I.O.U.

I.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe

There was nothing under my skin but light.

If you cut me I would shine.

But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,

I skin my knees. I bleed.

“On Turning Ten” – Billy Collins

II.

When I wrote my last blog post, I thought I was fine, that I had emerged from a bleak, mind-numbing couple of months completely intact. Mostly intact.

I thought my career as an emotional black hole was over.

I thought I was done crying and binge-eating pie.

I thought I’d be able to write about my “journey toward parenthood” (for lack of a better phrase) as I was living through it.

Ahh – the folly of the eternal optimist.

Looking back, I can see now that writing about it all as it happened was a stupid idea, but I was naive and optimistic. I really believed my story would end successfully – I was going to get pregnant, and soon. Any day now.

I was so, so wrong.

I told myself I’d successfully survived the worst good news of my life. I told myself that things could only get better from there.

But then I kept getting more bad news.

It wasn't all related to my ovaries, but it was all bad.

My aunt died unexpectedly.

We had to make the difficult decision to re-home our other dog, Gemma.

I was diagnosed with another endocrine disease. (I'm trying to collect them all.)

I was diagnosed with a blood abnormality.

I was put on medication for several months, and when that didn't work, I began taking fertility drugs. This doesn't sound like bad news, but it was to us: fertility drugs make you feel psychotic. And yet month after month, nothing seemed to be working.

Did I mention that my sister-in-law was pregnant and I still wasn't?  I know that’s actually GREAT news, but at the time, it felt like salt in the wound. (Let’s be real–everything felt like salt in the wound.)

I know I could’ve received way worse news. I know that. But at the time, it felt like the universe was conspiring against me to help me build character. (Yes, the universe - nebulae, black holes and galaxies - all of it. I was that overwhelmed.) I was desperate to stop feeling so many emotions all the time. I couldn't take it anymore. Every cell of my body was saturated with anger and frustration and despair and deep, deep longing. I self-medicated using my favorite vices.

You might think I was looking at all of the bad news from a positive light - that in between the tears, I said to myself, this could be great writing material!

That would be an incorrect assumption.

I wasn't thinking about anything. I didn't care about anything.

Case in point – I volunteered to cook the turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. On Thanksgiving day, I brought a raw, thawed turkey to my mom’s house and barely glanced at the recipe I’d brought with me. I didn't even bother to read the cooking instructions correctly. I was distracted and apathetic. As a result, I cooked the turkey low and slow for way too long. I basically made turkey jerky. It was awful - the absolute worst thing I've ever tried to make. And yet I didn't care one bit.

I felt numb.

I was lost. I felt like a failure: my body could not do what it was designed to do, something 14-year-old girls could do. Like a bad habit, I replayed that thought over and over again. I was surrounded by friends and family, but I’d never felt so alone. Unless I saw you in real life, you probably didn't know the extent of my anguish. I tried to hide it, tried to be okay, but I didn't have the energy. I was completely shattered inside. I was running on fumes.

I think that’s why God sent you to save me. At that point, I wasn't really talking to Him much. At best, I was grunting in His general direction, but I was mostly not-talking. Like deliberately not-talking.

After reading my last blog post, you reached out to tell me you were sorry.

You reached out to tell me I wasn't alone.

You shared painful, intimate details of loss and longing and sorrow.

You said you were praying for me and thinking of me and hoping for the best.

You listened and didn't try to fix or force me to be optimistic. You just let me be sad.

You texted/emailed/messaged/commented the kindest words.

It took another six months - maybe longer - to feel not-shattered, to slowly pick up the pieces and glue myself back together again. Slowly, methodically - one piece at a time. Your thoughts and prayers and kind words and company got me through each day. 

Thank you for your kindness and generosity. You showed up when I needed you most.

III.

There you have it – my long-winded excuse for why I disappeared so abruptly. It’s kind of lame, but it’s all I've got. Next time I fall off the face of the earth, I’ll make sure it’s because I've done something dramatic – like I've quit my job and have been eating my way through Europe with Mike and Crosby.

There’s a part of me that wants to leave Last Year in the past, to just fill you in on what’s going on now.

But I can’t.

