with me. I had a full year to “get it together” and finish school; I had a lot of work ahead of me. To be honest, I was a bit sad I wasn’t celebrating my graduation with them.

There was talk of moving into a bigger house, one I couldn’t possibly afford to live in on my meager student’s budget. I knew I wouldn’t be able to afford the rent. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t want to disappoint her. It was easy to avoid thinking about the end of our cohabitation because she worked days, I worked nights; we hardly saw each other. When my other roommate asked for my rental application, I was just leaving for work so I had to tell her I wasn’t going to be moving with them because I couldn’t afford it. I hadn't even told her.

I felt terrible. I already missed her.

She was cool and distant toward me when I got home so I knew she’d heard the news. I felt bad I didn’t tell her myself. I believe it hurt her more than I thought it would. She didn’t understand. She said some things that seemed foreign coming out of her mouth, things I knew were meant to mask her disappointment. She ended with, “Good luck with that.”

For the second time that day, I felt terrible. And I felt very alone.

I spent the rest of my summer alone (in hiding, really), nursing my hurt. I didn’t have the courage to apologize for hurting her, for letting her down. We grew apart and hardly spoke. I spent most of my time alone. I hung out in bars while working on crossword puzzles. I drove around with a stuffed elephant (Aidan) I bought at Marshall’s strapped into the passenger’s seat. I just wanted some company. When I wasn’t at work, I drove up to Los Alamitos and Irvine to see my family and stayed until I had to drive back down to work. Sometimes I slept in my car. I went from having a best friend/almost-sister and a community that we belonged to together to being completely alone. I got used to the solitude. I never got used to being without her. We moved out without seeing each other, without saying goodbye.

I moved in with three boys I found on Craigslist. I just happened to be across the street from where Mike lived, but I didn’t find out till later, and that’s another story for another time. Aside from her, most of my friends had graduated and moved away. I started the school year alone.

I cried over her a lot that year. Just when I thought I had gotten over it, someone would call and ask if I was going to their party, and I’d have to say I wasn’t invited. Of course, that person would ask why since I was her other half, and I’d have to gently explain we no longer kept in touch. Those were always awkward phone calls.

I sent a few text messages and tried to call. I never received any responses. One day in May, I received a text. And then a call. I have to admit I was scared and anxious and hopeful all at once. We talked. She was familiar but not at the same time. So much had happened since we last spoke. We said we should get together for lunch sometime. We never did.

The last time I heard from her was on the day I graduated. I read it and re-read it to make sure I wasn’t joking myself. Mike and I were running around the field, giddy with excitement that the commencement ceremony was finally over. While looking for my family, I received a text:

I watched you graduate today. I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished. Good luck with the future.

Or something to that effect. I think there was more but I can’t remember it now. I immediately looked around to see if I could spot her watching from afar. I never found her.

I wrote to her a few times after graduation to say I had no hard feelings for how things turned out. I thanked her for loving me so much and for taking such good care of me while we were friends and roommates. I saw that she read my e-mail. She never responded. I stopped trying because I didn’t want to seem desperate.

IV.

It may seem silly and inconsequential to be so hung up on the end of a friendship but I haven’t had one like it since. Don’t get me wrong—I do have some girlfriends. I have two very dear friends—my best girls, my “forever friends”—who have been with me through the mire and back. They were around long before her and are still in my life now. Mike was really the first close friend I made after the fallout. And then he became my best friend. I assume you can guess what happened after that. To be honest, I sort of gave up on girls after her.

But I think I’m ready. I haven’t been a “girlfriend” to new friends in a long time. I used to be really good at it (I think). Now it feels foreign and terrifying. So much of me wants to run and hide and give up all at once. I am a coward.

But I am trying because Mike said I have a lot to give, and that I am great at being a friend (to him at least). He told me not to be afraid. He said he didn’t want me to miss out on great friendships for the rest of my life. He said I would be blessed by my girlfriends in ways I could not anticipate. I knew he was right.

