Outside Looking In

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but being incurious will slaughter relationships. How long can two last when only one wants to know?

Have I not made it easy? Am I not words on a page, a liturgy of emotions, a catechism of ceaseless anxiety?

Read me. I’m self narrated. I’m open. Ask. I’ll tell.

How long will I be tapping at this window, asking to be let in? Asking to be seen? Why can’t you see me?

With each question I ask, the knowledge of your seeming indifference widens this chasm between us. Don’t you see it? These cracks were forming, and now I’m breaking. How long before you can’t reach me? Do you even want to?

Ask me. Again and again. As I ask you, begging to be heard. Begging to be answered.

For all my queries, I know little. Everything is painfully extracted. Everything withheld costs.

I am nothing but questions. You are everything except questions.

I am nothing but exposed. You are everything except vulnerable.

I am nothing but before you. You are looking everywhere but here.

Look at me.

I said look at me.

Interpersonal Relationships

Are relationships nothing more than a series of transactions? I do this, and you do this, and we are happy as long as we are fulfilling our part of the bargain. There’s no room for hurt feelings, no addendums for changing mentality or morals or for just being too damn exhausted to hold up your end. 

I do this and you do this, and this, and this. Make a list of it. Check off your to-dos. Did I say thank you today? Did I present my body? Am I grateful? Am I submissive? Is it enough to submit willingly, or must I do it enthusiastically? 

I’ve penciled you into my calendar, I’ve made you a part of my schedule. Yes sir, yes sir, atta boy. I do this, and I want a thank you for it or I won’t do it anymore. 

I do this and you do this, and we both stay happy. And if one of us shirks our end of the deal, we can always walk away. It’s not personal, it’s just business.

Stiches

I’ve been thinking a lot about domestic violence lately. So I wrote this. 

If you are a victim of domestic violence, please speak up and reach out. You are not alone. Call the national hotline at  1-800-799-SAFE

Close your eyes.

I break your teeth, cut out your tongue. 

You love this misery, what would you do without me? 

I promise I won’t do it again, not in the same way, at any rate. I’ll escalate, just you wait, but you won’t see what I have planned.

Close your eyes.

This weapon in my hand, this weapon is my hand, this hand on your face. My caress is so tender, but a stinging slap feels the same to you. Bitch. You deserve this. 

Close your eyes.

Look at you now, you’re nothing without me. I’m your world, I’m your god, I’m your fucking deity so worship me, get on your knees and beg for mercy, oh please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry. 

You are sorry. Pathetic. Apathetic. You don’t care if I don’t care, pull your hair, make you scream. You like this pain, you like this game. Will I? Won’t I? Tonight? Tomorrow? Next week? All week? Whenever I want to. You’re mine, I own you. 

Close your eyes. 

The Metaphorical Heart

Here it is, take it 

Be sure not to break it,

It’s tainted, and anxious, and jaded, but it’s waited 

for someone like you, 

someone true, 

someone out of the blue 

to do what others couldn’t do,

guard and protect it, 

treat it like it’s precious, blessed, 

its pieces all gathered, shattered, battered, but not scattered, or would you rather you left it, 

on the ground where it’s rested, 

recklessly left by others who swore to protect it. 

I thought you were invested, 

that each beat was connected to your own, 

so why do I feel so rejected, 

my pain deflected, not reaching you, you’re above it, 

you live in the moment, you show it, with a polite smile meanwhile I’m dejected, 

infected, with poison,

 but you’re immune, in tune with the assimilated, 

the integrated, while I stand humiliated. 

Maybe it’s me, I’m not made for this, 

I’ve paid for this, over and over, 

I’ve prayed for this, 

but is it too late for this to be corrected? 

Am I the only one affected? 

Each piece I’ve collected doesn’t feel worth so much, 

and it hurts so much,

that you’re so out of touch, 

I don’t feel like enough. 

I’m broken up by your love. 

Something's Wrong With Amy

When I was married to my first husband, I had to deal with a level of crazy from his parents that I wasn't quite prepared for. Not fun crazy; scary crazy. The kind that doesn't know they're totally nuts. Worse, the kind that think they're completely normal, and everyone else is less smart, less successful, and less sane. The crazy in denial.

As it happens, that level of insanity was just a warm up, a jog in the park, compared to the full out sprinting marathon of absolute lunacy that I have experienced over the last two years, and the last week in particular. 