Last Year was awful and horrible and hard. It was a mess. I was a mess. I lost sight of myself and the absolute best part of my life – this guy:

  

But I learned a lot about myself, and because of you, about how to be a good friend to someone who’s stumbling through the darkest nights of his or her life. And maybe – just maybe – what I learned will help one person feel not-so-alone. And so, I will write.

More to come.

Thanks again.

Bean

A hello, and an explanation.

I.

The cure for anything is saltwater: sweat, tears or the sea. Isak Dinesen


II.

Sorry I've been gone. I'm back now.

I had to take a break for a while, and when I say, "I had to", I mean I had no choice because I couldn't stop crying for two months.

Three months ago, on a Saturday morning, my sister-in-law called to tell Mike he was going to be an uncle.

I was sprawled out my bed, lapping up the morning sun, when he shared the news with me.

First reaction: "Oh YAY".
Second reaction: cue waterworks 2012.

I don't think I've gone from zero to sixty/fine to weeping since I was six. I fled to the shower.

I'm pretty sure I peed out of my eyes for a good hour. I cried, brokenhearted, like a small child. As I lathered and rinsed and lathered again, I begged:

"Me too, God--please, me too.

You know this is what I want more than anything right now. Please, God. PLEASE."

I begged, knowing the answer was still no.

I know I should've been happy for my sister-in-law, but at that moment, I felt utterly disappointed it wasn't us sharing that news with her.

I felt insanely jealous.
I felt angry.
I felt betrayed by God.
I felt really, really sad.
I felt barren.

You may be thinking, GAWD, you are dramatic, which would be a true statement. I can be dramatic. It's not like hers was the first pregnancy I'd heard about since Mike and I started trying. Everyone around me seemed to be exploding with children, and I was genuinely happy for them--people who were trying, people who just happened to touch elbows and got pregnant unexpectedly, people who'd been trying for a while and were finally successful.

But I fell apart that day in the shower. I kept thinking, What makes us so different from them? Am I not ready? It's because you know I've got a lot of issues to work out before you entrust me with a child, isn't it? 

I sat in my bathtub and tried to justify my extra long shower by shaving my legs, which was a terrible idea. I couldn't see through the wall of water and ended up cutting the back of my knees. When Mike got off the phone, he was surprised to find me swollen and pruney, drowning in sorrow and salt water. I didn't want to get out of the tub, so he sat outside of it and asked me why I was so sad.

I didn't want to tell him how my heart really felt. I knew it would confirm that I am a terrible, self-centered person, but I also knew I needed to be honest.

So I told him everything I'd said to God.

And because he is my best friend, he just sat with me and listened. He told me he was disappointed, too, and that he was sorry--sorry I was disappointed, sorry we weren't pregnant, sorry I was so, so sad. We clung to each other, or rather, I clung desperately to him--naked in every sense of the word--and cried all over him.

I wish I could tell you that I was fine after that epic cry, that my heart was able to rejoice every time I saw my sister-in-law after that.

I could tell you that, but then I'd be lying.

Instead, I slipped into a season of sadness (a.k.a. S.O.S.). That's my dramatic way of describing the two-month-period when I ate, slept, and cried almost every day. It wasn't like I woke up weeping every day, though some days, that did happen. I felt full of sadness, and being that full of sadness meant there was little to no room for any other emotion. Some days, I woke up and just wanted to go back to sleep. On those days, the sadness felt thick, hot and stifling, like being in a steam room with a bunch of old, naked women. Other days weren't so bad. I was sad, but the sadness felt thin, wispy and damp. I felt lost, but sure-footed enough to keep walking ahead even though I couldn't see an inch in front of me.

I'm a huge believer in giving myself room to feel emotions. I'm sure this sounds strange and overly touchy-feely, but I don't like to rush through them. If I'm sad, then damn it, I want to feel sad. I want to know what it tastes like, what it smells like--I want to become familiar with it, so I can more clearly appreciate what it feels like to be not-sad. Unfortunately, having a full-time job means that I can't wallow in a pool of sadness for weeks on end. I did my best to comfort myself with food and drink. I ate a lot of pie and cheese and chocolate, though not all together. That would taste bad. I didn't even bother to put the pieces of pie on plates. I just ate them right out of the tin. That little act of rebellion made me feel a tiny bit better.

