Daily Scribbles :: Thin Seasons

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Inspiration:

"It isn't the great big pleasures that count the most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones."--Jean Webster

I.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm thankful for seasons when life feels uncomfortably full, when I feel I'm stretched thin and am starting to lose my elasticity. It is during those longer, harder days that I see and appreciate all of the good things in my life.

We are entering into this season once more. Work demands more time than it already owns. Life demands more--more time, money, energy, self. I'd like to think that I'm not easily derailed, that I can segue from one season into the next without losing my cool or getting flustered.

But I lost my cool last week. 

I allowed myself to sit in a pool of despair for a few hours. I grumbled at everyone and no one in particular. I splashed around and waited till my toes got pruney. Then I got out.

No use grumbling and crying about things I can't change.

We're trying our best to adjust to work days that bleed into long nights, to eating everything out of our pantry and freezer because our budget is so taut you could bounce quarters off of it. 

We're in a thin season.

Thin seasons force me to assess my priorities and be creative and intentional with my time and resources. Thin seasons remind me to celebrate the little things, like having just enough time to hold hands before going to sleep. Great friends. Peanut butter. Happy dogs. A clean house. 

These things are more than enough. 

II.

Dear God:

Thanks for thin seasons. They remind me to celebrate all of the good things you give me every day. Maybe some day, I won't need thin seasons to remember.

Yours,

Bean

III. 

My friend, Nannette, is determined to focus on the blessings in her life and is sharing her reasons to be grateful each week on her blog. Her determination to focus on the good things has challenged me to focus on the good things in my life, too. 

What are three good things in your life? Here are my three:

1. Mike Fox. And Crosby and Gemma. And our families. And our dear friends. (I'm going to cheat and count all of those people as one really wonderful blessing.)
2. The Orange County Public Library
3. Drinking tea with Mike before bed

i might need to take sex ed again

I.

I'm not sure how I made it to 28 without knowing much about the reproductive system, but I will be the first to admit that a fourth grader probably knows more than I do. I'm sure I'd benefit from watching that video they show to girls in elementary school to teach them about their changing bodies. I think it was called "The New You". I remember it being strange and alienating. (Changes? What changes?) It was foreign to me but there were some girls in my class who already had new bodies. Those girls used to huddle on the playground during recess to talk about their new, grown-up bodies while the rest of us with ordinary kid-bodies played kid-games and dug holes in the sand box that smelled of cat pee. These new girls were modest enough not to talk about the most obvious change, but they did allude to new hair and smells and aching chests. It sounded horrifying and fascinating. I searched my body for signs of change every night to no avail. Until one day.

One day, I noticed a new hair.

I ran to where "the new girls" were huddled at recess and said, "YOU GUYS! I have a hair. You know--a haaaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir."

(Obviously, my desire to fit in outweighed any shame a normal person with any decency might have felt from yelling about pubic hair in public.)

I directed their attention to the tiny eyelash growing out of the mole on my right forearm and waited for them to tell me I was finally welcome to join their new-body club. They smiled at me. It was a pity-smile.

"Lina, that isn't a pubic hair. You'll know when you get one. And if you're not sure, you should ask your mom."

I was so disappointed.

I know about as much now as I did when I was in fourth grade. (Well, maybe a little bit more.) This is inconvenient (to say the least) when you're trying to have a baby. You're probably wondering how I could be so ignorant. Didn't I take Biology and Health? Yes and Yes, but I didn't retain anything. When my doctor said I was healthy enough to start trying to have a baby, I just stared at her and said, "So now what?" I almost started laughing when she said, "Take prenatal vitamins and have lots of intercourse." I immediately called Mike to tell him the good news:

Me: The doctor said I'm healthy! She said we can start trying.
Mike: That's great news, Bean! I'm so excited!
Me: She told me to have lots of intercourse. HAHAHAHA! She said "intercourse". Who says "intercourse"?!
Mike: Doctors do.
Me: Oh. Right. That's true.
Mike: Real mature, Bean.

II.

I was worried about being healthy enough to have a baby for a really long time. There's still a chance the hole in my heart could re-open as a result of the strain of childbirth, and my Graves Disease could flare up and make me sick all over again during pregnancy. And then there's conception. Honestly, I just read about it a few weeks ago, and it felt like I was learning it for the first time. (What if the sperm picks the wrong Fallopian tube?! What if the sperm and egg barely miss each other?!) Despite these odds, I am constantly reminded that God is bigger than these "what ifs", that there's no detail He has overlooked.