The unfortunate thing is that I KNEW it. That saying, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me" completely applies here. Something happened years ago that caused me to say, "What in the world? No really, what in the world??" But time marches on, and you convince yourself that maybe you were wrong, maybe you overreacted or misunderstood. 

I wasn't, and I didn't, and I didn't. 

Perhaps it's because deep down, I want to believe that people I've known half my life really can't be the way they seem. They really can't be the way they act. They really can't be what they really are.

I suppose that's a part of me that's crazy in denial. 

Then it begins, the signs that you were right all along. It starts before your second wedding:

"How dare you have a gay man speak at your wedding? I remember when you were a good Christian."

"How dare you be pro choice? I can't believe we were ever friends."

"How dare you voice your opinions on my facebook page, and how dare you back the opinions with facts? Fake news."

And the straw that ripped the blinders off:

"How dare you tell my children you disagree with me?" (These are midteen children, fyi)

It was here I finally spoke up: 

"When your children told me they have to dress modestly to 'avoid tempting men to rape and assault them,' I told your children that I disagree, and while modesty is important, the way they dress is NOT an invitation for someone to rape and assault them. I had no idea that crossed a parenting line."  

"Well, it does. How dare you manipulate my children that way?"

How dare I...manipulate...children...by telling them that I disagree with the rhetoric that certain clothing choices are an invitation to assault?

That explosion you may have heard is my brain breaking at the level of ignorance and disrespect I had to process. That's not even the worst of it, really, but what is the point of hashing it all out?

So I shut it all down. Don't worry about me crossing parenting lines again. I intend to stay as far away as humanly possible. Unfriend. Delete. Block. Shame on me for being fooled twice. 

Yet they insist, "I love you."

If those are not the three creepiest words to come out of the mouth of someone who has done nothing but manipulate and belittle, I don't know what else would be. 

You love me? You question my integrity, you question my faith, you question my character, and you accuse me of manipulation...but yeah, you love me? 

Don't use words you can't possibly understand, dear. 

It irks my sense of justice that my only recourse is silence. You cannot reason with someone like this. They are unapologetic; willfully ignorant; dangerously degenerate. 

Trump really is a stable genius by comparison, if that gives you a better picture of the depth of my feelings. 

Silence. Prayers, too. God save the children. 

Stream of Consciousness

Have you ever felt raw, unfiltered, pure, organic, grass-fed regret?

It's hard to describe. It borders somewhere between "projectile lava rage" and "decadent self loathing." There's this tightening in your chest, like a tar covered hand has reached into your rib cage from the depths of hell and is trying to drag your internal organs through the floor.

The floor is made of shag carpet and it's orange.

I hate this feeling, especially when it doesn't stem from me doing anything wrong. It just seems like I can't get anything right.

Circumstances change; life offers chance after chance; magic do-overs abound.

Yet, I remain. The same as ever. Face in my hands, always asking myself, "Why. Am. I. So. Dumb?"

It's ironic, because not ten hours ago I was going on and on about how if one would just change ONE thing, it would change EVERYTHING. "There's so much life to be lived!" I said, "Why don't they live it?"

Who am I to judge, I wonder? I'm tethered to my own bad decisions. I made each link of this chain. I forged it myself, my greatest achievement. Look how shiny it is, rubbing the skin off my ankles.

Hobby Farming

I was up late thinking about “farmers only” for some reason, and this came to mind. A farmer breakup poem.

May your light in the window,
Flicker and die,
May your pipes all freeze up,
May your wells all run dry,
May the fly on the cow pie shoot worms in your eye,
And when you think of me, may you cry.

May the hens in your hen house,
Decide not to lay,
May your days be too short,
May you burn all your hay,
May the mules in the pasture constantly bray,
And when you think of me, may your hair all turn gray.

May the ox on your plow,
Up and go lame,
May your hogs all be wild,
May your skies never rain,
May the lies that you tell make you burst into flame,
And when you think of me, may you be off your game.

May the garden you're planting,
Whither from blight,
May your sheep all tip over,
May your goats die of fright,
May Bessie the milk cow be your only wife,
And when you think of me, may you wish for my life.

Time and Clatter

About twenty minutes ago, the four month old boy fell asleep. I successfully transferred him off my lap and into his rocker.

Start the clock.