I tried to channel my sadness into writing or reading--activities that seemed more constructive and cathartic--but found that when I sat down to write or read, I just couldn't. I couldn't feel or focus. I couldn't string more than a few words together. I couldn't read more than a few lines. It was exhausting and annoying.

So instead, I watched a LOT of television, ate a lot of pie, and tried my best to keep moving.

I'm grateful that the S.O.S. eventually came to an end. I don't have a secret formula that helped. I think I was just all cried out (does anyone else think of that song by Allure featuring 112?). God also took pity on me and provided me with some perspective and other reasons to celebrate--a dear friend's joyous engagement, another friend's progress in their adoption journey, more new babies. With each day, I noticed that there was more joy floating around in my body than sadness.

Finally.

III.

For some reason, I felt like I couldn't/shouldn't talk about my real feelings about my no-baby situation. Did someone (Emily Post? Miss Manners? Dear Abby?) say it's not okay to talk about how sad you feel when someone else tells you she's pregnant? I'm not sure, but I felt guilty for feeling sad, as though I'm ONLY allowed to feel unselfish joy for everyone else's very fertile wombs.

Is that true though?

I can feel joy and sorrow in the same breath. Both emotions can exist in my body at the same time. If that's true for me, it must be true for others, right?

I'm going to assume the answer is yes--at least for one other person. If that's true, why aren't we more open and honest about our feelings of sadness and disappointment? Why can we talk about being disappointed about not getting our dream job but not about wanting to be dating/engaged/married/pregnant/[insert stage of life]?

The first time someone asked about how I was doing post-S.O.S., I remember thinking, I have a choice: provide a decent, polite, easy-to-digest answer, or be honest.

I'm not good at lying, so I chose to be honest.

I'm glad I did. So many friends shared their own stories of disappointment or regret. Others who didn't have their own stories shared other people's stories. Almost everyone just said, "I'm sorry. That's really sh*tty."

My sentiments exactly.

IV.

I had to give myself space to write about the S.O.S. I wanted to be honest, but I didn't want to hurt anyone--namely my family. I definitely didn't want to write anything I would regret. Time has helped. So have food and booze. Sometimes I still feel sad when my sister-in-law announces another mommy milestone, but I don't cry anymore. I'm mostly happy now and am looking forward to meeting my niece.

I'm still not pregnant. In fact, since my S.O.S., I've survived even more life: not-good news about my womb, a sad goodbye, a death, and in the midst of all that, graduations, bridal showers and more weddings.

But more on all that later.

Sorry I was gone so long. I'm back now.

daily scribbles :: courage

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration:

"When you are born," the golem said softly, "your courage is new and clean. You are brave enough for anything: crawling off of staircases, saying your first words without fearing that someone will think you are foolish, putting strange things in your mouth. But as you get older, your courage attracts gunk and crusty things and dirt and fear and knowing how bad things can get and what pain feels like. By the time you're half-grown, your courage barely moves at all, it's so grunged up with living. So every once in a while, you have to scrub it up and get the works going or else you'll never be brave again. Unfortunately, there are not so many facilities in your world that provide the kind of services we do. So most people go around with grimy machinery, when all it would take is a bit of spit and polish to make them paladins once more, bold knights and true."


Excerpt from The Girl who Circumnavigated Fairyland In A Ship Of Her Own Making, Catherynne M. Valente. Words embolded by Bean. :)


I.

When we are born into this world, we arrive with a few things no one can take away from us. Every boy and every girl receives the same gifts: a jar and a bottle. Inside the jar is courage--sparkly and fuzzy and electrifying.  And in case you were wondering, courage glows slightly blue. Inside the bottle is hope--fresh, effervescent, smells-like-sunshine hope. Every child instinctively knows what to do with courage and hope. We rub courage liberally all over ourselves and drink deeply from hope and go out into the world to explore and discover and learn and take risks. We are fearless. We know that our jar of courage and bottle of hope are bottomless as long as we keep using them.

