If You're Privileged and You Know it Stomp Your Feet

Sometimes we don’t know we are blind until we find out that everyone else can see.

L____ and I were talking the other night about how sometimes this is still hard, despite the good days and what we are learning and enjoying, the thoughts still linger that somehow this isn’t enough.

I remember the year I didn’t work, it took months before I quit introducing myself with my professional degrees and titles and the assurance that I was choosing to take time off. I knew where he was coming from.

Why do we feel the need to explain that an honest hard-day’s work is actually both?

Then today my friend posted the following on Facebook

 

    "..if you don’t have the money to tip more than a $1, please go to the dollar    

      menu. These waiters and waitresses LIVE off what little tips they make.”

 

A dialogue followed, most people stating that servers’ minimum wage was around $2.13 and that if you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to eat out. I added that delivery drivers are in the same boat: making well below minimum wage when they are on deliveries and depend on tips.

One person commented that she didn’t agree, that poor service negated a good tip, any tip; and that at restaurants where you could order and pay at the table that all waiters did was bring you food, who would you tip then….I responded that servers minimum wage is really low and that food industry workers are dependent on tips to survive.

 

She said, “K__I understand that. I also understand they took the job knowing what the pay will be.”  

They knew what the pay was when they took the job.

They knew it was unfair.

They knew they could work forty hours a week and only make $85.20.

They knew this and signed on any way.

So it is ok to continue the cycle—

That thought is privilege.

Tied in a pretty bow, a gift to ourselves to make the other party look and feel guilty…..it is their fault they are being treated badly and aren’t paid enough because they agreed to those conditions when they took the job.

These comments have kissing cousins: If you want a real wage, get a real job. If you don’t want to live in poverty, get a real job. Flipping burgers is for high schoolers; get a grown-up job…..

How many memes have I seen mocking a living wage for anyone who deigns to work at something the rest of us grown-ups think we are too good to do?

Or at least think we are too good to do outside of our own homes?

Most of us cook in our homes, clean in our homes, plunge the occasional toilet, pick up/take out the trash.

Most of us don’t smile when we do it, at least not all the time, certainly not if the dinner table has two crying toddlers, a teen who is snide, and a tween who burps in our face…..or we have to outside in the pouring rain waiting for someone to unlock the door for 7 minutes because you forgot your purse upstairs, then had to go back because you actually left your keys on the bed….or sent the same steak back three times because when you cook it well done at home it still has pink in it.

 

But we expect it to be done for us for 2.13/hr maybe an extra $5 thrown if, if we are satisfied?

 

What if the problem isn’t them, it is us?

It is acceptable to voice displeasure or dissatisfaction with service at an establishment.

 

But to imply that people are deserving of poor treatment because they knew what they signed up for, isn’t capitalistic or making America great or encouraging someone to better themselves or pull themselves up by their bootstraps, it is privileged.

 

And it means that at least for today you remain blind.

Why I Slept With the Pizza Guy

Marriage is hard.  Texting a friend, “I’m sitting in my car alone in an empty parking lot eating a pizza because I don’t want to go home.” Hard.

 Even the good days require effort.

Forty. Some of my friends have a decade or more of marriage at my age; even one or two have crossed the 20 year mark.  My nearly 5 years seems frivolous. But then I count out what we’ve covered: miscarriage, serious illness in one of our parents, 5 moves-5 cities, a could-have-been-fatal health event for me, and those years grow exponentially, maybe a short time on the trail, but treacherous terrain nonetheless.

Even so, the hardest days have been watching as events unfold-- things that happen to L__ as I sit on the sidelines; losing one job was difficult, but another move and a new company within a few short weeks helped righten the world.

 

Until it wasn’t. 

 

And six months later, the same scene on repeat.

 

Everyone said it didn’t matter what he did for a living, that his job didn’t define him. He and I said it often enough; it became our greeting.

 

“Youarenotwhatyoudo.Nojobisworthbeingunhappy.Imarriedyounotwhatyoudoforwork.”

 

People were supportive, loved us in any way they knew how. Well wishes and phone numbers and leads and contacts were offered. All in his industry.  And then the next layer, a little different field, but someone knows someone and he thinks there is an opening. 

I quit counting after 70. 70 resumes, applications, a handful of interviews and more than 60 days on the calendar and no offers. No new leads.  There were no more home cooked dinners and lazy nights watching $1 DVDs,; mentions of God’s plan and timing were only through gritted teeth. He began to wonder what was holding him back. Days I told him I couldn’t think if a thing; other days I told him the truth.

The only job offer came from a single mom in her late twenties; she needed a delivery guy for the chain pizza store she managed. She didn’t ask him about his undergrad experiences or anything about his master’s thesis. She asked if he would work hard and show up on time. And then gave him a t-shirt and a hat and told him to start tomorrow.

A couple of friends asked, “How does he feel about having to take a job like that?”

Most of our conversations ended in, “But just while he looks for something else.” 

But there wasn’t something else, and this became our new normal.

I quit asking if any other offers had come, and he no longer sent me the rejection emails.  But the rhythm of the familiar returned: laundry, food, and children can always ground you. And then like He frequently does, God revealed subtleties, nuances in what were now our days: my husband had stopped sweating all the time, something he had done since long before I met him; his stomach was no longer painful; his high blood pressure lower than any time in recent memory. We had a cheap Mexican dinner without a single phone call, and some late nights were spent with inappropriate comedy in seven minute YouTube bits.

We quit referring to his new job as temporary.  

And on the good days the new normal was enough.

 

We alternate bad days; each talking the other one down, those bullet points of how life is better repeated in person, in text, in writing, in prayers.  

And most times we believe each other.

Most.

And then there was today—his turn—his apology that he wasn’t the man I married.

I told him that it was OK—that I really preferred the pizza guy.

A Letter to My Teen on Valentine's Day

Dear Baby Girl,

Your Pops tells me that at times I have been a little hard on men in general.
I came into the world ready to fight for women (insert kindergarten story of almost being expelled over the letter people here, and of course pre-school me thinking I should be able to tee-tee standing up).

Believing that men and women are really equal is a hard lot in life. You have to be prepared to be disappointed. In others. In yourself.

But most importantly, you have to learn grace and the ability to look at people as just that, people. Flawed. Messy. Undeserving. And wonderful. Just like you.