V.

Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, know that I still think of you. I hope you’re doing well and that your life is filled with much happiness, laughter, and love. You touched my life in ways you will never know. I think of you—the person you were, the person I was at that time in our lives—with the fondest memories.
And since it was your birthday (a day and a month ago) yesterday, Happy Birthday.

Future-Babies (or babies of the future)

I.

I have a confession:

I actually talked to my imaginary children this morning.

I won't tell you what I said because I'm a little embarrassed to admit this but you can laugh at me. It’s pretty silly.

I looked in the rearview mirror and pictured them sitting in the backseat playing-poking-eating-laughing-screaming-crying-throwing up-waving-smiling-sleeping-looking at the outside world in wonder. And I thought,

I hope I get to meet you some day.

I’ve been thinking about them a lot lately (my future-babies). I wonder if God will give them to me, if He’ll send them to me for safe-keeping or if He’ll keep them with Him. I will be the first to acknowledge that for awhile, I lived my life without thinking about them at all. I made bad choices, ones that scarred me in ways I didn’t anticipate. And when the glamour and allure of the fast life eventually faded into black, empty nothingness, when I was left alone, I remembered my future-babies.

But was it already too late?

I buried my questions and anxieties and prayers and tears and guilt deep inside. I couldn’t let any of that baggage bubble to the surface, not when I was trying to find a friend, someone who would stick around even though I was a broken mess.

I never thought that the friend God sent me would be my great love, the person He had made just for me.

I wish I had waited for him. Mike never dwells on my past but I know it affects him. He never uses it against me. We have talked and will probably continue to talk about how my choices have affected us, are affecting us, will continue to affect us. It is at those times I feel the most remorse over the things I’ve done, the person I was, because it affects Mike and our future-babies. It's so unfair to them.

II.

Sometimes I wonder if God pulled Mike aside and gave him a pep talk. He's just so good at loving me I think he must be getting paid by my parents or has been guaranteed a room upgrade in heaven. A pep talk seems more realistic. I imagine God waiting for Mike at a coffee shop, some place charming and quaint with old wood, exposed brick walls, mismatched cups, and delicious food. Mike shows up and walks toward God’s table. He extends his hand to shake God's hand when God embraces him. It’s a real hug, too, not just a man-hug. Mike sits down. On the table are two cups of coffee, a tattered leather-bound journal, and cream and sugar. They both reach for the cream at the same time. Mike says,

“Sorry—You first.”

So God complies to avoid a potentially awkward exchange while Mike adds sugar to his cup. He adds cream when God is done.

They drink in silence before God says,

“What do you think of Bean?”

And I’m not sure what Mike would actually say (and don’t want to be presumptuous) but if I have to guess, I assume he would say something like,

“She’s great. I like her a lot.” He takes another sip of his coffee before adding,

“She has been through a lot.” God nods.

“Indeed.”

And because Mike isn’t sure what to say (or why God is asking) he adds,

“But I do love her, you know, despite all that. She’s cool.”

God nods in agreement but doesn’t say anything because He’s swallowing His coffee.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”

Mike nods.

“I wanted to talk to you about Bean.” He stops a server walking past and orders a cheese Danish.

“Do you want anything?” Mike initially shakes his head “no” but at God’s insistence, orders a blueberry scone. Their orders arrive almost immediately.

“Bean is wounded. I’ve allowed her to experience much hurt and many types, too. Unfortunately, this makes her…complicated.”
Mike takes a drink of his coffee and says, “I understand.”

God takes another bite of His Danish.