Use the bathroom (tick, tick, tick),  read the small girl a book (tick, tick, tick), sing songs (tick, tick, tick), say prayers (tick, tick, tick), find her blanket (tick, tick, tick), change into pajamas myself (tick, tick, tick), no time to take off my makeup if I want to get started on my planner (tick, tick, tick), computer on lap (tick, tick, tick), open web browser (tick, tick, tick)...

...small human cries. Time's up.

 My entire existence is a clock that runs around a tiny human; my waking is consumed by him, my sleeping depends upon his sleeping. There are, of course, joys beyond any kind of measure when it comes to being a mother. But there is also much to measure, and the biggest one right now is time. The runner up to time is energy.

I seem to be lacking in both as of late, and it bothers me. The more time goes by, the more frantic I become when I feel I'm accomplishing very little. I'm a 24 hour diner to a baby. The dairy cow. The burp rag. The diaper change'o'matic. The mattress, boxspring, and pillow. I also have three other children that depend on me, and I'm still a wife, and I still have a house that has to be cleaned, and bills that need to be paid...

...and suddenly I realize I haven't had a shower in five days. What is happening?

Tick, tick, tick.

The Altered Girl

I have an insatiable need for justice. It's my biggest character flaw, and my most spiritual struggle. There are so many bible verses about "waiting on the Lord" and letting vengeance be God's but I struggle with needing to see tangible, "real" consequences here on earth for all the wrongs innocent people suffer.

This unquenchable force has gotten me in a lot of trouble before, as I take up personal campaigns and offense for others who might be feeling the sting of earthly unfairness. Often times, it doesn't end well, and yet I persist, because intertwined with this need is my own sense of value and self worth. I don't have a high opinion of myself, and so when I perceive someone else is being made to feel small, I rise up on a personal crusade to make it right, even if that person hasn't asked me to. Compound all this with general anxiety, and you have many showers where I stand in the water, running through various scenarios on how I can give evil doers their comeuppance. (I solve the worlds problems one shower at a time)

Now, I've told you all of that to tell you this - the event that started it all. This is a little heavy, so just be aware.

Long ago, as a little girl of six or seven, I had a friend. Her name was Cheri. I doubt that's how she spelled her name, but for some reason when I think of her, that's always how I want to spell it. Cheri is a girl I will never forget. She is ingrained on my heart, I have carried her with me for twenty five years. Cheri taught me "what boys like." Boys like when you touch them here. Boys like when you take a bath with them. Boys like when you kiss them here. I felt somehow that these games we were playing were wrong, but I didn't know why - sex was a topic completely off limits when I was growing up. I didn't know there were terms for this: masturbation, oral sex, etc.

I didn't really mind, these games felt good to play.

And then one day, I went to play at Cheri's house. "Let's dress up for my dad," she said. I remember being in her room, I remember getting putting on dress up clothes, and I remember her older brother opening the door as we were changing. I don't remember anything after that, except that the next time I saw her, I hated her.

My family will remember this part - the part where Cheri was playing on the sidewalk in front of our house. The part where I went completely ballistic. The part where I wanted to hurt her, to do something to her, but knowing what trouble I would be in if I hit her. So I fell to my knees and clawed at her feet with my hands. "I hate you!" I screamed, "I hate you!!" She ran away crying.

I've lived with the guilt of that moment since. Over the years it has morphed into shame of a different kind: Cheri was obviously being abused. Once I became a teenager, I understood that. And so was rooted the thought that if I had just told someone, anyone, maybe someone could have saved her. She's never aged in my head. I've gotten older, but she is still a little girl who ran away crying.

 I cry every time I think of her. Tears on my keyboard as I type it all out. Two and half decades later.

When I was a teenager I told two people this story, on two separate occasions. The first told me she would, "pray about" my "sexual sin." The other person told me that in comparison to abuses other people have suffered, my experience was "nothing."

Experience plus complete lack of validation equals me; the math that makes up my entire psyche. For better or worse.

I've since told a therapist and, most recently, my mother in law. Both said the same thing: "what happened was not your fault."

Someday I'm going to truly believe those words. I wonder what a difference it will make. Maybe I'll be able to respond to injustice with compassion. Maybe I will learn to see that my experiences don't need validation; I can be a whole, valuable person.

In the meantime, I take up the sword for surrogate causes, because the girl who ran away crying is still running in my head.

X's and O's

I met the ex husband's fiance over the weekend.

My initial thought in the days leading up to this meeting was that I wish life came with a playbook, something to tell me exactly what to feel and how to act in this scenario. For some reason this line of thought brought me back to a memory from my childhood: playing Madden 95 on the Sega.