It took me over 35 years to realize that though I'd always championed women's rights, I had never fought for myself. 35 years is a long time to not be kind to yourself. To not realize it is OK to love yourself and put yourself first some of the time. 35 years is way too long to not understand that God CREATED YOU, you! And HE loves you, just as you are. So it is really ok to love yourself too, however that looks for you.

And when you realize that you are worth dying for, that Jesus would have come to the cross for you alone, it will make you much more particular about those people you invite to love you.

And though I still believe a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle, I'm glad that this fish found her Schwinn.

Because it is Valentine's Day and because one day you will notice, really notice, the boys who already notice you, it is my hope that you will listen to your mom on this one......

When you are ready to invite people to love you...

1.Find someone who is proud to show you off and vice versa.
Treat your body well. Walk it, feed it healthy food. Let it enjoy treats sometimes. Take it out in the sunshine. Let it rest at night.

Pretend your body is a puppy, and you will do fine.

If someone wants to date you, marry you, be friends with you, you wouldn't trade in your puppy that you love and care for because someone else wanted a different one. Same is true for your body. The right friends and partner will love you and be proud of you.

Think of all the IG posts with cute dogs....Love yourself that much.

2. If anyone (male or female) hits you, curses you, belittles you, threatens you...makes you feel unsafe in any way, walk out.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO HAVE PERMISSION TO LEAVE, just walk away. And find safety and shelter.

Then come tell your mother. She is a little crazy. Your stepfather is quiet, but he has a lot of country in his blood. We will help you handle that. No questions asked.

3. Find friends and partners that make you better, that want you to succeed at what you want to do. If they can't support your crazy desire to finish your history degree and one day work in a bookstore and be an acupuncturist, don't let them occupy space in your head.

4. Wait to have sex.
Really, wait.
There are so many reasons: disease, pregnancy, death. Honoring yourself and God with your body.

But if nothing else hits home remember this: if you wouldn't let them see you pooping on a toilet (I'm not saying you have to be willing to invite them in, but...) don't have sex with them.

Here's why. Sex is intimate; you know the mechanics because I've made you sit through the talk a lot; but it is also emotional and personal and NOT AT ALL like movies or TV, even good sex doesn't have a sound track in real life.

One night I got up to use the rest room; I shut the door and turned on the faucet for background noise and within a minute or two had a wicked Charley horse. I couldn't stretch; I couldn't stand up. I couldn't do anything but yell out, "L____ come help me." And he did. Sat on the bathroom floor, while I was on the commode, massaging my calve with ice until I could stand up.

That's love that is sex-worthy. (And it goes both ways. I have a similar story where I'm the knight on the white horse, but L___ can tell that one if he ever writes a blog.)

You have an Aunt Sheridan (who you have never met) who once gave me really good marriage advice, "You're going to be shitting in the same toilet as this person for the rest of your life. Make sure you can commit to that."

If you can't see yourself willing to deal with them on the toilet, skip the sex.

5. Enjoy your life.
Take on the adventures, big or small.
Invite people in who make it better.

If you think about skipping a summer trip to Russia in the 8th grade because of a boy, we will need to talk.

6. Find someone who continually seeks God. You will be better for it.

7. Most importantly, remember that it matters more that you're happy alone. No other person is going to complete you. So don't look for someone to fix you, save you, love you out of whatever it is....you've got to love yourself enough to do that.

So your Pops may be right: I am hard on the men in the world because I deserved the best one for me, and so, facey girl, do you.

God Hates Fat People (Part One)

I am fat. modern nomenclature tells me that actually I am a fat person. Or a person who is fat.

End result is the same.

I've struggled with my size almost all of my memory; I was as tall as my teachers by the 4th grade, average adult size as well. But the fat label had been with me for years by then, though it would be another 6 or so years before I was technically overweight. Another 10 years before I was obese.

Around 15 or so food became my god. I spent a lot of time thinking about it, how to get it, how to have it so others wouldn't find out. I sought food when I was happy, sad, mad, bored. Food was my comfort and my resting place.

Oh, and I am a Christian.

I was a Christian at 15 too, though I wasn't striving to emulate Christ. I was mostly just afraid of going to Hell.

The next 20 years were a series of triumphs, failures, victories, bad decisions, joys and heart breaks.

Food served me well then. It was my constant. It made me large enough that I felt somewhat protected when I was in danger. Bold enough that I could work hard. Food brought me joy when little else did.

Then, I met Jesus again face-to-face in the parking lot of a Winn Dixie. He and I had had chased one another for the past two years, me seeking Him when there was a fear or a need, Him genuine in His pursuit. That day I gave it up. I told Him no matter the cost I wanted to be His.

So I went to my Savior, my parents, my child, and my then-sort-of-boyfriend (now husband) broken and humbled.

That occurred a little over 4 years ago. The Lord has restored so much in me. So much so there are moments I feel dumb-struck.

Then there are moments went I catch sight of something. Something that does not reconcile at all with the reclaimed woman God has made.

It is almost always when I am alone. Usually I am angry or afraid.

And there with the Savior next to me I seek my comfort in food. Entire large pizzas consumed in the front seat of my car with the windows down and AC on full blast so the smell won't linger. It is when I am sitting in the parking lot of one drive-through with a burger in one hand and when it is finished I go through another drive through next door. Sometimes it is late at night with an entire box of vanilla wafers dunked three at a time in cold white milk.

But frequently, I recognize it before I am a dozen bites in to my favorite comfort food. I recognize what I am about to do and plow ahead anyway.

As a Christian I have shared this struggle before, that gluttony and making food my idol is a daily battle. I laid it at Jesus' feet and picked up over a dozen times in the last two years alone. I don't recall it ever being taken seriously. It has been dismissed ("I had two pieces of egg custard last night, that doesn't make me a sinner.'') It has been made into a joke, frequently by me.

Usually it is just ignored.

Not one of my Christian brothers or sisters or teachers or pastors has ever pulled me aside to talk to me about it.

No one has posted any of the following comments under pictures of my morbidly obese self on facebook

           "Disgusting."
           "Perverted."
           "Glutton."
           "Sinner."
           "You make me ashamed to be an American."

My husband and daughter also struggle with their weight. No one has ever accused me of ruining my daughter's life because she caught her mom eating an entire vat of cheese balls.

Even when I found my way back to the Lord and subsequently to His church, I was never confronted with these labels either ADULTERER. FORNICATOR. LIAR. GOSSIP.

Even though I struggled mightily with most of them while being a member in good standing.