He has surrounded us with an amazing community of friends and family members to love, encourage and advise us during this pre-baby season. I am surprised and humbled by the prayers, advice and encouragement we've already received. I even got an instant message from a co-worker that said, "Am I allowed to ask if you've gotten your period? Because I really hope not!" They've lent books, shared their own stories, and directed me to informative websites. One friend gave me all of her prenatal vitamins because she and her husband are taking a different route to building their family. Another almost took a picture of her cervical fluid to show me what I should be looking for! (I'm relieved she didn't but I appreciated the thought.)

III.

Dear Future-Babies:

You are blessed to be so loved and prayed for by such remarkable men and women. I hope we meet you soon! There are a lot of people who are excited to meet you.

There are a lot of people we want you to meet.

Love,

Mama Bean (And your dad. And Crosby and Gemma, too.)

Thankful for firsts. Sort of.

I remember a lot of firsts.


I remember the first time I ate cottage cheese. It was Grandparents Day at school, and since my grandpa didn't speak much English (and I didn't speak much Lao), I ate lunch with a classmate and her grandparents at Sizzler.


I remember the first time time I slapped a girl. It was impulsive, and I immediately regretted it after I did it. I was in 5th grade. (I have never slapped anyone since.)


I remember my first kiss. It was exhilarating and hungry and wet. I was 19. He smelled like crisp air and clean laundry.


And even though it hasn't happened yet, I know I will always remember this Thanksgiving. Because this Thanksgiving, I'm going to host my first Thanksgiving dinner. For my family. In my home.


I. AM. ANXIOUS. (Understatement.)


I didn't think I'd be in this position for a few years! Yet, in too few days, I will be frantically cleaning my house, bathing my dogs, peeling potatoes and trying to figure out how to seat nine people in my dining room. (Our table comfortably seats four.) I have to think positively. Otherwise, my mind begins spiraling out of control. 


How will I cook an entire Thanksgiving feast in my tiny kitchen? Can I even fit an entire turkey in my oven? Do I have place settings and seating for nine adults? Do I need to decorate?! Am responsible for creating traditions?! Will they like what I cook? What if they're disappointed? Look at my cuticles. My skin looks terrible. I look haggard. My spider veins look more pronounced today. I feel bloated. I want to eat cake and watch a Harry Potter marathon.

In addition to worrying about Thanksgiving dinner, my body has decided to shut down. I feel like a five-year-old is sitting on my head (and is hitting me in the face), and every time I cough, which is often, I feel like I might pop a lung.

I'm freaking out now, and I'll probably freak out on Thanksgiving day, but I know I'm missing the point. 

I have many reasons to give thanks. 

I am thankful for Mike Fox.
I am thankful for our home.

I am thankful that I get to prepare a meal for my family.

I am thankful for my tiny kitchen and too-small oven and table that only seats four. 

I am thankful for my family and friends.


I hope I have good news to share after Thanksgiving, but if not good news, at least hilarious stories about how I botched the whole dinner and ended up feeding everyone fried rice.


What are you doing for Thanksgiving? If you're cooking, what are you making? Do you have any advice on how not to botch Thanksgiving dinner? If so, please share!

a safe place

After months of constant motion, financially crippling surprises and work crises, I think we’re finally slowing down.

I think we’re finally entering a safe place.

I feel like I’ve been clinging for dear life to a leaky vessel with one oar and torn sails for months. My spirit feels as haggard as I look. I bet I have scurvy. But the clouds are just starting to part, and the sea is pushing my leaky vessel toward the shore. Ahh rest. At least for now.

Without going into too much detail about the misadventures we’ve had because of Gemma, I will say that she is responsible for our debt, exhaustion and weight gain. Her curiosity landed her in the pet hospital and vet’s office several times over the course of a few weeks. There were lots of tears (sometimes cuss words) and late nights caring for her. Thousands of dollars later, we are still grateful she is alive. Life  feels like it’s getting a little easier.