I remember play calling defense for that game, looking at all the x's and o's in their 4-3, 3-4, Nickel, Dime, and Goal Line formations. I almost always chose Nickel, I have no clue why. I don't think I ever won a single game of Madden 95 against my brothers.

Coincidentally, '95 is the year the ex's fiance was born. I was married to him and having kids when she was turning 13. As Mush pointed out later, "She's not old enough to be E's mom...but I'm old enough to be her father."

Lordy.

It's funny that I was thinking in terms of defense, when the last thing on earth I want to feel is defensive. I've moved on, I'm married, I'm hugely pregnant, and I'm completely happy. I had about two days worth of unspecified anger and anxiety, something along the lines of, "Wait, you disappear across the country, see the kids one time in that whole year, and now you're back and bringing someone with you??" As a mom, it's hard enough to give him visits with them, now I have to worry about someone else? Gah!

When the ex left, I said a prayer that I wouldn't hate him forever. I've seen what hate of that kind can do, how it destroys a person, how it effects children. I've striven to keep the kids out of whatever my feelings for the ex were/are and I'm happy to say that I've been able to, in large part because of Mush, who sees the value in everyone, who believes relationships of all kinds are important, and is teaching me to view the world the same way. Talk about the better half...

They arrived at the house and when I saw her, in all her youth and gorgeousness, I had a completely unexpected emotion: the maternal instinct to tell her to run as far away from the ex as she could possibly get; don't waste years of your life and give up everything for that guy. You deserve better.

I stamped those feelings down pretty quick, because the truth is that I've changed a lot in the last two years, for the better I think. We grow and we change, and I have to believe...I choose to believe that the ex is capable of it too, and already has. Maybe she is for him what Mush is for me: the better half that makes you realize what's truly important.

In my life's playbook, I want all the x's and o's to mean hugs and kisses, good feelings and love. No matter what the scenario, that will always be the best call.

Whatever Lola Wants

By far, one of my favorite songs.

Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets,
And little man, little Lola wants you.
Make up your mind to have no regrets,
Recline yourself, resign yourself, you're through.

Occasionally, I substitute the name Lola for anyone I feel is perpetually spoiled, making the song more sardonic than seductive.

A few weekends ago was kid free for Mush and me, and we laid on the chaise lounges listening to classic jazz when the song came on. I told him about substituting names, and it occurred to me as I said it that I should try my own out.

Whatever Katie wants, Katie gets... 

It's true. No, seriously. I'm perpetually spoiled, by both physical beings in my sphere and cosmic forces.

Mush has been gone for a few days, and those who know the dynamic of our relationship know that without Mush, we starve. Okay, not really. But after three nights of pancakes in a row, the children are ready for him to come back and cook actual dinner.

Last night his mom asked me (after her husband had made the children dinner and she and I ate out) what on earth I did before Mush came along in the culinary department. I answered, "Well, Shay cooked for me for all of 2015-16..." Shay is the kids cousin. Prior to that, we had many meals at the kids great aunt and uncle's house.

The people who love me, cook for me. But I digress...

I began to think of the things I have desired that have come to fruition from little to no effort on my part.

1) Marrying Mush.

When I heard he was single, I knew he must be mine. But, because I'm me, I also knew I'd probably have to put a lot of work into getting him to actually feel the same way. I was prepared for months of long distance work. To my surprise, all it took was five days of texting philosophy and one night of getting together in person. I didn't even have to show off my cleavage.

2) Moving to Oregon

I've wanted to live in Oregon since I was 18 years old and saw it for the first time. Because of Mush, that desire was also fulfilled.

3) Having a Baby

 Mush and I talked about having a baby, but that would have required a reversal of the tubal ligation I got three years ago. It would be expensive.We had decided to table the idea of surgery for a year, and I had begun to say aloud that I wish God would just miraculously give me a baby without me having to have surgery.

I'm due late July/early August.

Boom.

I can't take credit for any of these things. Faith is about the only effort I put into all three. Not that faith is any small thing, but I'm so used to the answer always being "no" when I ask, that I can hardly believe that the answer was finally "yes." And how!

A Place at the Table

"For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted." - Luke 14:11

I'm not humble. I fake it, and only God knows how convincing I am.