“I made you for her because I know you will do the best job of loving her. She’s going to need you a lot, you know, to help her heal. I’ll work with her directly to handle the major issues—self-image, pride, brokenness, etc.—but I just need you to stay; stay with her, Mike. When she tells you to give up, please don’t. It’s going to be hard. And as you two work through everything together, you will be hurt as well, I’m afraid.”
Mike nods but doesn’t say anything. God flips through His journal, which is full of hand-written letters and photographs before finding what He’s looking for. He pulls out a photograph and slides it across the table toward Mike. It is a picture of me, or at least a girl/woman who looks like me. She looks very happy. He stares at it long and hard before asking,

“Is this…?”

God nods.

“This is Bean the way I made her to be. I love her so much, Mike. I wish she could see herself the way I see her.” There is a mixture of fondness and sadness in God’s voice as He talks to Mike about me. He has tears in His eyes. Mike, perhaps because he feels awkward or out of respect, keeps his head down.

“Somewhere along the way, she has forgotten how much I love her. She can no longer see herself the way I see her.”

He hesitates before continuing, which prompts Mike to look up.

“Please love her. Show her how much I love her, and when you want to give up because she has hurt you so, remember this photograph. That girl is in there somewhere. She’s the one for you. You’ll see.”
III.

When I realized I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Mike, wanted him to be the father of my future-babies, wanted to grow old with him till my teeth fell out, I felt guilty.

Had I spoiled our chances to meet our future-babies?

Of course, I don’t have the answer to this question. I used to be better about suppressing it and hiding it from everyone. Lately, for whatever reason, it has been harder to ignore. I often find myself thinking about my sweet future-babies and wondering if I’ll ever meet them or if I’ll have to wait till we get to heaven.

IV.

Dear Future-Babies,

Wherever you are, I hope you know how much I love you. I want so badly to meet you, to hold you, to smell your sweet baby drool and feel your heart beat against mine. I want to sing songs to you off-key till you fall asleep…unless my singing is so bad it keeps you awake. I can play tapes. And hum, I can hum. I want you to meet Mike because he is wonderful! He is excited to meet you guys, too. He’s funny and kind and can’t wait to teach you all sorts of things about the world. We talk about you guys often and look forward to the day we meet, whether it’s during this lifetime or when we get to heaven.

Love,

Bean (and Mike, too)

Heaven

I.

I wonder what heaven is like.

I know the Bible talks about heaven and what it’ll be like—streets of gold and endless praise and all that—but my imagination also pictures a different kind of heaven.

I hope God doesn’t get mad at me for picturing it differently.

I envision our first meeting to be very personal; for some reason, no one else is around when I arrive at the entrance to heaven. It’s not a defined entrance—I don’t see pearly gates marking the entrance to a massive walled enclosure of sparkly stucco. All of a sudden I am just there, wearing a pretty white dress walking down a dirt road toward God, who looks more lovely and radiant than I ever imagined. In fact, when I close my eyes and try to imagine this encounter now, I keep seeing Morgan Freeman even though I don’t imagine God looks like him. Oh, I should mention that I am in my 26-year-old body, which is soft and wobbly and grown-up. And I still have purple hair. When we meet, I say,

“Hello, God. It’s nice to finally meet you.” We hug, which I think is appropriate. He says,

“Hello, Bean. I’ve been waiting for you.”

As we walk together He points out noteworthy sites, which are curious and more remarkable than anything I’ve ever dreamed up (of course). Heaven is wild and natural and beautiful. I am so curious about all of the animals roaming around (I just want to touch them!) but I don’t ask questions; I’m shy. Those who know me know I’m not really shy but I think I would be when I first meet Him. I would say little and just walk in silence (and awe).

Somehow the town we are approaching blends seamlessly with the wild, like it sprouted out of the ground alongside the tall oak trees and wild flowers. It is dusk—my favorite time of day—and I notice that the old fashioned lampposts turn themselves on gradually, like they’re waking up from a long nap.

And oh, the people!

I can’t help but stare, which is natural since I do have a staring problem. Their faces are handsome and beautiful because they look rested, peaceful, happy. God pauses (since I can’t stop staring) to watch as people trickle out of their homes toward an unknown destination at what appears to be the heart of the town. I can’t help but admire their grand attire. They smile and nod as they pass us by.