I know God is throwing us a bone by giving us a breather. I think He’s preparing us for what’s next. For now, I am marinating in His blessings because, as always, they are surprising and good. Really good. He provided me with an opportunity to telecommute full-time so I no longer have to spend two hours in traffic. He also preserved my job during a massive “restructure” at work. He also sent someone to buy Mike’s motorcycle so we could pay off the debt we accrued from Gemma’s medical bills. And He continues to surround us with people who love us.

What’s next?

We want to meet our future-babies. A lot of people are really private about this but I can’t help but be excited. And scared. And overwhelmed. I have to remind myself that God is bigger than my sewed-up heart and wonky thyroid. (I had heart surgery when I was 14 to repair a hole, and I have Graves Disease--hyperthyroidism--though it has been in remission for two years.) I know my future-babies are hanging out with God in heaven, and that they're having a blast. I tell myself this every time I get a negative test result. It makes me a little less disappointed. Just a little. I don't want to neglect the good things in our lives just because God is saying, "Not yet."

For now, we are enjoying the quiet of this safe place. And every day, we ask, "Maybe Baby, are you in there?" 

Daring to Dream

“You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.” –C.S. Lewis

I.

I only know three people who love their jobs:

1. My old roommate, who is a police officer for the Santa Ana Police Department.
2. My optometrist
3. ...

Maybe I only know two people who love their jobs.

My old roommate LOVES her job. She works nights over the weekend.

Let me repeat that: she works the graveyard shift. OVER THE WEEKEND.

Yes, she loves her job. She is passionate about her work. She uses words like “thrilling” and “awesome” to describe her job. She also interacts with drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes in her line of work. Who else can say that? (I guess drug dealers, gang members and prostitutes can also say that…)

My optometrist also loves her job. I asked her if she liked staring at eyeballs all day, and she said yes. She said it was fascinating to her.

You know what?

I believed her.

And then I thought—just for a second—that perhaps I should’ve pursued a similar career path so I could kindly tell a patient she has astigmatism, and that her tear film is “spotty”, which is why she suffers from such severe dry eye. But that thought quickly evaporated (just like my tear film).

I couldn’t be a police officer like my old roommate because I typically don’t run toward danger. Also, I couldn’t do one pull-up to save my life. My old roommate had to do a lot of pull-ups when she was in boot camp. I mean, she had to do a lot of other things but I was most impressed by the fact that she could do pull-ups.

I couldn’t be an optometrist because I would never get into optometry school. Even though I think eyeballs are amazing, I don’t think I could force myself to know EVERYTHING about them. Besides, mine don’t work well at all. You should see me walk Crosby when I’m not wearing contacts or glasses. I make angry, squinting faces at my neighbors and wave in their general direction just in case they waved.

The only thing I could ever be is a writer.

So, I pursued writing.

II.

I had glamorous ideas about being a starving writer. It just seemed so sexy!

Working three jobs just to pay the bills? OF COURSE! That will add to my credibility!

Single? You bet your butt I will be!

A billion tattoos? Uhh YES.

Cigarettes, coffee and wine? All day, every day!

I had those ideas when I was in my early twenties. They changed when I met Mike.

Here’s what happened after that:

• We graduated and moved to Orange County to be close to my family.
• Mike proposed.
• I got a writing job at a big company.
• We got married.
• We bought a house.
• We adopted our dog, Crosby, from the animal shelter.

·       All that occurred over the course of five years. Sometimes I think, where has the time gone? Am I really at this place in my life now?

Yes. What I once thought was the distant future is my present. I am living it now.

And boy, does it look different:

• I'm happily married.
• I'm building a nice home with Mike.
• I have a mortgage.
• I have a great dog!
• I spend Saturday mornings cleaning my whole house instead of sleeping in till 1:00 p.m. and detoxing before the next wild night out. 
• Even my body is different. It's wobblier.

You know what else looks different? I spend all day writing non-creative things. By the time I get home, I’m too tired to write anything else. In fact, after a 12-hour day, all I have time to do is cook a quick dinner, hold hands with Mike, and pet Crosby before going to bed.

I’ve done this for four years now. Somehow, I thought this year would be different. I thought I would learn to set boundaries to protect my home life—my writing life—but I was wrong. Instead of learning to set boundaries, I learned that I am terrible at setting boundaries.

I learned that I am bad at saying no. Instead of saying, “No, I can’t do this”, I say, “Okay, I’ll get it done”—and I sacrifice my life, my marriage, my relationships, and my true self instead. This rhythm of all non-creative-work and no life made me sad. For months, I thought—this is it. This is my life. I’m 28. I’m officially OLD. It’s too late to try something new, to dream a new dream (or revive an old one).