Humility is defined as "a modest or low opinion of one's own importance." If any week showed clearly how not humble I am, it was this past week. One of my kids got the stomach flu. I'm not sure where all my motherly nurturing went but I found myself annoyed, not at him, but that I had to be the one to stay home and tend to him while everyone else got on with their lives. I stewed a little, thinking that me going to school is important, but nooooo, me and my goals always come last, blah blah blah. How dare my husband go to work when I have things to do??

Maybe I shouldn't say I fake being humble. It's more like God uses life to force me to be humble. This came in the form of me getting so sick/dehydrated that I had to go to the hospital. Guess who missed school that day? Guess whose husband came to the rescue, though he was sick himself? And whose mother in law played taxi, even though I almost threw up in her car?

I'm not really worthy of the people I associate with.

Enough about me. Now I'd like to talk about my husband.

Mush is quite possibly the most genuinely humble person I know. Genuinely. Mush is not a Christian, but he acts more Christ like than many of the professed believers that I know (this includes myself).

I believe that God's greatest command is to love Him and others. I believe it, but Mush lives it.

Recently, something came up where I felt Mush was being treated very unfair. I railed against the offenders, told Mush he should say something - stand up for himself! He deserves better, and I truly believe that. But rather than follow my rather unloving/vengeful lead, his reply was both humble, and humbling:

"It's ok," he said, "I know my place at the table. I've been there my whole life."

His reply is a reference to a New Testament story, in which Jesus advises that if you're invited to dinner, don't seat yourself at the place of most importance, lest you be humbled by being asked to move. Rather, you should sit in a place of least importance, and let the host elevate you and move you to a better place.

Mush, in my opinion, is deserving of the most respectable place at the proverbial table. He is content to love the others at the table with him, even if they don't deserve the station at which they've seated themselves.

When Mush and I got together, I was thinking that maybe the spiritual journey we would take would be akin to the story of the prodigal son - maybe I could somehow be a reflection of the Light (you know, cause I'm so sweet and loving...) that leads him home to the Father (you know, cause he's so lost and desolate...)

Instead, I see that he's not a prodigal. He's the son that stayed with his father, doing all that he asked, working while others have squandered the handouts they demanded.

The roles are, in fact, reversed. Mush is the reflection of Light. I am the one searching. Mush is the faithful son. I am the prodigal.

Lies

I've been pondering two things the last few weeks. This is one. The other will follow. 

What is the greatest sin, do you think? Smarter people than me have debated this. I've heard various arguments over the years for it being suicide, apostasy, murder, adultery, etc. 

Last night, I decided that, for me, the greatest sin is to lie. 

One of the first stories in the Bible is the Fall of Man (original sin), when Adam and Eve succumbed to the temptation of the serpent (the Devil) and brought sin into the world with an act of disobedience: eating from the one tree in the Garden of Eden that God said not to eat from. (Seriously, you had one job...) 

In Genesis 3, the serpent asks Eve if God really said that they couldn't eat from the tree? Eve replies that God said if they ate from the tree, they would die. The serpent tells Eve, "No, you will not die, but instead you will be like God, knowing good and evil." 

The last part of the statement was true. But the first part, the crucial part about not dying? That was a lie. Instead of living in paradise as immortals, Adam and Eve were banished from the garden and suddenly had an end date to the comparative misery they would suffer. Welcome to earth, people. 

Eternal damnation because of a lie. 

Lies hurt, because eventually the truth is always going to come out, even if you are very skilled at falsehoods. Lies are one of the ultimate forms of disrespect. You don't respect my trust when you lie. You don't respect my intelligence when you lie. You don't respect my love when you lie to me. 

Bottom line, you don't respect me. 

But you obviously don't respect yourself either. And a person without self respect is a dangerous person, because they will have no shame in committing any offense against themselves or against others.

Self respect is defined as, "Having pride in oneself; a feeling that one is behaving with honor and dignity." 

The positions one puts themselves and others in by lying is the complete opposite of dignity and honor. The opposite of honor? Disgrace. Baseness. Insult. DISRESPECT. When you lie, you debase yourself as much as the people you are lying to. 

Lies are dangerous. The longer you tell them, the less credibility you have until you're in a hole full of your own bullshit that's so deep, you won't ever be able to dig yourself out of it. You'll call for help, and no one will hear you.

Well, no, that's not true. They'll hear you. They just won't believe you. 

 

Forward With Joy

The car wouldn't start this morning. Something was wrong with the ignition switch and it has intermittently been going out. That meant walking the boy to school. 