So the last three nights I have lain awake wondering why no Christian I know has confronted me about my obvious willful and habitual sins. We so frequently taut the phrase "Tell the truth in love. Hate the sin. Love the sinner." Yet, no one has picketed Wendy's holding a sign that reads, "God hates fat people."

And then I asked someone. Her response, "The Holy Spirit's job is to convict you."

And that's true for much of our private church sins: pornography, gossip, gambling addiction, alcohol addiction....there is no one holding a banner there either.

I am so fortunate that I have never been met with a sign that reads, "God hates fat people." or its cousin "God hates the sin of gluttony."

No  one I know would deem this an acceptable or Christ-like thing to do.  No one I've seen in Facebook or Instagram or in the news.

We are a unified front of prayer and love for those of us struggling, even those of us trapped in obvious Bible-defined sin. We love thy neighbor and turn thy cheek.

Unless we substitute fat for gay. Most Christians don't have a lot of grace for gay people.

Thanking God I'm fat.

Why I'm Rearing a Fearless Broad

My mother is pretty. Quite pretty, actually.

After almost 40 years I have the landscape of her face imprinted in my mind. Though I no longer recognize it as distinct, those new to her face may notice a scar from the outside of a nostril down through her lip.

The scar has been hers almost since birth; the story repeated often enough we all know it.

My grandmother cooking in her 1940s kitchen, her baby girl old enough to sit up, but not yet crawl, playing on a blanket in a corner. Close enough to watch, far from the heat and knives of cooking. Glass meat trays were common then, I'm told. Long before polymers were commonplace. It slipped from my grandmother's hand (I imagine because they were wet from washing or slick from Crisco) sending shards in all directions.

Any mother knows her baby's cries; they can frequently determine the problem just by the breath she takes before letting out a sound. So I know my grandmother turned cold when she heard this primal wail from my mother. Colder still when she saw blood and the hanging lip. I can't imagine having to help hold down my child while they hurriedly sew her flesh, the gap deep enough that her top lip is now two pieces, no anesthesia, no twilight sleep. But that is what my grandmother did.

Always at the end of the story she said, "The worst thing that ever happened to Rebecca happened by my own hand under my own eyes. There was nothing else of which to be afraid."

     There was nothing else of which to be afraid.

I don't ever recall thinking there was something I COULDN'T do; there were things I shouldn't do and things I didn't want to do. But nothing ever seemed impossible.

As a little girl, I didn't realize how rare that was. It was only in the 6th grade, when I said I might like to be President one day (Collective sigh of relief that that never happened!) and someone responded that only men can be president, that I realized my thinking was different. I remember walking to the encyclopedia on the shelf, pulling out the P volume (was Q attached? Maybe O.) and reading the qualifications for president to the class. Being a boy wasn’t listed. No one in the class agreed, even the teacher said the President has to be a man.  It doesn't speak well of my stubborn streak, but I argued with facts, albeit not precedents, on my side until everyone let it go. Even then I wasn't deterred. I remember thinking if there wasn't a girl president already, then I would just have to be the first.

 
It is this fearlessness, this confidence, this boldness that I want my daughter to see.

I don't believe I have to teach it to her, though; I know that deep down we are all born with something innate that allows us to be brave. It is only through custom and conformity that it is dampened.

1. I want her to have her own adventures, far from me and the home she knows.

Just two weeks ago I sent baby girl on a week-long school trip almost a day's ride away to Washington, D.C. Parents were invited and encouraged to go, but she and I both knew she needed to go alone. And she did. Climbed on the bus. Waved good-bye and didn't look back.

A few days into the trip I had lunch with a friend who asked me if the trip and separation was harder on me or baby girl. I answered as honestly as I knew how, "It is probably only hard on my mom."

Not that I didn't miss her some or gladly look at the pictures and videos her teachers shared, but I never wanted her to feel that there isn't life outside the woman who bore her and the walls where she grew up. Never as a parent has it been my aim, to have my daughter NEED me.


2. I want her to believe that she can do things without knowing how.

I am not a cook; I know how because I can read; but I don't enjoy it, and I'm not at all adventurous or spontaneous in the kitchen.

I have never taught my daughter to cook, but I never told her that she needed to be taught either.

When she was 10 or so, cooking became an interest, so she went in the kitchen and started to cook. (Lest you worry out there. She has been taught safety in the kitchen since she could crawl; stoves and ovens are hot. Knives are sharp. How to use a fire extinguisher.) Her first meal ever was chicken stir fry and rice. No recipe, no help. Just her in the kitchen and trial and error. She has made countless things in the years since. She never knew she needed to be taught how to cook, so she simply cooked.

The same logic applied when we moved to a new house and wanted to paint her room. Husband showed her some basics and she proceeded to paint 75% of her room alone. It looks fabulous. There is no paint on the floor.


3. She has what she needs inside of her.

The world can be scary. (However, the world is statistically safer than the days you and I grew up in, adults!) While it is not likely that someone would try and abduct or physically harm my child, it is possible. From the time she could talk, I told her that some people aren't nice and that if a not-nice person is hurting you with words, walk away. If a not-nice person is hurting you with force and making you uncomfortable then do everything in your power to stop the situation, including but not limited to yelling, cursing, spitting, scratching, hitting, peeing, and kicking someone in the tweeter-tots (I'm a nurse. she knows the real names.).


We were walking home one evening when she was in the 5th grade; it was fall and already dark at 5:30.

"Mama, I need to tell you something I got sent to the office today."

"Oh?"

 "J_____ took my pencil and when I told him he couldn't have to give it back, he threw it at me. Then he took it back and I reached up and grabbed it from him, and everyone laughed. Then, Mama, he got mad and hit me in the face three times."

(My baby was SLAPPED. IN THE FACE. THREE TIMES. Even now, my stomach turns as I type. One day I want to tell you how the school handled it (no phone call) and what I was told. One day. But in case I can never type it; here's the gist:

There is a rampant "boys will be boys" attitude in our culture.

 It is dangerous and deadly to our daughters.)

I stopped then in the middle of a street and looked  at her. "Go on."

"And then I stood up and punched him. Hard. He didn't hit me again after that."