(I know those were my fears talking but in my defense, they talk really, really loudly.)

My prayers looked like this:

What the cuss, God?! Is this it? Will this job be the measure of my life? I can barely nurture, love and support my husband right now. How will I sustain a family? Can I even conceive? I’m so stressed out all the time I don’t know if it’s even possible. And God, one more thing: I never thought I’d want to be a stay-at-home mom but I’ve changed my mind. Is that okay? Is that even possible in Southern California? Do we have to move out of state? Hello? Are You still listening? WHAT DO I DO?

I don’t have any answers yet. (And that’s okay.)

I know God has heard me wail, moan, cuss, complain and weep bitter tears over my job and what my life was becoming.

But He has also said, Bean—I’ve got this. Just wait—you’ll see.

So I’ve waited. I’m still waiting. And from what I can tell, I think His surprise is going to blow my mind.

(I just pictured brain matter flying out of my ears like popcorn. Did you?)

III.

While I’m waiting, I have decided that I must write, and not just because I can’t be a police officer or an optometrist.

I must write because that is the only thing God made me remotely good at.

I think He is saying that, too. Right now, I have the privilege of working on two freelance writing projects at the same time. Yes, I am now working three jobs, which is why I’m writing this blog entry past midnight.

For the first time in years, I AM HAPPY WITH MY JOB(S).

I feel like I’m just starting to live.

I feel like these writing opportunities are just the beginning—of what, I don’t know.

I’ll wait and see.

IV.

A lot of my friends work their behinds off at jobs they don’t like. I think it’s more common than uncommon. But friends—don’t get lost. Don’t throw yourself and your dreams away. Work hard—yes—but live well.

Let’s fight to reclaim our lives, to live lives worth talking about. As Mary Oliver says, 

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" 

Yes—tell me.                                                 

Unraveling

I can't go to sleep.

My heart and mind are too full of wonderings and unanswered questions and secret hopes and joy and sadness and fatigue and

Secret fears.

All of these things that are normally kept bottled up are leaking out of my eyes, tracing salty messages on my face. Does God send someone to collect the unspoken prayers that collect in shallow pools in my ears?

I hope so.

Because I have a lot of messages to send him. I have a lot of stuff to send him

About work
And believing in myself and the beauty of my dreams
And my future-babies
And friends whose dreams continue to be deferred
And finances
And what it looks like to be a good friend to other girls
And what I'm supposed to do when people I love are being betrayed by their bodies and are slowly crumbling to dust.

I want to write a million words and cry a bottomless lake of tears but I am so tired right now. I don't know where to begin. I am afraid that if I start, I'll unravel in a matter of seconds and all that will be left of me is a few fillings and some lint.

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Dear God: How do You speak so loudly without saying anything aloud?

My ears are ringing, my heart is throbbing and my brain is abuzz.

Because God has been talking to me a lot about

G R A C E

Loving people

Weird, not-nice, difficult people. Mostly-nice people who have great hearts but don't know they can be not-nice with their words and actions. Really nice people who just need patience and prayer and grace from me. Grumpy people. Jealous people. Spiteful people. Lazy people. People who don't know God. People who do know God but are mad at Him. People who do know God but are "taking a break" at the moment. People who do know God but haven't heard from Him in awhile. Or ever.

The beauty of our dreams.

Change.

Hope.

Stories.

Every cell in my body is saturated with thoughts and whispers and questions about these things. I would say God is practically yelling at me but I don't think that would be accurate. I think He has been talking to me for awhile about these things.

I just wasn't ready to hear them.

I just wasn't ready to hear Him.

I just wasn't willing to hear Him.

Because I was too busy listening to my voice.

Because I was too busy listening to other people's advice.

Because I was too afraid to hear what He'd say.

Because I was too unwilling to change.

Because I was too afraid of trying to change

And failing.

Because I was too afraid of failing.

This is a lot of things to hear and feel at once, I know. I often won't write when I'm mentally and emotionally constipated with thoughts upon thoughts but this time, I felt I had to share.

Because I don't think I'm alone.

I hope you know I'm more like you than you might think.