As we grow, some of us forget how to use courage, forget how to drink hope. At least that's what happened to me. I stopped using these gifts and began to ration them. For when I really need them, I said.

Foolish Bean.

Courage and hope, unused, dwindle away to nothing.

When I decided to start scribbling every day, I didn't expect to receive any feedback. In fact, I expected to lose blog subscribers and followers because I was rambling aloud.

I was just adding more noise to an already noisy virtual universe.

Blog friends, I was surprised and delighted and humbled to receive responses to the daily scribbles. I have loved the conversations we've had, the parts of your lives you've shared in your responses. Thank you for your texts, phone calls, e-mails, comments and spoken words of encouragement.

My jar of courage and bottle of hope were empty, but you filled them up.

Thank you

For encouraging me to write;
For wanting to have conversations with me;
For sharing your own stories.

II.

If you are running low on courage or hope (or if you're completely out), let me know. I will be your cheer cheerleader.

To those who strive to tell stories through words or sculptures or pictures or movement or song or paintings or movies:

Thank you.

You are courageous for telling your own stories and sharing yourself with a nameless, faceless audience who may or may not like you.

(You might not think that's courageous, but I do.)

Keep on keepin' on.

III.

Do you have a super-secret passion for something--anything--that you're hesitant to pursue? Do you want to open your own bakery or start your own dog-walking business? Write a novel/poem/screen play? Become the next Food Network Star?

Please share!

I could tell try to persuade you to go for it (in way too many words), but I'll let Jon Acuff do the talking. He is the one who inspired me to scribble every day. He is one of my favorite people--my far-away friend and unofficial mentor. (It's unofficial because he doesn't know. Shhh. It's still a secret.)

Also, he is hilarious. Check him out. Be inspired.

Daily Scribbles :: Thin Seasons

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

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

Daily Scribbles :: Regret

Click here to read why I scribble every day.


Inspiration: A shameful memory.


I.

When I first started college, I naively thought I wouldn't allow "the world" to change me. I was going to change the world. I was going to bleed Christ's love all over everyone I met. 

I had never been kissed, never smoked a cigarette and never had a beer. 

College was eye-opening.

It only took a few days for me to realize I was just a girl among men and women. Perhaps "girl" is too generous of a label. I was practically from another planet.

My suite-mates were kind to me, but I felt my "otherness" showing. I wanted to bleed Christ's love all over everyone, but I also wanted to be liked. I didn't want to stick out so much.

Can you imagine my surprise when a boy showed interest? I couldn't believe my good fortune!

His name was Mark. He was charming and funny and cute, and I could not believe he was paying any attention to me. I was in college! A boy was talking to me! He thought I was funny! I was giddy from the attention, but the must-change-the-world-through-love programming could not be overridden. Was he a Christian? I didn't know yet. I was pretty green about boy-girl interactions, but I had enough sense to know that there were a few things you didn't talk about on the first date (or the first few dates, for that matter):

• Marriage
• How many kids you want to have
• Ex-boyfriends

I assumed that personal beliefs fell somewhere on that list, though I wasn't sure where. I knew we would talk about it eventually.

It came too soon for me.

We were on our way to a concert on-campus when he asked if we could stop by his room. While we were there, he asked if I wanted anything to drink. I politely declined. He said, "Don't be shy, Lina--honestly, I have plenty. You're welcome to whatever I have." I told him I didn't drink. He said, "Oh. Do you mind if I do?" I told him I didn't. But I was secretly disappointed. This beautiful man drank alcohol? I felt as though he told me he killed puppies for a living. 

Let me explain.

I was raised to believe that certain things were unquestionably wrong. For example, killing another person. The bible says no, and the law says no. I also believed that there was another list of things you didn't do if you loved God. I like to call this list, "Lifestyle Choices for People Who Love God". If you love God, you wouldn't do these things:

• Drink alcohol
• Smoke cigarettes
• Get tattooed 
• Get extraneous body piercings
• Have sex before marriage

(Disclaimer: I am not claiming that this list is Truth. This is just what I believed.)

I actually thought that doing any of the things on this list was bad, like really bad. Not quite up there with murder, but people who loved God didn't do these things. 

Back to Mark.