 (There was a lot more to this discussion, too long and too fresh for this page. And while I am not naïve enough to think that domestic violence would cease if survivors used violence against their attackers or that violence is always the way to settle something, what I learned in that moment were two very important things

 1. My daughter knew she deserved better treatment, both than stealing her pencil and being hit.

2. And my daughter used what she had inside of her to distance herself from a bad situation.

I would be wrong if I didn't admit that I've thought of that little boy's face over the years, imagining him smirk when she stood up, thinking she was going to run away, and then the smirk clouding as she rares back (remembering she has at least 6 inches and 50 pounds on him), and then her voice so matter-of-fact, "Do not hit me again.") )

 Later, I asked her what she could learn from what happened. She told me that she didn't want to hit anyone again (and to date she hasn't), but that she knew that she could if someone were hurting her.


4. I want her to have her own opinions.

Usually. Most days. There are moments when I silently wish that whatever voodoo Michelle Duggar has to make her children fall in line, was for sale but those moments are fleeting.

It was a hard blow when I discovered my child didn't share my love of reading. Or that really enjoys being outside in the hot, sweaty sun.

It has been trying, at times, when she is pushing boundaries and trying to discern what she really thinks.

My mom and I talk about it often. She remembers well our epic battles. And though it isn't mentioned as often, the subsequent heartbreak that can come when you have to let your child fail miserably, all alone, and learn from the hurt.

I thanked both my parents recently for never making me feel afraid. As a 6 year-old I was told the truth when my thoughts were right and wrong. As a 15 year old I flew to a conference in Washington all alone, no one from my school, no adult. At 17, I drove states away to visit a friend for her high school graduation. (These were the days before cell phones and internet. I had a map and change for the pay phone.)

Never once, was I worried that there would be something I couldn't handle.

No one taught me to be fearful, so I never was.


5. And I want her to grow up and leave me.

One day, she will likely move out. Maybe far away. She may travel or end up on the opposite coast. Or she may live two streets over in the same small town. Regardless of any geographical distance, I want her to live her own life: her own family (Weekly Sunday dinners just won't be a thing.), her own career/calling, her own beliefs (though I will  complain to anyone who will listen if she's a Republican), and her own space.

It pains me sometimes to see families of grown people so uncomfortable with anyone who differs even the slightest bit (try being the odd-man out if you're the only stay-at-home-mom or the only brother who doesn't fish). I want her to never have to worry about what I will think if she does something different, even radically different.

And to know that she was reared for these very moments-to leave and make her own way.

And while I hope that she will visit from time-to-time; I hope more that she climbs on board, waves good-bye, and doesn't look back.

 

When You're the Weird One (or Why I think my Husband is Sexy in Sunday school)

When the hubby, baby girl, and I were moving (again) one of the choices we had to make was where to attend church services. Many facing a move deal with the same challenges; a lot visit various churches in their chosen denomination and decide among those. Others have recommendations of friends and family. Some pick one and stay put.

And then there is us.

We aren’t confined by any specific denomination; we have never really sought the input of others when deciding where to worship and though we were content to buy the first house we actually saw; we weren’t willing to make that gamble with a church.

So we did what we do best: I got on the internet and visited over 20 churches in our relatively small town. I sent links and screen shots to my hubby. I picked out the one I wanted to join based solely on its online presence.

We visited it. I was wrong. My hubby had a choice. We visited it. He was wrong.

But then we talked about it; what we felt led to in a church and came up with a rough list

1.      A clear, conservative presentation of the Gospel

2.      A church that had Bible instruction (in addition to worship) for kids older than elementary and adults (Oh my! We wanted Sunday school. How many Sundays did I get drug to Sunday School, early against my griping? But here I was naming that a prayer-led non-negotiable for our new church. The idea started two years ago Easter when we visited my parents and went to church with them. My dad suggested we would enjoy the younger adults class. My husband came alive in Sunday school; he has a vast knowledge of scripture and loves to discuss ideas and concepts. I sat in this small Presbyterian Church and looked at my husband with new eyes! Might I add that I thought he was incredibly sexy in Sunday school? Can you even say sexy and Sunday school together, especially if you’re protestant?)

3.       I longed for diversity in a church…racial, socio-economical, even ideological.

4.      Music. I’m not a music person; I like songs I know. But my hubby missed a choir.

5.      A church involved in actively being the hands and feet of Christ at a local level. Any number of ministries applies; soup kitchens, homeless shelters, education classes.

 

Our three previous churches (We have moved a lot.) had offered a mix of much of this. We were fortunate to find small, community churches that were reasonably diverse, were mission minded, presented the Gospel, and made us feel at home. The look was probably more liberal and “community” than many; the churches met in an art museum or a movie theater. The pastors frequently wore jeans; at least one or two people on the platform were heavily tattooed or pierced or wore skinny jeans (We are looking at you Jay.)!

But in our new city our new search was coming up empty with the type of churches we had been fond of; the smaller community churches lacked a dedicated teaching hour (small groups are wonderful, but we wanted this in addition to an instruction time each week) and most did not have youth classes.

So we set out visiting more churches, and none seemed like it.
Then we went to a very local (less than a mile) small-ish (by my First Baptist standards, larger by hubby’s rural Baptist standards) Southern Baptist Church. And the first people we met were Sunday School teachers for a class “that looked just about our age.” (Brownie points to them that the class age is early 30s!)

I started praying fast, “Lord, please anywhere but a Southern Baptist church!”

 

They invited us to Sunday school; random people said hello and remembered our name the next time we went back. The minister of music asked if anyone in the family liked to sing. There were Sunday school classes for youth. The preacher was Gospel centered and knowledgeable.

We talked about it as a family; we prayed about it. Even baby girl approved (“I don’t hate it every minute I’m there.”)

We all knew this was where the Lord was leading us. The only problem?
 
I didn’t want to go.
I would miss me jeans and t-shirts on Sunday mornings; these ultra-conservatives would not be a place where I would find friendships; they don’t let women be pastors; I don’t agree with some of what they as a convention believe.

I. I. I. I. I. I.    

             

I would be the odd man out in a pretty conservative place. And I am opinionated and out-spoken. And my hubby would never get elected deacon because I won’t sit quietly by.

I.I.I.I.I.I. i. i. i.

I must decrease. I must decrease.
So to the Baptist church we went, and joined, and are becoming involved.

And what I've learned so far is a reminder that God works out every detail for what we need:  

1.       If you miss blue jeans and flip-flops (or dress suits and hats), wear them to church anyway. While I’m usually more casually dressed than most, I don’t think ANYONE notices! As long as you’re not dressing to get a reaction, you probably won’t.