• I didn't go to a Christian college.
• I didn't study theology.
• I'm not well-read on Christian-ANYTHING.
• I majored in Literature and Writing.
• I know more about William Faulkner and the appropriate use of semi-colons than exegesis of the bible. (I'm sure I didn't really use "exegesis" properly in that sentence. Please don't judge me too harshly.)
• I pursued what I thought was a meaningful existence instead of pursuing a relationship with God. Thankfully, He allowed me to survive my pursuit of "the good life" so I could get to know Him.
• I have a hard time flossing regularly.
• I don't return my library books on time.
• I like cheese. A lot.
• I have spider veins and cellulite.
• I don't wash my face before bed.
• Although I once told my now-husband I wasn't like other girls in this area, I do like purses and shoes. A lot.
• I have a mustache. My husband, Mike, calls it a "catfish mustache".
• I find shaving my legs to be a laborious chore.
• For the most part, I want people to like me. I get sad when I find out they don't.
• I cuss sometimes.
• I'm not always kind, although I'd like to change this about myself because I really value kindness.
• I sing aloud loudly and off-key, and I typically get lyrics wrong. Really wrong. When I heard, "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC, I thought it was, "Dirty deeds and the thunder chiefs." I didn't know the song wasn't about Indians until Mike told me I was wrong. He laughed at me for a really, really long time.

I'm not an expert on anything. I'm just a girl who wants to know God before she meets Him face-to-face.

SO. That being said, I think there will be more questions and conversations with God on this blog this year. To be honest, I'm a little scared because I'm bad at the things He's talking to me about—you know, loving people and showing grace to them. (No big deal.)

(Just kidding.)

But I will be as honest as I can in case you're going through the same stuff.

Know you're not alone.

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This Year

This year has been a year of firsts.

This year, we bought our first house.

This year, we adopted our first puppy.

This year, we bought our first appliances.

This year, we bought our first pieces of grown-up furniture.

This year, we celebrated our first Thanksgiving with multiple families under one roof.

This year, we bought our first Christmas tree.

This year, we hung Christmas lights on our house for the first time.

This year, we began hosting Life Group at our house for the first time.

This year, I decided to try being friends with girls for the first time in years.

This year, I had my feelings hurt and my heart broken by girls. It hurt just like the first times.

This year, I asked God if it would be okay if I gave up trying to be friends with girls.

This year, just like every year, He didn’t say anything—He just held me while I cried salty tears all over my dog.

This year, after my friendship fiascos, God tasked a few women with the terribly difficult, often times exhausting job of loving me. For the first time in a long time, I felt safe and loved. By girls. (In case you’re not sure, this is a big deal.)

This year, I talked on the phone with my far-away friend for the first time. She called to speak truth, love, wisdom and encouragement over me. At the end of my life, when God and I are sifting through the highlights, her phone call will be one of them.

This year, my heart ached for my future-babies.

This year, and not for the first or last time, I cried when I found out I wouldn’t meet them yet.

This year, I realized that when people talk about “young people”, they’re no longer talking about me. *gasp*

This year, I began using all sorts of creams to make my eyes and neck-and-chest skin look young while the rest of me gets old.

This year, I learned (am still learning) how to love people without trying to “fix/help/rescue” them.

This year, I learned (am still learning) that growing up is hard but good--so so good.

What a year.

P.S. I would love to hear about some of your firsts.

P.S.S. No pressure or anything.

P.S.S.S. But seriously, I would love to know what your year has been like in a few (or a slew of) words.

Remembering Grandpa Singam

A lot of life has happened since I last wrote. Mike and I bought our first house. We adopted a puppy. I experienced a loss of trust and all the emotions associated with such a betrayal. I learned I’m not as patient as I think I am. I mastered a delicious new recipe. I’ve cried more than I’ve laughed. And most recently, my grandpa passed away. I typically feel pressured to write about events in order (if possible) but I’m going to start here because it feels right.

And because whenever I try to write about anything else, my thoughts always come back to this.

I.

[Monday, October 25, 2010. 5:00 p.m. PST]

“I’m sorry, Bean, but your grandpa just passed away.”

Mike pulled me into a hug but I remained rigid.

“What?” I asked, as if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Or the second time. Or the third.

I thought, Why would you say that?