He could tell something was bothering me and was concerned and attentive. I was sweating profusely. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't have to. He guessed.

Mark: Does it bother you that I drink?

Me: *nodding dumbly*

Mark: Why does it bother you? Does it offend you? If it offends you, I won't drink around you, or when we're going to hang out.

Me: *looking at my feet and hating him for being so nice*

Mark: Could you please say something?

Me: You don't have to not-drink when I'm around.

Mark: Oh, but it bothers you.

Me: Well, yeah. It's bad.

Mark: Why does it bother you? Is it because of your beliefs?

Me: Yeah. Why do you drink? It's bad for you.

Mark: I like it. It's fun. I really enjoy it.

Me:  I don't think we should hang out anymore.

Mark: What? Why? Because I drink and you don't?

Me: *nodding and avoiding his gaze*

Mark: Well, let me try to understand where you're coming from, because to be honest, I don't see how me drinking alcohol should get in the way of us hanging out. 

Me: Okay.

Mark: Let's say I like artichokes. And I really like artichokes, but you don't. Would that stop you from hanging out with me?

Me: Well no, but that's different.

Mark: How is it different?

Me: Artichokes don't hurt people.

Even after 10 years, I am still terribly embarrassed at how that conversation went. Mark was gracious and kind. He didn't understand me but respected my decision. I really believed that I shouldn't hang out with him--even if we were just friends--because he did things I didn't think were right. And instead of loving him and respecting his lifestyle choice, I decided we couldn't be each others lives.

I was wrong. I was naive. 

I perverted my desire to spread Christ's love by judging people and alienating them. Jesus hung out with hookers and cheats. He didn't treat them differently even though they were doing things He didn't agree with. He just accepted them. I blew my first real chance to show love to someone who didn't know Jesus. 

Instead, I just judged him.

II.

I saw Mark occasionally around campus while I was at UCSD, but I never mustered up the courage to apologize for being judgmental. And hypocritical. And the opposite of loving. I wanted to run up to him and say, "I'm so sorry, Mark. That was totally lame and judgmental of me." But I was ashamed. I also imagined myself running up to him and saying, "Mark! I drink alcohol now!", but I didn't think it would suffice as an apology.

I regret that I missed the opportunity to be friends with a really nice person, to show Christ's love to him simply because God made him. Period. It makes me sad that the only memory he really has of me is telling him we couldn't be friends because he did something I didn't agree with.

Because at the end of the day, who am I to judge him?

III.

I abandoned the list of don'ts a long time ago. It's formulaic. God isn't. I think ditching the list is one of the reasons I'm much better at loving people now. I stopped having ideals about who to love and what it should look like. Instead of seeing what makes us different, God helps me see everything that makes us the same--what makes us human.

IV. 

Mark,

Thanks for loving me where I was at. It was supposed to be the other way around. Sorry I didn't figure it out till it was too late. I regret it.

V.

Have you ever tried to show Christ's love only to fail miserably? Regrets are personal so if you don't want to share, please don't feel pressured. But if you want to share, I'd love to hear from you.

Daily Scribbles :: Bad Words

Click here to read why I scribble every day. 


Inspiration: 

I said my first bad words defending my Whoopie Cushion. It seemed like a just cause at the time.

I. 

Do you remember your first cuss word? I do. I was 4 years old.


A nice man at church saw me playing with a Whoopie Cushion after service and asked if he could see it. I can't remember why, but I didn't want to let him. I think he thought I was being cute and stubborn so he asked me again. He even added a "pretty please". 

I quietly said, "F**k you."

I didn't know what those words meant. I just knew they were serious and grown-up. I thought he would quit asking for my Whoopie Cushion after I'd said them.


The man's eyes almost fell out of his skull. "What did you say?" 

I repeated myself. Based on his reaction, I knew I had done a bad thing. I knew I was going to get in trouble.


This man took me by the hand, led me to my mom, and told her about our conversation. He said he thought I didn't know what I was saying, like it would help. It didn't.

Pastors' kids aren't supposed to drop f-bombs. At church.

II.

Do you remember your first bad word? 

daily scribbles :: table for one

Click here to read why I scribble every day.