2.       So in a group of very conservative looking women, there are probably more diverse opinions   that you realize. Some I am in agreement with; some we have agreed to disagree. (I come off looking really bad on this point. I was very judgey!) And I have found some ladies who are challenging me, growing with me, laughing with me, and some who want to have a Bible Study field trip to the tattoo shop!

3.       Seek to change/explore/grow only the things God leads you to, only those things that matter to Him.
Our little church isn’t very diverse, not in any category that I can find. But I have discovered that others want to see the body of Christ grow and join with others who differ. We may have different ideas about what that means (joint services, outreach programs, partnerships with other churches), but the Lord is working His plan out.  By the way, our church got a little more diverse when we joined. I think I am the only heavily tattooed, feminist, Democrat on the roll books.
And there is a hunger, especially among the women, for local mission and ministry involvement.

4.       Don’t be impatient and be open.  I wanted a church that already had a soup kitchen so I could go help once a month. That didn’t happen. So I’m waiting and learning and growing.
 
5.       Don’t be afraid to talk to people and ask where you can plug in. I asked the pastor for a meeting because I wanted to share with him what we had gained by joining the church and some areas I felt led to help. I didn’t hand him a laundry list of things I wanted in the church; I just asked where there areas that I could be useful? Were there areas that were dealing with some of the needs on my heart?  I came away from that meeting more encouraged than I had been in a while.  (I also may have told him that I thought my husband was most sexy during Sunday school?? 90% sure I changed the word to attractive, but still.)

6.       The Lord will surprise you and comfort you even if you were worried He was wrong.
 Over the last year, our family has been studying and incorporating Biblical feasts and traditions into or in lieu of more traditional holidays. Advent was the first one, and we dove head first, loving the quiet reflection and celebration. I was speechless when I walked in the sanctuary the first Sunday of advent, and there it was an advent wreath pictured on the screen. The word advent in the bulletin. The preacher gave the congregation advent gifts. The Lord isn’t wrong; He will remind you of how wonderful His plan is, if you are obedient. Even if you are secretly hoping it doesn’t turn out. (And because God has a sense of humor; I know ALMOST EVERY SINGLE song that has been played in church. 20 years in the Baptist church as a kid and a really good memory. So I’m even good with the music.)

7.       And being the weird one isn’t bad at all. A Sunday school friend has actually said. “Oh my gosh every time you speak you confirm your weirdness.” And I’m buying us a STAY WEIRD t-shirt so we can be twins.

I will be wearing mine on Sunday morning with jeans and flip flops

 

 

When it is cancer....

5 PM. My mom's voice was tear-stained, broken.

I sat down in my den, and tears began to fall.

Baby girl sat quietly on the couch.

There weren't any real details, yet. Just that the biopsy showed cancer.

CANCER.

Lord, why?

We had been through this almost 15 years ago with my dad. And then his heart ten years ago.

Not again.

Not my mom. She is one of the genuinely good people.

I hung up, wanting to see her, to touch her face.

Tears flowing and sat in front of baby girl.

Her beautiful face still, stoic.

And I remembered all my years of keeping my emotions in. Swallowing hard, afraid that I would be seen as weak. 25 years later the same type of little girl sat in front of me. Inside her heart breaking for her Nana.

"I know you aren't a hugger, but since no one else is here and your mom could use a hug, would you?"

We crumbled into one another, her strong arms around my neck.

That night my husband prayed over us; he asked the Lord to heal my mom, if that is His will.
My eyes opened, and I knew that wasn't a prayer I could pray. I wanted her healed, regardless. I couldn't truly ask for His will to be done unless it was the will I wanted.

So I borrowed a line from Corrie ten boom, "Lord, please listen to him because I can't pray that right now." And I didn't. I couldn't pray anything but make her well, make her well over and over again.

People have long said that the marriage bed is the most intimate of places, where two become one. Never more true than that night, not because of laughter or lovemaking but because long after the lights were out there were fresh tears and a wail from deep inside, flood gates I couldn't dam. And there in the dark of night, his arms found their way around me and my head to his chest. My hurt revealed, broken hearted. Knowing my husband would take the pain from me if he could.

All I could tell him was that my mom was the last person who believed there was good in me, when no one else did. What would I be without her?

                                                       ********************

Sometimes your community proves to be different from what you would have thought.

My old college buddy and his computer friends raised their glasses to my mom on their payday night out; my acupuncturist asked for her name, so she could call on it in prayer. My now friend, a college roommate's kid sister, stopping what she was doing to pray right then and overnighting me a bottle of sacred frankincense oil that I could take to my mom. A friend in South America, her own plate full with a foreign language, a foreign church, her own family, praying. My gorgeous, world-travelling neurologist friend (who by the way, just discovered she had cellulite. I told her that was only fair. If she was going to be a gorgeous, jet-setting doctor, she needed a flaw) Church members, friends, and family sending texts, messages of encouragement. Love notes from my mother-in-law. My brother-in-law offering an appointment with a specialist at his hospital. My beautiful friend with all the tattoos and the loving soul who asked how I was and told me it was OK to cry as long as I wanted, that it was my momma.

In those moments I knew what my mom's greatest gift is, that she always believes there is good in people and goes above-and-beyond to find it. Not in a naïve or Pollyanna way, but because she knows there is some part of everyone that Jesus loves. She would have seen it in all my friends long before I did. And she knows that Jesus commands us to love them too.

My mom does this with ease and grace.

And seeing my friends' hurt for me and lift my mom up in prayer reminded me that we all  try to do the same, to love one another, to pray without ceasing.

Just too often in the day-to-day we forget that there is Jesus in everyone of us.

And it can take tragedy to make us slow down and see it in each other, our friends, and ourselves if we look.

I got up from the bed only because the days continued. We were almost out of toilet paper; baby girl still had school. People needed to eat. And so we went about the business of life, without living at all for a few days.

And then.

And then Friday night I saw her; her face the same. Her spirit strong, if not a bit subdued.
My strong daddy, who only said this is so much harder than having cancer yourself.

And I hugged her neck and touched her face.  And told her and Dad I would be with them every step of the way.

So when it is cancer, it is a long road.

But not one we are facing alone.

Thank you to everyone who has prayed and wept and loved on us all.

Thank you.

Thursday

Text to husband: "We are home. FINALLY. I'm lying on the bed having a hot flash. Baby girl crying. One comment away from being grounded. Sent her to bed. It is 4:30. Please bring home $5 pizza and garlic sauce."

Anyone else have these days?

Hearing God.....

Sometimes you hear God sitting across from an old friend who is wearing bright lipstick and smoking on an e-cig. Sometimes.