My grandpa was supposed to be recovering from a massive stroke. He wasn’t anywhere close to being released from sub-acute care but he was hanging on. But when Mike wouldn’t let go, I knew. Grandpa was no longer hanging on. He’d let go.

Then I thought of my mom.

And that’s when I really started to cry.

But I don’t think I really grasped the enormity of the situation yet.

It wasn’t until I watched my mom and her brothers and sisters say goodbye that I knew things would be different. They wept like I’d never seen before—unabashedly brokenhearted, each clutching tightly to memories worn thin from replaying over and over again, their mouths full of words they didn’t say. They clung to his small body, willing him to still be there, knowing he was already gone.

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. So I just watched and lingered on the periphery. I didn’t want to intrude on their grief.

I heard my mom say, “You’re getting cold, Dad.” I watched my aunt cradle him gently and say, “I’m so sorry, Dad. Please forgive me.” And while the rest of us cried silently, she wept loudly. She was his youngest daughter.

As they took his body away, I watched my mom run after her dad. Crying.

II.

I didn’t know much about my grandpa. I didn’t know his favorite food, his favorite color or his favorite pastime. What I do remember about him I learned when I was four years old.

My grandpa was a quiet man. He lived with the woman I call my grandma in a small white house and a long concrete driveway in East Long Beach. There was a bean tree outside. My mom has always told me beans don’t grow on trees but I don’t know how else to describe this tree. It had long flat bean pods that turned mahogany brown when they were ripe. Grandpa used to pick them for me and show me how to peel the casing back to reveal the tiny beans inside, shiny and perfect and smelly. I didn’t really like the beans—they tasted the way they smelled—but I ate them because he offered them to me. I wonder if he picked them because I never refused.

I don’t remember much about the hours we spent with my grandparents while my parents were at work. I do know I tried my best to make sure my sister stayed as still and as quiet as possible. This was easy for me. I had perfected the art of being invisible, even at four years old. At church meetings, I could sit by my mom for hours without speaking or stirring. If I were a doll, my sister would be a baby bear—always getting into things. My grandpa didn’t seem to mind. My grandma did.

My grandpa smelled of Jasmine tea and seemed to have an endless supply of butterscotch disks. I can’t remember if I ever saw him eat one. I wonder if he just kept them for me.

I’m not sure which came first—me or the chair—but there was a tiny footstool my grandpa built that was always unquestionably mine. It was simple—just three pieces of wood nailed together to look like the symbol for pi—but in my little girl mind, it was grand. I’ve been told we passed the time sitting next to each other, grandpa in his chair, me on mine.

This is all I remember. This is all I know.

III.

[Thursday, October 28, 2010.]

I cried for my mom and my aunts and uncles on Monday.

I cried for myself on Thursday.

Before Thursday, I was too tired to cry. As is customary in Lao/Cambodian culture, we cooked and cleaned and served everyone—friends and family and strangers—who came to mourn with us while my grandpa remained unburied. “Mourn” can be translated loosely. Women came to help cook. The men mostly came to drink and gamble. While their presence (and wins or losses) didn’t help me wash dishes or create serving-sized portions of sticky rice for meal service, it was strangely comforting.

I didn’t cry until I watched the slide show my sister made for my grandpa’s service. There was a picture of Grandpa, Mike and me on my wedding day. He looked solemn but handsome in a gray suit. I’ve looked at my wedding pictures countless times but for the first time since I got married, I noticed that his paisley-print tie was a beautiful shade of eggplant. He’d picked a tie that matched my wedding colors.

How could I have missed that detail? How could I have grown up and missed seeing/knowing him?

IV.

[Friday, October 29, 2010.]

When they called us to the front of the funeral home, I remember looking at my grandpa in his casket and thinking, That’s not my grandpa. That man looks like George Takei.

We all cried like it was the first time. We all knew it wouldn’t be the last.

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Jesus is my Facebook friend

I.

Dear Jesus,

Will You please accept my friend request?

Love,

Lina

II.

Dear Lina,

Will you please accept mine?

Love,

Jesus

III.

I have a(nother) confession:

I don’t love Jesus.

I don’t love Him the way I love Mike Fox.
I don’t love Him the way I love the sound of children’s laughter.
I don’t love Him the way I love (macaroni and) CHEESE.
I don’t love Him the way I love sunshine and green grass and a cloudless blue sky.
I don’t love Him the way I love America, especially during the Olympics.
I don’t love Him the way I love libraries.
I don’t love Him the way I love the idea of starting a family with Mike.