I'll admit, I was not at first very enthusiastic about walking a mile to school with him, not because I don't love my melodramatic five year old, but because as enthusiastic as I am in my communication with him, his response is always akin to a dirge. For example, most mornings before school we go through his litany of reasons why he doesn't want to go. 

"Mom, I don't like school. The other kids talk to me. And we color. All day." 

"Mom, I don't like school. There's lunch. I didn't learn anything." 

And then his responses when I tell him to go play outside: 

"I can't. My legs hurt. I'm so tired. I hurt my back. I'm getting hotter/colder (depending on weather). I'm afraid of the bees/moths/spiders/trees/flowers/water."

All that to say a mile was looking very long before my second cup of coffee. And sure enough, it started off with "my legs are so cold." But then, something unexpected happened. 

"Mom, remember Uptwon Funk?"

"Of course, buddy. Want me to play it while we walk?"

"Yes!" 

So I found it on my phone, and pressed play. And for a mile, he danced his way, uncomplaining, joyfully, energetically, the whole to school. He danced by other people, he danced left and right. He danced forward, and backward. As long as the song kept playing, he kept dancing. 

When we got to his class, he was happy and smiling. And when I left him at school, I was too. The morning didn't start off the way I planned it, and we are so much the better for it. I wouldn't trade that one mile for anything. 

In My Heart

I'm not a good person. It's the truth. I don't love people the way I ought to, I judge, I get angry and I pine for revenge. I wish to dole out my version of justice upon the unjust. 

But I do try to be better. This desire to try stems directly from my faith. I believe in God, the Holy Trinity, three persons in one: God the Father, God the Son (Jesus) and God the Holy Spirit. I believe what it says in John 3:16 that God loves us so much, He sent His son to die on our behalf, a sacrificial love without condition. He died for all men, regardless of race, gender, creed, color, political party or sexual orientation. He loves us equally, and does not rank one sin above another. So my binge drinking and your murder are the same in the eyes of God, though they carry different consequences. 

I believe the Holy Spirit convicts the hearts of those in which it resides. Christians on this earth have their own unique walk, despite a belief in the same God, because each relationship with God is deeply personal. It's not one size fits all. He is one God, who shows Himself in a trillion different ways. But there is one banner that should unify us all, it should be the light that guides the lost home, the beacon that shines through the darkness that overruns this world. 

That banner is Love.

1 John 4:7-12 says, "Beloved let us love one another. For love is from God and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God. Anyone who does not love, does not know God, because God is love. In this, the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent His only Son into the world so that we might live through Him. In this love, not that we have loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another. No man has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us and His love is perfected in us." 

God loved us. We ought to love. And by extension, we see God through the love we have for each other. Do you know when I've seen God?

The day my children were born, I saw Him. There He was, in their tiny faces. There He still is, in their innocence and acceptance. 

I saw Him in the form of my dear friend, who endured so much pain and tragedy and still she cared for herself and her sisters, and still she does. I still see Him in her, every time I talk to her. 

I see Him in a fairy godmother, one who probably doesn't know how much I look up to her from afar, and how much I wish I could be her kind of selfless. 

I saw Him in the form of a group of people, in a ceremony by a river. He was there, in the words of a Wiccan who probably didn't know she was being used to touch the life of the broken and exhausted woman who listened to her.

I saw Him in the actions of my cousin, who stood by me when my life fell apart, who without a sure faith herself, encouraged me to pray. 

I see Him in my (former) brother in laws, who continue to love and accept me, even though they don't have to. Even though we don't believe the same things, have different lifestyles, etc.   

I see Him in my future mother in law, who glows with sweetness, despite the unspeakable heartache she has endured.

I see Him in my fiancé, who daily exemplifies kindness, generosity, patience, and understanding. 

I see Him in people who don't even profess to believe in Him. That's how great a God He is. That's how precious His children are to Him, that He uses them for good, even when they are unaware.

I'm not a good person, and I fail often to live up to the expectations I set upon myself. But I hope that you know that I am trying, and I hope I can exemplify  someday that Love I have seen in so many people around me, believers and non believers alike. 

That Love is the greatest of all. 

Poetry between Lines

Against your every fundamental,

Rages there a war ungentle,

Echoes of past injury,

Yet again release your fury.

Over time you look for healing,

Underneath, your soul is reeling. 

Once a lover, once with power

Now a fighter, now a doubter.