I've always wanted a God of flashing neon signs; one whose will and direction are laid out in simple steps so there is no confusion as to which way to go. My husband reminds me Moses had this and still screwed up royally.

So maybe I would ignore neon signs too?

Trying to walk closer to God is hard sometimes; my mind wanders. The old me is familiar and comfortable in her stagnant state.

Growing in God requires hearing His voice, and I wasn't sure how to discern it. It was a perfect loophole.


Until God became obvious.


I was praying one night about a family issue, not earth-shattering but important. Clearly the words: ask her formed in my mind and then there was the Facebook photo of an old acquaintance in my head. I knew God was wrong. I barely knew her 15 years ago, and only saw the occasional glimpse of her life via social media.

ASK HER.

And there it was.

I composed a private Facebook message:

"Hey, great to see pictures of you and your family on here! Hope you are doing well. By the way I was praying on an issue, and the Lord mentioned I might ask you. Can I pick your brain?"

She responded. Asked me the issue, gave me her number.

Turns out what I was dealing with was something close to her heart; she offered some wise counsel and gave some great ideas and really helped.

I told her that it always amazed me that God knows what He is doing.


                                                                       And He does.


There was His voice. The pictures, the quiet words.

There went my loophole.



And then we moved: a new town, a new company for the husband, a new school for baby girl and 8 weeks in a hotel. 8 weeks!

But something wasn't right with my job search. I couldn't find one that I wanted, the one that wanted me. I've been wrestling with God and my work and my identity for years.

Did He really want me to not work at all? Not work outside the home? 

And then an old friend and I reconnected; she had a project near my new home that she could use some help with. Nothing much came of it; one of those sure-we-will-talk-about-it-one-day kind of thing.

Then I got the message, "Just found out spouses aren't covered on the new insurance plan. Calling corporate to find out."

I scrambled; I knew depending on someone else wasn't a good fit for me. I needed to provide.

I picked up the phone to text my friend with the opportunity. And I heard the words in my mind.

Leave it alone. I have this.

I heard it. Saw the letters in white in my mind.
And I picked up the phone and dialed anyway.


15 minutes after I agreed to go to work; my husband sent me a text:                 

                     "Info was wrong. All three of us have insurance."


Thankfully, God isn't the I-told-you-so kind.

I knew after day one of work that it was a mistake; I told my husband and my mom but thought it would get better, that I would ride it out.

But it never eased up, that gnawing feeling that I knew I was wrong.

I had not trusted God and tried to solve the problem on my own.

So I told my friend I needed to talk to her and told her I couldn't stay, and when she asked why I told her the truth. The whole truth; the God told me in a voice I heard truth.

And though our spiritual beliefs differ greatly. Her response was simply, "I understand and respect your decision."

And that was how it works. Doing what God leads us to do works out in the end.


But I still wondered why I was afraid to listen, to trust, why in those weeks back in my old shoes had so many bad habits popped back up?

Was I really changed?

I was picking up my last paycheck, casual in shorts, with the dog (fresh from the groomer's and wearing a neckerchief) on my lap. And she said, "What did you do with the old you? Do you ever let her out or feed her?"


And then sometimes you hear God sitting across from an old friend who is wearing bright lipstick and smoking on an e-cig.



Sometimes.

Why I like my family (or a closer look at the 3 of us, TMI, and overuse of words that you may not want to read)

Last night, I was lying in the bed, playing on the internet when my daughter needed some ointment. I told her it was on the top bathroom drawer and off she went.

“I’m going to call out what they are used for to make sure I get the right one.” She is 11 and smart enough that she purposely bombs the beginning-of-school-year reading tests so she can “read easy books all year.” She is also yelling this, though we are only 5 feet apart. The dog went beneath the covers at this point.

“Dry eyes. Minor cuts, scrapes, and burns (This was obviously the one she needed, which she knew.). Minor gum and mouth irritation. FUNGUS IN YOUR VAGINA.” She cackles. I wonder how long she waited for a cut, so she could need ointment, so she could “make sure she got the right one,” so she could yell FUNGUS IN YOUR VAGINA as loud as she could across the house. My husband laughed with her, and I muttered  “Fungus. In your vagina, really” enough times that I sounded slightly demented.

And it hit me. AGAIN. I am not raising a demure, soft-spoken daughter. I am not a demure, soft-spoken woman. And my husband thinks we are both wildly fantastic, though somewhat inappropriate. We are just normal God-fearing, Jesus-loving people: our own normal.

Everyday I’m faced with pictures of what a Christian wife and mother should look like, the activities we should do and not do as a family, how my husband should lead, that I should support every idea he has, even the bad ones. I fall short of most lists, some lists I never even make. And it worried me, a lot. I’ve struggled with my identity as a Christian woman (see entry: On Being Tattooed and Christian); I’ve felt like we should be the genteel ones who break out into praise and worship songs and never deviate from KLOVE on the radio.

And last night. Last night when my child was yelling out FUNGUS IN YOUR VAGINA, I knew that I really like my family. Just the way it is. And here is my list of reasons why.

1.       When my child is generally being difficult because she is 11; I tell her that she is acting like a butthole. It is my favorite word; it encompasses so much: snotty attitude, short temper, disobeying, being unappreciative. It is the only word I need, and while I use it frequently in correction, it has applied to every member of my family at one point or time.

2.       My husband and child laugh ridiculously when the other one burps or farts. (Please note that I am excluded from this. It is a well-known fact in our house that I have no bodily functions that might be deemed “gross” by others. It is true. Accept it.)  It is as if they have never heard it before; it will bring an amazed and wondrous look to their faces. More than once they have laughed so hard there were tears. Frequently, there are snorts.

3.       We all laugh so hard that we snort. ALL OF US. Then we laugh harder because someone snorted. We once fell in love, as a family, with another family we were having dinner with: the couple’s baby laughed until he snorted, then the couple laughed. Then we laughed. And then someone snorted. Repeat.

4.       We are all OK with being in the same place, but not being together. We are independent, and that is wonderful.

5.       There are also nights that we all end up on our bed at 6:15 and spend the rest of the night in close quarters. Sometimes, we interact. Sometimes, we don’t.