I could go on for days about all of the things I love (seriously—days) but when it comes to Jesus, I could talk about Him for an hour at most. And I wouldn’t even be talking about Him—I would be talking about things He has done for me and how He has changed my life, [insert most of the right things to say]; unfortunately, I usually spend more time talking about my experiences vs. Jesus. I am embarrassed to admit this but I know it’s true because I have friends who don’t know Him who ask me about Him. I stumble through the highlights of His life like I’m running through a mental outline of everything I’ve ever learned in Christian school or absorbed through osmosis as a pastor’s kid. I try to sound sincere about how much I love Him but I know it sounds

E          m          p          t          y

or sort of made-up and pieced together from books and blogs and journal entries and sometimes the bible (sans scripture references because I haven't memorized one in years).  And afterwards I run through the conversation again and again and beat myself up about the talking points I should’ve included or how I should’ve mentioned that time Jesus saved me from the pervy old man because the story is so ridiculous it proves (without a doubt in my mind) that Jesus is real and that He cares; otherwise He wouldn’t have saved me.

I try to sell Jesus even though He doesn't need to be sold. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I break into a cold sweat when I try to introduce my friends to Jesus. I  can talk to you about gravity and photosynthesis (loosely, with some made-up words and a crude drawing) so why not Jesus?

And then it clicked (loudly):

I don’t really know what I’m talking about.

And then it clicked for me again (just as loudly):

Jesus is my Facebook friend (and not much more).

I know all of the important details and check in often enough to stay in touch but I don’t make the effort to spend time with Him. [Sometimes I send Him flair to change up the routine.]

Saying it aloud hurts:

I don’t know Jesus.

I can barely whisper this but when I say it in my head, it echoes and echoes until it gets swallowed up by the damp stickiness of my head-space:

[I don’t love Him.]

I don’t know Him well enough to love Him.

IV.

I have decided that I want to be more than Facebook friends with Jesus.  I want to meet Him and get to know Him because

I want to fall in love with Him.

I don't want to just get by on memories or the relationship I used to have with Him; I don't want to force Him to accept the shadow of the girl I once was. 

I want to say

I          love          You

and mean it (for real).

I want to tell my future-babies, my co-workers, my neighbors, my family members, my friends who don’t know Him and anyone else God sends my way about my real friend, Jesus; the Jesus of my grown-up-life, beyond the flannel-board, lamb-carrying bearded Jesus of my childhood. I loved Him then.


I want to love Him—know Him—now.

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.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.5

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)

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).

The view from here: A Mike and Bean Thanksgiving

Here are pictures from our feast.  It was more than enough food for the two of us.

I didn't think it was possible to fit so many marshmallows on top of that little casserole dish but Mike was determined.

Look!  I'm domesticated. :)

A Mike and Bean Thanksgiving

Mike and I just celebrated our first Thanksgiving dinner as a married couple. We had planned on spending it with my family but ended up running to the grocery store on Tuesday to buy all the fixings for a "traditional" Thanksgiving meal.

I cried (a little). This was my first Thanksgiving spent without seeing my family. I won't get into all the emotions I felt; too messy. I missed them. And the food. But I received an unexpected gift: a free pass to spend Thanksgiving however I wanted. With Mike.

We woke up Thursday morning and realized we had forgotten to thaw our bird. Since we didn't want to wait 10 hours to eat, we ran to Ralph's to purchase turkey breasts. Beginner's mistake. Let's just say we'll be eating turkey for Christmas, too.


Thankfully, we had no other debacles that day and we did get to eat:


So our table is set incorrectly. Let's just say it was all part of a very Mike and Bean Thanksgiving. :) We spent the day in our pajamas watching football, the National Dog Show, the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade (my first time watching it!), The Incredibles, and of course, A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.