I am about to ask where they are going (and whether or not we will go, too) but He is a few steps ahead of me walking down a trail that branches off the main road. I scramble to catch up. The road winds through a copse of old trees. As we walk, God points out healthy ferns and vibrant flowers; He is patient with me and waits while I stoop to look at tiny mushrooms. He doesn’t seem to mind that I wrinkle my nose when I see snails and the occasional slug.

The path we have followed eventually breaks through the trees into a clearing. There, at the top of a grassy hill, sits a white house with black shutters and a red door. I see an expansive wrap-around porch, complete with a porch swing and comfy cushions. It looks inviting.

“Welcome home,” He says.

I don’t know what to say except

“Thank you”, which doesn’t seem adequate.

I see a few houses in the distance. Some of my neighbors are tending to their gardens while others are sipping iced tea on their porches. They wave. God waves back.

He opens the front door for me (God is quite the gentleman). I hesitate before crossing the threshold. I am surprised to find

I am home.

It’s not the home I grew up in or the tiny studio I live in now. It’s an amalgamation of all of the places I’ve ever lived with some details from my dreams. It is comforting and familiar and brand new, all at the same time.

The hardwood floors creak happily beneath our weight as I explore each room; this time I lead and He follows. Like a child, I must touch everything. My fingertips graze the banister, already worn velvety-smooth by countless hands. I’m not sure whose hands but it feels like it has been smoothed by multiple generations living in the same house. There are books everywhere! Stacked on end tables, haphazardly organized on shelves, and strewn about the house at random. Books I loved as a child, books I checked out from the library that were never returned, books that eventually grew mold because I read them in the shower.

Twilight casts long shadows throughout the house, and like the lampposts, the lamps and candles wake up to reveal more treasures that were hidden in the semi-dark. Every detail is reminiscent of an item from my life—real or imagined. The walls are covered with familiar faces that smile back at me. On display above the fireplace is a picture of Mike and I on our wedding day. And although I am happy my throat tightens a bit because for the first time since I arrived in heaven, I realize he is not there. I feel guilty I didn’t realize it sooner. And my heart begins to ache.

Because He is God, He knows why my throat tightens but doesn’t say anything. Instead, He leads me back outside to the porch and we sit on the porch swing. There is a pack of cigarettes on the end table next to a plate of decadent triple chocolate fudge cupcakes. I eye the pack of cigarettes but don’t make a move. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to smoke in front of God; this is my first meeting, you know. In fact, I am not sure if there would be cigarettes in heaven but there they are—an indulgence from a different time, a different life.

I sneak a glance toward God, which of course, isn’t as sneaky as I think it is. He reaches for a cupcake. I hesitate before reaching for the cigarettes. He doesn’t say anything. I light up. Of course, they’re unlike any cigarettes I’ve ever tried. In fact, they smell and taste like cinnamon rolls (and of course, they are not bad for you at all). We sit in silence and listen to waves crashing on a distant rocky shore.
“You miss him.”
“Terribly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

God finishes His cupcake and licks His fingers. I put out my cigarette. I notice that God has crumbs in His beard.

“You have…something [I gesture toward my chin where my beard would grow]…leftovers…”

“Oh. Thanks.” He brushes them away.

I cannot stop thinking about Mike; I know there is a sadness lingering in my eyes.

“What do you miss the most about him?”