6.       My husband and child gang up on me. They make fun of the way my pinky is always raised when I am eating or drinking, the sound I make when I think food is really good. Just last week on our way back from Disney, I half opened my eyes to see my own reflection, asleep, inches from my face. I slapped away the iPhone, bolted up quick, locking the seat belt simultaneously choking me and ripping off my right breast, shouted, and then sat quietly praying I would not die from the heart that was beating 337 times a minute in my chest. I thought my husband was going to drive off the road. Baby girl was in the back, doubled over, snorting and unable to breathe, sputtering, “I was recording your snoring. (Please see above; no gross bodily functions, so this was obviously like trying to video Sasquatch.)” “You let her do that???” Before he could answer,  SHE says, “Let me? He told me to!” Buttholes, both of them. (See it works in any situation.)

7.       I like that we talk for the dog. Not just the occasional word. He has real conversations and a back story. He is somewhat neurotic, afraid that other dogs will make fun of him for wearing a t-shirt or sweater, worried that other dogs are out to get him because he is so handsome (and because his tweeter is so big; don’t fret he never mentions that in front of baby girl because she is his mother and that would be weird). When it is just my husband and me, the dog has a potty mouth and is obsessed with both losing his virginity and the fact that he only has one testicle and that it never descended. Did I mention he swears? Because it is funny. I once told someone this, and she said nothing about that was normal. I checked with my therapist; his response, “We do the same thing for Sugar. She’s a total tramp.”

8.       When we go out to eat someone told us that we either look like a social worker taking a client and her daughter out for a meal or a father and daughter taking out a homeless person. This was a friend; she also snorts when she laughs. But it is true. I haven’t dressed up since our wedding (see entry: On wearing the pants in the family); nothing excites me more than wearing one of my favorite (read: worn and possibly with holes) t-shirts. My husband looks like a slightly more casual version of Alex P. Keaton at all times. Baby girl usually tends toward homeless chic, but occasionally out come the Bath and Body Works lotions, soaps, and glitter along with strappy sandals and a really cool top. He is never embarrassed that I am underdressed for most every occasion. We let baby girl look show she wants as long as her body is covered. I am never concerned that he wears trousers and dress shoes to the tattoo parlor. I just have to tell them that he is not the state health inspector.

9.       As a family, we aren’t really mushy, but we are all each other’s people. We occasionally slap at each other as a sign of affection or thumb wrestle. More than once, baby girl will lie beside me and put her feet in my face and tell me to see how bad her feet stink. I tell my husband my favorite thing to do when I wake up in the middle of the night is to look at his hairy back. This is our love language. But if baby girl wakes up and husband is not home. She immediately asks where he is. She won’t randomly hug him or tell him that he is a great stepdad (She won’t randomly hug me or tell me I am great either.), but he is her people, and it is important that she know where her people are.

10.   My daughter is not my best friend. She is not my friend at all. I can’t tell you how many moms are saddened when they hear me say this. But my daughter has repeated my standard phrase since she was a preschooler, “My mom is not my friend or my playmate. She is my mom.”  I have some friends. Baby girl has some friends. She has ONE mother, and I don’t need to waste mothering time trying to befriend her.

11.   We don’t agree on a lot. Actually, we don’t agree on most things. We all think we are equally right, and that the other is wrong. And that makes for great discussion and lots of free thinking. Baby girl knows I supported Obama and that the husband supported Romney; she asked why and listened to each of our thoughts. I am vehemently pro-choice, and I tell people why a lot (see entry: From post-abortive women: How the pro-life movement can really help); he has his own thoughts. He has a strong view on health reform and consumer responsibility; I think health care should be a basic right. We have never changed the other’s opinion; we haven’t really tried. And the girl knows that you can love others who don’t think like you and that she can choose to think however she wants.

12.   We are diverse in our interests. How many families frequently watch documentaries on homebirth, an MIT lecture on black holes, WWII documentaries, the story if the female Pope, and NEVER miss professional wrestling on Monday nights? Yep. Though my husband did ask that I let everyone know that he and I both have Master’s degrees if I tell them we are professional wrestling fans.

13.   Finally, we are all sinners, saved by grace. Someone recently told me that he had a moral code, and it really upset him when people didn’t live up to his strict standards. I asked him how since we are all equally a sniveling, rotten mess, worthy of nothing but eternal damnation. He meant that he was basically a good, honest person, and that when people lied and weren’t honest it went against his moral code. Yeah, I didn’t try to convince him differently either. But this three member family of mine is nothing but a mess. We have flaws and bad habits and all kinds of things. But we all know that we are imperfect, that NO SIN is better or worse than any other sin, and that as people go we all suck the same to God. Fortunately, we are all also worth saving. And we really try to improve and grow. And God helps us. Every day we get a fresh start with Him and each other.

 

We will likely never be the family that the Duggars see in the mirror, but in truth we don’t see them the way they probably see themselves. So while I love to hear read about and see those families I thought were “ideal;” I will just enjoy them because they are normal too. Just like no one knows the inner hearts of my little band of misfits. But we are all equally wonderfully made and horribly sinful no matter our choice of dress, length of skirts, family size, or worship style.

And don’t get me wrong; my family is far from perfect. We all 4 (the dog gets an active vote) equally get on each other’s nerves. And there is a long list of why I don’t like my family and they probably don’t like me either. But I’m not sharing that or even adding to it anymore. I think we do too much of that: comparing, finding fault with ourselves, how we measure up.

So today, go right now, and sit down. MAKE A LIST OF WHY YOU LOVE THE PEOPLE YOU CHOSE to spend your life with. And let them see it. And then tell the world. Because Jesus said to Love Him and each other and that includes ourselves.

On wearing the pants in the family....

I come from a long line of strong women.

My great-grandfather left everything to my great-grandmother in his will. Unless she killed him. He felt the need to put that on paper, along with the make, model and serial number of her pistol.

My grandmother was a single, working mom to seven children.

My mother was once bitten by a dog. She bit him back.

So it should come as no surprise that I came into the world fiercely stubborn and independent: a mini-feminist, even in kindergarten, as I complained that girls were underrepresented and miserable in the world of the Letter People. I was a tomboy in Chuck Taylors, playing ball in the neighborhood vacant lot by age nine. By seventeen I was a card carrying NOW member who wore t-shorts that read, "People call me a feminist when I do anything that might distinguish me from a doormat."

I'm not sure how, but my parents, in their more traditional gender roles, never discouraged me.
Nor did they ever take up drinking.

By my mid-thirties I had a career, a beautiful daughter, a full-time graduate school load, and a really neat guy that wanted me to be his wife.

But I didn't really want to marry my husband.