Cast aside your faith dissolving

Raise anew beliefs evolving,

Ardent is your indignation,

Cause for all your degradation.

Kiss at last your fading virtue,

Sordid from another's preview. 

Only then comes understanding.

Never more or less demanding. 

Statistically Speaking

Announcing my soon to be marriage has been an interesting experience. The reactions have been mixed. Some have expressed their joy at my happiness. Some have expressed concern over how quickly things have progressed. Some have said that, according to statistics, it's doomed to fail. 

Second marriages often end in divorce. 

Cohabitation before marriage ends in divorce.

Intimacy before marriage ends in divorce.

Marrying someone who doesn't share your religion ends in divorce.  

Here's some personal statistics:

Number of months the Marine and I lived together before marriage: zero

Number of times we had sex of any kind before marriage: zero

Number of times we'd been married before: zero

Disagreements religiously before marriage: zero

Marital success rate: zero

Forgive me if I seem unconcerned about doing things a little differently this time around.

Another concern often voiced is that I haven't given myself enough time to "grieve" for the end of my marriage. I have two things to address in that regard: 

First, I was grieving for my marriage while I was still in it. Anyone who has been married or is married to a military man who goes on deployments knows that each time he comes back, he's not the same as he used to be. Maybe he eventually gets back to normal or maybe, like my ex, he leaves pieces of himself behind in a place where he experienced what most of us will not - the brutality of war. I grieved for a husband who was still alive, but who didn't quite make it home. 

Second, the grieving process is not a "one and done" process. A year later, I still weep that my kids have to experience growing up in a broken home. I cry real tears for it. We could have made it, if only one hundred things had been different. As an aside, I will say this for my ex and I: so far, we've done a pretty good job of keeping the kids out of it. They won't hear any trash talk about all his "stuff" from me, and he backs me up when it comes to doing what I think is best for them. Some days that's hard to do (especially this month) but it's a part of the process. 

All that to say this: I am aiming to make the second marriage success rate jump a few points up. Who goes into a relationship thinking, "This will be great until the divorce"? Ridiculous. 

I'm not a virginal child anymore, and both of my eyes are wide open. I have 12 years experience in what not to do. Thank you for the statistics, but don't worry about Mush and me. There's whole lot of love and whole lot of prayer going into our relationship. 

We got this. 

On This Holy Thursday

At the beginning of 2016, I picked a word to focus on for the whole year. The word was discipline, because heaven knows I need more of it. But slowly over the last three months, a new word has been whispering at the back of my mind.

When I first moved here to the Tri, I hated it. I hated everything about it. I spent a year avoiding the place that was supposed to be home for good, or so was the plan. And then, I decided I needed to work on contentment, which is defined as "a state of happiness." For a time, I believed I had found it. In fact, I was so happy that I prayed to God, "Please don't let me lose faith when it all falls apart." A well timed prayer, to be sure, because two weeks later, all of it did. 

Now, a change dawns, a different place, a different life, and a different word for the year: acceptance. 

In retrospect, much of my time here has been about acceptance:

Accept that this place isn't what you thought.

Accept that the people here aren't who you thought.

Accept that your job isn't what you thought.

Accept that the man was everything you denied he could be. 

Accept that the future you could have now comes at a cost, like the remainder of the friendships you have. Maybe they survive on social media, maybe not. 

Accept the fact that not many will go out of their way for you. 

I accept. I see this time for what it has been - a lesson in humility and humiliation. In frustration, and anger, and regret. In countless hours spent awake, crying out to the dark, "What was it all for? Why does it matter?"

I've received many a pep talk from well meaning individuals in the last several months. "Think of all the relationships you've formed, the things you've learned, the way you've grown." I get a bitter taste in my mouth every time I hear it. Not because they're wrong, but because they say it like somehow that's going to magically make everything better. They might as well be saying "Think of  everything you tried to accomplish and build that is now void. Think of all of your time spent waiting and surviving, just barely at times, for it to end up like this." 

But, I am not without great optimism for the future. I accept the void, and I leave it to the past. I step forward into uncertainty, but I would rather live in this state for a time, than merely survive in the broken ruins of what never came to fruition. 

My dear friend said to me a few days ago, "The Lord gives, and He takes away.

Bless Him all the same."

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, or of disappointment, or of disillusionment, I will not fear. What God has made crooked, who can make straight?

Bless His name. 