P.S. I realize Mike looks like he's flipping me off in the picture but he's really crossing his fingers. :)

In between dreams

A Dream Deferred
By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
Like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
Like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

"At 30 a man should know himself like the palm of his hand, know the exact number of his defects and qualities, know how far he can go, foretell his failures--be what he is. And, above all, accept these things."--Albert Camus

My life at twenty-five doesn't look the way I thought it would when I was twenty. I had pictured a glamorous existence as a starving, would-be writer living in a crowded apartment--with a fire escape, of course--filled with mismatched furniture, stacks upon stacks of books, newspapers, takeout boxes, and a cat named Oliver. I saw myself working two or more odd jobs to support my feeble attempts at writing, or one soulless job as a cube-occupying peon in a big glass building made of windows that didn't open. I relished the thought of living in dingy wife beaters and torn jeans, the tell-tale cigarette at my fingertips whenever I wasn't drinking my fourth cup of coffee or plunking loudly on my Underwood typewriter.

*I know it's more practical to use a computer but I think antique typewriters are beautiful machines. I was so close to purchasing one on Ebay but was outbid by an auction ninja. I cried.

I realize now I will never have that life. There's a part of me that mourns the death of that dream because I had convinced myself I needed that lifestyle to give myself credibility as a writer. I thought if I looked the part, I would be a better writer, would convince myself I was worthy of the title/profession.

I have a confession: I sold out. Instead of avidly seeking creative jobs that paid pennies for a byline, I put on unfamiliar clothes I had never before owned--ones that needed to be ironed and dry cleaned--and sought out those glass buildings with pretend windows and practically begged for a cubical and a name placard. I never thought I would work in a cubical but at twenty-five, I find myself sitting in a three-walled cell every day by choice. There are days I enjoy having my own corporate work space. I have grown fond of my stapler and Post-It note dispenser. They are very reliable tools that belong to me during my tenure at my current job. I have tried to humanize my cubical with pictures and toys. Some days I enjoy my job while other days drag on for hours and not even the My Little Pony can make me smile. I look for remnants of my original dream but all I see are plastic knights waging war at various areas of my cubical.

Not all is lost. My dream didn't die; it changed. If I'm honest with myself, I changed, too. I didn't realize it at the time but in retrospect, I can see exactly when it started to veer off course.

Enter Mike.

In the glamorous writer lifestyle I had pictured in my early twenties, there was no room for love. Oh, there was definitely room for exciting trysts, dramatic break-ups, and awkward run-ins with ex's and their ridiculously beautiful new lovers; that bleeding-heart material is great fun to write, especially in the late late hours of the night over a glass of red wine and a cigarette. Everything that flows from your fingertips is passionate, full of abandon, and slightly convoluted; emotional diarrhea at its finest. I almost sought relationships doomed to fail to give myself credibility. Almost.

Mike ruined everything. He entered the scene when I was looking for a friend, a fellow writer with whom I could smoke cigarettes and drink endless cups of coffee beneath a black sky and talk about real life (as we knew it). I didn't mean to fall in love with him. I intended to love him, yes, but not be openly in love with him. It seemed stupid to ruin a good friendship. Plus, if I spilled my beans and he didn't love me back, I would feel awkward and silly. More importantly, I would lose a fantastic proofreader, muse, friend.

I'll fast forward through the details and fill you in on the important part: he loves me. What does that mean? The starving writer scenario only works for a single person! In my mind, I could not have both Mike and that beautiful lifestyle. I had to choose. 

That part was easy. 

Do I regret my decision? 

No. 

For starters, I am no longer addicted to caffeine and tobacco, although I sometimes miss those addictions. They were bad for me but they made me so bad ass. All the writers I had ever known had those two addictions (at the very least), not to mention a collage of cryptic, artistic tattoos and a thousand bizarre adventures that appeared in various noteworthy pieces, the kind that get read aloud at cool writerly gatherings. Those addictions granted me access to the literary circle of brilliant, compassionate, extremely intellectual Lesbian writers at UCSD! I felt like I belonged, at least for a little while. Alas, those were the days. The tradeoff: I have a nice job and have met excellent people. They too are caged birds singing their own songs, telling their own stories of how they never dreamed they'd end up where we are--in between dreams.

Being in between dreams is not a fixed state. It's constantly shifting, changing, fluctuating. It's called living. I now realize my dream didn't die--it changed course. It is still coming into its own, still finding its shape and rhythm. At twenty-five, my in-between dream looks like a corporate job in a glass building. I am grateful for it. What does the next stage of my dream look like?

*shrug* Only God knows.

Although my job, addictions, wardrobe, and city have changed, I will keep scrawling away, littering my fragmented thoughts and unfinished stories in countless journals (paper and electronic) until my chicken scratch turns into something beautiful.