It wasn't him, but the wedding. The dress and the flowers and the people staring at us when we made a vow and shared a kiss, something sacred and private.

But he really wanted a wedding, so did his family, and some of mine.

Everyone else I could have told no, but HE, he really wanted it all.

So we planned it. Sort of. 

There were podium rentals, and music selections. A 19 page wedding contract with the Church.

On more than one occasion I defended our decision not to have a unity candle with the same emotion and defiance only seen in SEC rivalries.

And though I'm not positive, I've been told that our marriage might not be legal because I don't have a bridal portrait of me staring into a mirror. That and I abhor flower girls.

About three weeks before the wedding I found myself cross-legged in the middle of a bed in one my parents' guest rooms, telling all within ear shot that I didn't like anyone at all anymore unless I gave birth to her. Oh, and that I was not getting married.

He didn't ask if he could come in, just kneeled down next to the bed, and said. "We don't have to have a wedding. We can get on a plane and fly to Vegas today or drive to Alabama. We don't even have to get married at all. Just agree that we will spend every moment together. That is all I need."

And he meant it. No cake. No tuxes. No ceremony.  All I had to do was say the word and it wouldn't have to be. It was up to me.

After that, he sat everyone down and told them that I agreed to the wedding, provided NO ONE spoke to me about it, asked me any questions, or addressed me in any way. (I've since learned that I was not the only middle-aged, professional woman bride to have an absolute meltdown. Solidarity sisters. Weddings aren't for the weak.) Any question would go through him, and whatever I decided would be acceptable. Period.

There were tears and nods, hugs and forgiveness. It was, after all, people who loved us.
There would not be Christmas decorations, carols, or the freaking unity candle. But there was a dress and song and a ceremony.

And in the end, we were married.

We don't talk about weddings much; I'm secretly hoping that if baby girl ever marries, she'll elope. He wants to walk her down an aisle.

She says that it won't happen either way because she is NEVER getting married.

She is confident in this, so sure of herself. She doesn't need anyone, but her. After all, she comes from a line of strong women.

And the strong men who love them.

Tween girls are not for the faint of heart

Raising tween girls is hard.

Hard.

Like grainy black and white photographs showing anguish and despair will memorialize it in the history books one day.

(Moms of teen girls, please don't tell me it gets harder. I don't have the intestinal fortitude to face it, yet. Moms of tween boys, I'm ignoring you. I am sure it is difficult, but I have to teach someone how to shave her legs, use a maxi pad, tweeze her eyebrows! I win; please tell me I win.)

Today was one of those days, not mine, but a friend's: her girl had shown out and suffered the consequences. My girl was the witness; the mom swearing my baby girl had no part in it; but even then....I was with my fellow mom.

The frustration. The fight. The fatigue.

Oh the fatigue.
Raising tween girls isn't for the weak. It is late nights, hours of hair straightening that end in a huff because "you (mom) can't do it right." Cheer competitions, volleyball practice, history projects. It is the Friday night when the sleepover friend cancels. And that is just two days.

Tween girls out-pace us; they have youth and hormones on their side fueling them at a frenzied pace. Us moms trailing behind. Grateful to just be able to sit down.

The frustration.

I knew baby girl's look, the "I-wonder-why-the Lord-made-you-so-stupid" look; I had seen it before. I had worn it before. We were taking selfies; it was supposed to be fun. Silly. It turned ugly quick, just as she clicked the picture. And I saw that look. Immortalized on my phone. I then saw my own face. The middle-aged version of her look, the "you-utter-one-more-word-and-you-will-get-to-ask-the-Lord-in-person" look staring back at me. I sent it to my mom. She laughed at me. I know she did.

Later, it is the creaking door after she's stormed off, peering out and then walking over to the couch and sprawling out, her feet in my lap. The I-don't-like-you-but-I-need-to-know-you-still-love-me test, so I rub her feet. The silence softer now.

The fight.

She is strong willed, that girl of mine. Quick witted.

(Everyone who knows me is smiling. The story of almost getting kicked out of kindergarten because I made such a fuss that there were only 5 girl letter people still makes the rounds.)

Strong willed. As my husband says, "An apple tree can only grow apples."

I have seen here work at a tumbling pass until she gets it. Tired, bruised, sweaty. Victorious.
She has long done her own projects: drawing her own reading fair illustrations, cutting her science fair pictures, a plan formed in her brain, flowing through her hands, wanting no help from anyone.

It is a National Geographic moment when we square off: the young lion jockeying around the alpha, wanting to take the throne.

But there is only one Queen Bee, and I am it. Even in defeat, her learning how to be a grown-up, that lesson best taught by those who love her.

I once asked my mom how old I was before she knew that we would both survive my growing up. She didn't miss a beat, "27."

Twenty-seven.

I almost panic in those moments because I am old and tired, and I long to lie on the couch watching SVU and reading blogs. I have told my husband that we won't make it though this parenting gig. Someone will discover our withered remains huddled together in a corner, like relics from Pompeii.
Occasionally I have thought we should put all the tweens on some abandoned Survivor island and let them go Lord of the Flies. A pick-up scheduled for the week after their 28th birthdays, just in case 27 isn't really that magical. My husband tells me this is probably illegal, and that I would be sad without my mini-me. And because he is wise, "Anyway, they would figure out how to get off the island and combined they would take over the world." So blog-reading and SVU will wait for today.


Yesterday, she told me she didn't eat breakfast, then asked me what I had. I told her that her stepdad and I had gone out for doughnuts while she was at practice. She shakes her head, "So this is what it has come to, Mother?"

And in that moment, my cub and I smile at each other. And twenty-seven seems a little too close.
 

And then Jesus

At times I think if I can close my eyes quickly enough; I will miss it: the reel-to-reel replay in my mind.

I never do.

The full feature tumbles through my brain. Colored bits of a lie, an argument. Hazy grays and soundless pictures so that I shake my head to scramble them. And all over again I'm angry, embarrassed, shamed. 

Forgetting is hard, even though our souls bathe clean. Each of us sure that mine is different. Too much, too big, too bad for anyone to fix. And so we inch forward, heavy, like Atlas and his world.

It came one night, and e-mail from my dad. The refrain, simple. "And Jesus....and then Jesus" Nothing so great that those three words can't make them right, nothing too real, too ugly.

I was lost AND THEN JESUS found me. I was hungry AND THEN JESUS fed me. I was a wretch AND THEN JESUS saved me.

And then Jesus..........