I’m ashamed to admit this but I’m pretty sure that I would start crying. I cry easily so I should not be surprised that I am crying during my first meeting with God (but it’s still a little embarrassing). I’m sure I would be a leaky mess, blubbering and sucking in sharp breaths to try and control the sobs that are jumping from my gut. All I can say is,

“I miss him”

But God knows (because He knows everything) that what I really mean to say is

I miss his smile.
I miss his after-work smell, which smells like hard work and graphite and metal and sweat and deodorant.
I miss his just-out-of-the-shower smell, which smells delicious and fresh and clean.
I miss the way he cups my face in his hands when he tells me I’m beautiful.
I miss the way his hands always find mine when I sneak into bed after he has already fallen asleep.
I miss his witty remarks.
I miss his sense of humor.
I miss hearing, “Hi Bean” on the other end of the telephone.
I miss his heart, which is kind and generous.
I miss his cute butt, which reminds me of a fuzzy peach.
I miss his jagged handwriting, especially the “I love yous” he scrawled on scraps of paper and hid around my room.
I miss the way he holds me when we slow dance to old records in our living room.
I even miss his farts.

God hands me a box of Kleenex and says,

[Silence]

But in the silence I feel His compassion. I blow my nose loudly.

“Where is he?”

“He’s not here yet.”

I try not to look as miserable as I feel because I’m in heaven (!) talking to God (!!!). Unfortunately, I have always been transparent and a not-great liar.

“Can I ask when? Am I allowed to? Okay, well, I guess I’m asking now…”

“It’s not for you to know. It’s better this way.”

It is night. The sky above us is a rich blue-black, peppered with white-hot stars. God and I sit in silence. I reach for a cupcake. Oh my gosh: it’s amazing. Between mouthfuls (but still with my mouth mostly full), I ask,

“Does it get easier? Will I miss him like this for always?”
“It gets easier. Over time, you will hurt less…but I made his heart for you…yours for him. There will always be a part of you that feels his absence.”
I finish my cupcake. I am tired from crying and my mouth tastes salty and slimy, like chocolate and tears. I want to brush my teeth.

“This sucks. Oops! I mean, this is hard. I mean, okay--I understand…sort of, or rather, I accept.”

“I know this is hard; this is love. Do you get it now?”

It is late now but God still sits with me. I'm not sure if He had other plans but I'm glad He is still there. We don't talk; we simply sit in silence as I mull over His words.

II.

Mike, I can never tell you enough times how much I love you. So I am telling you again--here, now, at this moment and for always:

I love you.

You are the best thing in my life, the one whom my soul loves. I know God loves me a lot because he gave me you--hilarious, wonderful, incredible you.

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Green Eggs and Jelly Beans

I.

I have avoided writing about what’s really going on with me because I know I’m in the middle of a lesson. I wanted to wait till the end to write a cute fable about a trial (complete with funny and slightly humiliating anecdotes) and end result (regardless of how big my accomplishment or whether or not I accomplished much at all). Well, that takes time, and then it takes a few days (give or take) to come up with a witty one-liner about the moral of my story, something that will resonate and linger long after you’ve forgotten my words.

June has been one long lesson peppered with mini victories and disappointing mess-ups. Sometimes I feel like my slow progress doesn’t count because of the mess-ups. I feel like a dog wearing roller skates making frantic, futile attempts to stop rolling down a steep hill. Over the past couple of months, God has cracked me open and revealed several “areas of growth/brokenness”, much to my chagrin. My character looks like the inside of a pumpkin in December. I’m sharing because I want to be honest. I can tell people that I found a blue microbead from my body wash stuck in my butt crack but hesitate to share what God is doing in my life? How silly.

I hope that regardless of what you may think of me after reading this, you see what God is doing in me. I tried to ignore Him by offering valid excuses—wedding planning, work, Graves’ Disease, marriage—but I’ve run out, and not a moment too soon, I’m sure. I don’t know what He has in store but I’ve finally stopped resisting and am willing to be changed into something better than what I am. Though I fuss and whine and get angry about the lesson, I thank Him (probably not as often as I should) for loving me, for wanting me to be the best version of myself.
II.