Inspiration: 

East Borough. Costa Mesa. December 31, 2011.

I. 

I haven't talked to God in a long time.

("Long" is relative, but it feels long to me.) 

I don't have any excuses--I just haven't. At least not the way we used to. 

It  feels like we broke up, like we've been "taking a break". (And I was the one who initiated it.) During this time of voluntary "aloneness", I've had some really good days and some really not-good ones. Overall, I've  felt okay without our talks.

At least I did for a little while. 


Yesterday, I decided I missed Him and was ready to talk--really talk. This was going to be much more than the Facebook posts or text messages I'd sent Him to get by. 


You know, the types of prayers where you're zipping through the fastest thank you possible so you can tuck into your food. 
Or praying for safety. 
Or just saying, "Thanks for today! Talk to you soon. Promise." 


I was ready to have a full-blown dinner-movie-cocktails kind of date. 


(That probably doesn't sound like a fancy date, but I really like dinner, and I really like movies.)


I was ready to give Him my undivided time and attention.


To prepare myself, I gathered almost every devotional in my house--the ones that already have "the good entries" highlighted and flagged. I figured that after such a long absence, it was probably best for me to dive in with the most compelling entries. I wiped the dust off of the covers and stacked them on my desk. I also grabbed my prayer notebook, the one I use to record praises and requests. It was a little premature but I thought, best to be prepared. I cleared my throat, took a sip of my reheated coffee, and read the day's entry in the first devotional. 

Good, I guess. Thanks for the reminder.

I didn't feel the familiar stirring of convictions/adoration/praise/awe within me. I didn't feel anything, really. So I thought, maybe the next one will speak to me. Still nothing. I stayed positive.

That was really good. Thanks.

And so it went till I'd read through the entire stack of devotionals. In the past, I would feel a lot. The devotionals were just jumping-off points for long, soul-quenching conversations with God. It didn't take much for me to feel God's presence, to sit with Him in silence or talk about a million things. But that day, I struggled to find one nugget--something to think about--from these tried and true devotionals. I tried to find something to store in my heart, to pray about and dwell on throughout the day, but I felt nothing. I might have felt more if I had read a soup can label.

Not to be deterred, I picked up my Daily Bible--the one that helps you read through the entire bible in a year. Surely, God will speak to me through His Word! 

I flipped to that day's passage and read the old testament excerpt. I knew the story--Abraham makes his servant place his hand on his thigh and swear to bring his son, Isaac, a wife. Isaac ends up marrying his dad's grand-niece, which would make her his...I don't know, some sort of relative. 

I kept waiting for God to poke my heart, to fill me with the usual feelings of awe and wonder I feel when I read His word. 

I didn't feel anything. I kept thinking about the large gold nose ring and bracelets the servant gave Isaac's future-wife. I couldn't stop wondering what they looked like.

I read the passages from the old testament, Psalms and Proverbs. Still nothing. 

I began to pray but sort of gave up halfway through. 

For the first time in our relationship, I felt like God wasn't there. 

I mean, I know He's still there. And everywhere. I just didn't feel like He was there with me. (I feel sacrilegious for saying this. Please understand that this is just how I felt.)

Where was He? Why wasn't He talking to me?

In all the years I'd flaked on Him or rescheduled our "dates", I always knew He would be waiting for me when I was ready. This time, I felt like I showed up, and He stood me up.

It felt--feels--strange. 

I confided in my friend, Nannette, about it. I wasn't looking for a formula to guarantee God would show up next time, that I would feel His presence again if I just did certain things. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't crazy. I wanted to know if I was the only person who'd experienced this. She assured me I wasn't. She told me to keep seeking Him--even if I don't feel anything--because our relationship with Him should be founded in faith, not feelings. 

This made sense to me. I'm not married and un-married whenever I feel like it. God doesn't just want to be friends, with benefits. He wants a relationship. He wants me to pursue Him.

I respect that. I mean, I have to. I'm not sure how long the silence will last, but I will keep showing up to meet with God, even if I'm just sitting there alone.

I know He's not far.

II.

I've never understood when other people have said they don't feel anything when they talk to God. Now I do. Have you ever felt this way?