Forgive as Forgiven

I'm not very good at it. I've written about it before. I'm not the "forgive and forget" type. I'm the "forgive and never let you forget" type.

This past weekend, I found myself in a most ironic situation. There I sat, in the living room of my friends house, holding a phone to my ear and listening to the sounds of my own heart being ripped out, for the second time in less than a year. 

When the phone call was ended, and the damage done, I sat in the darkened room with my friend, who had heard most of what happened - an angry voice over the telephone and me, sobbing uncontrollably. 

We all know what it is to be hurt. Sometimes the cuts are so deep, we are sure they will never heal. Sometimes the scars are so numerous, we can't remember what we were like without them. Sometimes the wound is so raw that even the slightest provocation will tear it open again. Sometimes forgiveness seems impossible. 

She looked at me, my friend did, and offered me words of peace and calm. She's known me a long time, and always has had a knack for tempering my impulse to instantly and foolishly react. 

There is irony in having such an event happen as I sat in her living room, because if she hadn't forgiven me when I asked, I wouldn't have been there at all. Indeed, such a phone call never would have existed, and neither would many of the happy moments of the last five months. A year ago, I made a phone call of my own and I asked for her forgiveness for something I had done wrong three years prior. She didn't even hesitate. She said, "I have been waiting for this phone call for three years."

With open arms, I was accepted. Much was forgiven of me, by her and by her family, without retribution. Without judgement. Without paying a price again and again and again. That's exactly what forgiveness is. The price has already been paid, the blood shed, and we can walk freely into the arms of Someone who didn't deserve to pay it, but who gladly did for our sake. 

Because of Him, I can forgive much, because I am forgiven. 

Effective Lines

It's strange. I've known Mush for thirteen years, but I don't actually remember meeting him.

There were times, in those early years, when I knew he was physically in the same space that I was in, but he was always just out of my view, my friend's phantom brother who I heard so much about but rarely caught a glimpse of.

The first time I remember him speaking directly to me was on the day of Ducky's wedding, nearly eight years ago. A bunch of us, Mush included, were mingling together after the reception was over. One of the girls was talking about her boyfriend being a little older than she was, and I flippantly replied, "Well, you don't want to date someone your own age anyway. They say boys mature slower than girls, so a few years older means he would be at your level."

And from across the room, Mush looked at me and, without smiling, said, "I find that remark to be extremely offensive."

I felt my heart drop all the way down to my feet. Nothing else was said but I thought from that day forward that Mush really did not like me.

And that bothered me.

Flash forward two years. It was after Scott's funeral, and the whole family went to the lake for a week, to get away. It was difficult for everyone, obviously, and I was struggling with the fact that in situations like this, I would normally have Scott to keep company with.

But he was gone.

I wasn't the only one who was alone, though. With all bedrooms in the cabin occupied, me and my two year old were relegated to a pullout couch in the family room. On the floor a few feet away slept Mush. My anxiety about that was through the roof. He already didn't like me, and I was certain he wasn't going to like me any more by sleeping on the floor in the same room as me and my toddler, who was unfortunately struck with a stomach bug our first night there. Things, it seemed, could hardly be worse.

Then one night, it happened that everyone else had gone to bed except Mush and me. I don't remember how we started talking, but we stayed up until the very wee hours drinking beer and orange juice on the front porch of the cabin, and I hung onto his every word. I'd long heard what a cool guy he was, and by an impossibly heartbreaking circumstance, I got to finally see it for myself. He was smart and engaging, sincere and thoughtful. It sparked something undefinable in my heart for him, a fondness I couldn't explain. From that day forward, I leapt at any chance to talk to him, especially those late night conversations, just us two.

I locked those moments away in my heart, little treasures I was sure only meant something to me.

Life turned dark for a time. I didn't see Mush for nearly four years because I stopped visiting with the family. When I would think of them, I would think of him, and wonder how he was. It was a surprise to myself how much I felt for him, without really knowing why.

Then, in the Fall of last year, something extraordinary happened. Ducky was talking to me about finally being able to pursue my dreams, particularly the one of living in the valley (which had long been a dream of mine).  She casually mentioned Mush...

Time stopped. The dormant embers of feeling I had locked away suddenly ignited an ardent desire to make him mine.  

And so I have, with little effort, because it turns out that the same moment I understood that he meant something, however undefinable, to me, was the exact moment he felt the same way. 

Nearly six years later, that undefinable and ne'er explored feeling has turned out to be love.