I always empathized with the nameless character in Dr. Seuss’ beloved classic, Green Eggs And Ham. He knew what he liked and those odd green eggs and ham just weren’t on that list. Personally, I respected that and wouldn’t have pushed him. At the same time, I admired Sam-I-Am for his tenacity. By golly, he had a prize to share and he wasn’t going to give up until the person unknown tried it for himself! I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I realized that I am guilty of playing both roles (when it’s convenient).

I feel that I deserve to act like the nameless man when it comes to jelly beans and people. I know I sound like a terrible person for admitting that I am stubborn and selective about the people I “allow” into my life so I’ll first talk about jelly beans.

Jelly Belly jelly beans take me back to childhood visits to my mom’s office, which was pretty much the only time I had access to the huge jar of jelly beans she kept on her desk. I think it was for decoration or for other people because my mom always snacked on fruit. Whenever my sister and I got to visit, she would allow us to eat those magical, sugary beans on one condition: we had to pour them out of the jar or grab them by the handful. We were notorious repeat offenders, guilty of only picking our favorite flavors and leaving behind the mud and stucco colored beans; you couldn’t tell if the coloring was intentionally drab or if they were old. Because she was Mom--second to God but only by a miniscule margin--we complied. Both of us would take turns pouring the jelly beans into a bowl or onto a napkin. My sister, four years younger (with the patience to prove it), had a tendency to pour the beans quickly and without any technique. I, on the other hand, poured slowly, often rotating the jar to see if I could locate a pocket that contained all of my favorite flavors. Once located, I’d gently sift the beans out so the least amount of offending flavors made it out of the jar. Licorice, Grape Jelly, Buttered Popcorn, Plum, Jalapeno, and Strawberry Jam were always put back when my mom wasn’t looking.

I still consider my technique to be a legitimate loophole.

Unfortunately, I also apply this philosophy to people. Insert pregnant pause where children cry, my mother shakes her head in disapproval, and my sister disowns me. And everyone un-friends me on Facebook.

Please don’t assume I don’t feel bad about this. I consider myself to be a fairly nice person, though I know I used to be much nicer/kinder/more compassionate. At 26, for whatever reason, I feel that I am “allowed” to be selective about the people I choose to let in. I mean really let in. I use quotes because I act like I have control over the guest list. I offer ridiculous excuses to God about why I don’t want to let certain people in:

“Oh God, that person is needy. Boundaries--there would be no boundaries if I got involved…and then it would just be messy. Yeah, I just don’t do too well with needy people. I don’t have the patience, sorry…but You know who does have loads of patience? My friend from church…”

“You’ve already introduced me to her. I can’t help her, God. I mean, I know that only You can help her but I’m just saying I showed her Your Word, prayed for her, and told her what she should do but she’s still doing what she wants. *shrug* I don’t think there’s much else I can do.”
“I don’t think I’m a good candidate to help this person. For starters, I already told him about that night I got trashed and puked and peed in my underwear at the same time. Wouldn’t it be kind of weird to talk about You knowing what he knows about me? Yeah…I know I should think more before I share certain things…okay lots of things…I’ll work on that.”

“I see this as being more than a self-esteem issue. I can’t force them to believe they're valued and loved by You; you can know something but not believe it, but of course, You already know that about people. Anyway, You don’t force people to believe so who am I…? There are plenty of other people who are naturally (okay, spiritually) gifted to affirm and encourage…Plus, I was hoping I could pass this one and get a break. I’ve had a heck of a year already, what with the wedding, my family, health, work, now marriage…I mean, I know You already know about all this. I just like repeating things…”

So I exaggerated a little (because the ridiculous is funnier and more acceptable) but I am guilty of thinking or feeling these thoughts. *wince* I just don’t want to get involved. I am selfish! I admit it! I don’t feel the need to keep adding to my friend pool because the people in my life are fantastic! They’re smart, funny, kind, humble, compassionate, creative, very inclusive, adventurous pirates, bold karaoke singers, and are passionate about food, the environment, song and dance, laughter, and sunshine. Oh, and they’re all (more are less) self-assured—not cocky—and are very easy going. Most of them really love God and are constantly seeking Him. They ask deep (and sometimes not-so-deep) questions to which we do not always have answers (and this is perfectly acceptable). Together we try to figure out how we’re supposed to live out His love in tangible ways in our local and global communities; I'm sorry that sounded like a mission statement. It just tumbled out before I had a chance to restrain myself. Yes, it’s true--I am part of a traveling hoard of Jesus-loving gypsies. We are perfect.

Not.

Getting to know people is easy (for me). Letting them in, committing to doing life/walking alongside them through the mire—that’s another story. It’s a lot of work. I am already part of another community; I’m not really looking to branch out right now. I’m really not the right person to help you through this. You need God. You already have your own friends. You’re weird/difficult/awkward/tactless/insert useless reason. I have a lot of problems/issues that I need to focus on right now. I'm just as screwed up as you are (probably more); I can't really help you if I'm drowning (I'm a weak swimmer).

I know I’m wrong. Even before God tapped me on the shoulder, I could feel I was wrong. It’s sort of like that itchy feeling you feel in the back of your throat when you know you’re getting sick. You know what’s coming. When your butt hole itches, you know it’s because you didn’t wipe well. You have to go back for a second wipe. I tried desperately to ignore Him but He’s God. He’s everywhere, in every detail. Through conversations, devotionals, prayers, events, and the wetlands at first light, God said:

YOU ARE WRONG!!! *Cue thunder, lightning, and chariots of fire.

If that had happened, I would’ve peed in my pants for the third time in three years. Nothing supernatural happened. He just held up a mirror—not in judgment or condemnation, but in love—and waited till I had the courage to look. And when I looked in the mirror, I saw those people I scorned, judged, held at arm’s length, criticized, gossiped about, ridiculed, and crushed with my words, attitudes, actions, and self-righteousness. Except instead of their faces I saw my own.

I cried.
III.

Like I said before, I’m in the middle of the lesson. I wish I could tell you that I’m so much better at loving people now, that I have become an excellent listener, faithful confidante, and regularly attend and invite people to fellowship gatherings (or whatever). Truthfully, my progress/growth fluctuates every day (as I expected). It makes me uncomfortable because every fiber in me wants to politely say, “I empathize with your problems but can’t help you. I’m retired/on sabbatical.” I might even add,“I appreciate your kind and generous offer—and you have much to offer—but all of the roles in my community have been filled.”

Thankfully, God sends certain people in my life to gently lift up that proverbial mirror when I need it; at this point, it happens several times a week. Yeah, I’m a terrible person (but God and I are working on it).

Looking Back

I.

November 19, 2005. 4:00 A.M.
About three-quarters of the way through Monty Python: Quest for the Holy Grail, Mike--my close friend, classmate, and neighbor--tentatively reached for my left hand in what I imagine was an attempt to hold it. He only managed to grab my pinky and ring-finger. I’m not sure if that was his intention but he didn’t make a second attempt to get a better grip. He just held on and stared at the television. I didn’t know what to do so I did what I’d wanted to do for a long time: I freed my fingers and gouged his eyes out.

Just kidding.

I held his hand. It was nice.

To be honest, I don’t remember the rest of the movie. While the credits rolled (and there were a lot of credits) he spilled his guts, which were messy, and waited--scared--to see how I would react. Then I spilled my guts. We found out our guts liked each other. A lot. And then it was 6:15 and I had to leave for a 7:00-7:00 work day. I didn’t want to leave! I wanted to figure out how all of our guts were going to affect our friendship. The inevitable change freaked me out a little (okay, a lot) because his friendship was the best thing in my life. Deep down inside, I wanted to know if his guts, unlike the others, would actually stick around. To my sweet surprise, he gently kissed me on the forehead. All of a sudden those questions weren’t so urgent. In fact, some weren’t even relevant. I realized I had never been so happy about being so utterly exhausted in my entire life, and that I didn’t want to wash my forehead.

II.

I remember the first time I told Mike I loved him. We were fairly brand new at that point—maybe a month or more into our relationship—and I wanted to do everything the right way (whichever way that was; I had no idea). I was raised to believe I shouldn’t chase--I should allow myself to be chased--so saying “I love you” first was definitely against the rules. But I wanted to do it. I knew I didn’t want to date anyone else for the rest of my life. So I foolishly told him I had something to tell him, which made it sound like I had some big secret to reveal. Of course, he gave me his complete attention, which made me feel…self-conscious, I guess, even though I knew I had no reason to worry. He wasn’t going to point at me and say, “You love me? That’s stupid!” or “Really? Thanks! I love you, too, but I’d love you more if you waxed your upper lip.”

I think I was just afraid “I love you” wouldn’t be good enough. I didn’t want him to misinterpret it as being cheap or forced. I tried to think of alternatives but what were supposed to be one-liners turned into epic poems; “You complete me” had already been done. Even my attempt at an acrostic fell short! Those are supposed to be slam dunks, your ace in the hole! So I licked my lips and started to fold Mike’s laundry. He told me to leave it, that it wasn’t important. I sprawled out on the bottom bunk. He sprawled out next to me, waiting patiently for me to say something.

“I…I…wow, I didn’t think this would be so hard…I mean, it’s not hard because it’s not like I’m lying…I’m just really nervous…” *licking lips*

Mike looked at me and said, “Don’t be nervous. It’s just me. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Just tell me when you’re ready, if you’re ever ready.” When I get really nervous I have a habit of tugging on my earlobe or scratching myself even though I’m not itchy. I launched into an ear-tugging body-scratching fit. I must have looked odd but Mike didn’t say anything.

“No I want to tell you. It’s not a bad thing! It’s a good thing! I just…I’m having...I’m scared…”

And so it went for 12 long minutes before I blurted, “I heart you” instead of “I love you.” LAME! How STUPID! "I'm a man" would've been more exciting than "I heart you"!!!

Two hours later, without much fanfare or build-up, I simply said, “I love you”. Beneath a brilliant sky, he smiled and said, “I love you, too.”

III.

September 22, 2007

We were supposed to be meeting our friends, Shiao and Christian, on the San Clemente Pier before heading to Sonny's for dinner. I was really excited about dinner! I had been thinking about what I was going to order all day: wild mushroom ravioli with tomato cream sauce. Instead, I saw this:



And before I really knew what was going on, Mike was down on one knee asking me to marry him. I didn't know what to say so I didn't say anything. In my defense, I really had been focused on the wild mushroom ravioli (it's DELICIOUS!)...and Mike said we wouldn't be getting married for awhile.

"Is that a yes?"

He didn't even know which hand to put it on.  I could barely speak so I thrust my left hand at him.  I always thought I'd be incredibly glamorous (or at least more feminine) when a man  finally proposed to me.  You know, I thought I'd finally have that whole "woman" thing down.  I thought I'd at least be wearing a beautiful gown and have thick, flowing locks, which is ridiculous because I've never had thick flowing locks in my LIFE.  I guess it fits that my best friend proposed to me while I was wearing a thermal, jeans, and brown Converse. *sigh*  Oh well.

I started to call my parents when I heard screaming. I looked up to see my twelve-year-old cousin, Michaela, screaming and waving her arms as she ran toward us. Behind her, our families carried flowers and rushed toward us yelling and cheering.  Everyone that mattered most to us had been hiding, waiting for the proposal.  And then I started crying. I just couldn't believe that of all the women in the world, he had picked me.

As we headed to my parents' house for a surprise engagement dinner, I looked at Mike and said, "Does this mean we're not going to Sonny's?"

You know, the ring was nice and all but I'm still waiting to eat wild mushroom ravioli.

Kidding (mostly).