Did you hear what I heard?

Just by switching the verb tense, a sweet sensory delight of a Christmas carol can be turned into a reflection of gossip. At best, it's a reflection of reputation. Separating out talking about someone as part of their reputation as opposed to gossip can be a little tricky and often needs clearly-defined morals and circumstances, both of which can be difficult to ascertain in and of themselves. Still, our reputations are important to us. What people think of us on and off the grapevine really matters. Their judgments of our actions can tip the balance over future opportunities and relationships. This is where real life gets a little hinky, because if you haven't figured out how true this little cliche is yet, you are about to: appearances can be deceiving.






***Reader warning--subject matter to follow may not be appropriate for all readers***






For instance, there was a night I went over to Bob's house to watch a movie. Bob and I have both agreed that we will not have sex until our wedding night, an expected but not-often followed idea in our society. We want to follow God's will for sexual relationships. My reputation is also included in this--many people know I am still a virgin, and I want to have that reputation intact on my wedding day. While we are physically affectionate, even to an extent in public, there are very clear lines drawn that the two of us do not cross.

So on this movie night, I plop down on his living room floor (more comfy than the two-seater couch by a long shot) and curl up under a blanket with a pillow to watch the film. He joins me, keeping some distance but still cuddling around my blanket cocoon. It's been a long week for both of us--his job is extremely physically taxing while my three jobs wear me out mentally and emotionally. We're well-fed, warm, and tired. Guess what happens? That's right--we fall asleep. I wake up disoriented, still wrapped securely in my blankets just a few inches away from Bob. I look at the clock. It's after midnight. As it takes about 45 minutes for me to get home, this is a VERY late date for me and we both have work in the morning. I stumble around, waking him with a quick kiss goodbye before grabbing my things and walking out into the brisk night air. As I slowly descend the porch steps, I see the neighbors across the street noticing my presence. My face burns with heat. I know what this must look like. A brief glimpse in the bathroom mirror had showed my rumpled clothes, smeared make-up, and destroyed hairdo. I look like the poster child for the Walk of Shame calendar.

Did Bob and I do anything wrong? In my mind, no. We didn't mean to fall asleep together. We definitely didn't fool around. My appearance, combined with the late hour, gave an impression that probably tarnished, if not ruined, my reputation with that neighbor (and whomever they tell). The question is, then, whose responsibility is it if others start hearing--and believing--that I'm not as chaste as I say I am?

Personally, I believe it's 50/50, even though in reality that's hardly the case. While I do have the responsibility to set an alarm on my phone, tend to my appearance before I leave Bob's house, and try to make sure we don't end up in situations (such as cuddling platonically on the floor) that could be potentially damaging to our reputations, I think the neighbors also have the responsibility to check out the situation before spreading the word. We have all lived through experiences where we made assumptions about people that ended up being dramatically--and sometimes painfully--wrong.

In our society, though, we do make assumptions about people every day--and those who see me from afar should get the same kind of image (though not as sharp--my closest friends will see pieces of my personality that strangers wouldn't) as those I am close to. My leaving Bob's house in such a disheveled state at a very late hour was the mistake. I need to be more responsible about leaving at an appropriate time, or picking different locations for our "together time," such as public places in town or watching movies at his mother's house. ((Granted, I know there are couples who do a lot in a parent's home, but I'm personally weirded out by even peck kisses in front of Bob's mom. I'm a little more affectionate in my parent's home, but still...there are extreme limits to what I will do in those places out of respect for my parents and my heebie-jeebies.))

After all, it's not just my reputation that's at stake here, but also my witness. That's really not something to mess around with.

I do

Silken petals spilling over my hand
Jewel-encrusted metal peeking out beneath
With a deep breath for strength
I take one step forward
Into a new life
With you.

The drama of
Planning, anticipating, accommodating
The weariness of
Writing checks and checking lists
The nervousness of
A young bride and her devoted groom
Is all put to rest
In one moment.

I do.

I do promise to love you,
Even when
Your shirts are left on the kitchen floor
The open peanut butter jar has a fly in it
The horror movie you love gave me nightmares
The checkbook is nearly empty
And all of the chocolate is gone.

I do promise to show my love for you,
Even when
My fibro flares and I don't want to be touched
I bring my work troubles home with me
I don't feel like it
My emotions are out of control
And all of the chocolate is gone.

I do swear I won't leave you
Even when
The roof springs a leak
The toilet backs up
The cars are both out of gas
My overactive fears urge me to run away
And all of the chocolate is gone.

I do promise to forgive you
Even when
You forget to say "excuse me"
The bathroom is a mess
I'm the only one eating leftovers
You forget I don't like mushrooms
And all of the chocolate is gone.

I do promise to ask for your forgiveness
Even when
I ask too much of you, really
I forget your promises
Dinner is burned/undercooked/cold (because I can cook if it's not for you)
I impulsively buy things I shouldn't
And I blame you for all the chocolate being gone.

And when we face trials
Our pasts come to haunt us
Wintery depression settles in
Health fades into pain
Loved ones pass away
Jobs end and new ones escape us
Friends betray or just forget to care
Our children, or lack of them, ravage our hearts
We forget, for a moment, how to love each other
AND ALL OF THE CHOCOLATE IS GONE...

I will still love you
I will still need you
I will still be here for you
I will still give myself to you
I will still belong to you

I promise you this.

I do.

Priorities

I should be grading ceremonial speeches right now so I can hand them back to my students. I should be not eating Tollhouse milk chocolate chips out of a Jiff reduced fat peanut butter jar so I can fit into my wedding dress at my fitting Friday. I should be saving my money instead of investing in some special-request items my fiancee mentioned wanting. I should be...I should not be... Ugh. Conditional modals really stink.

For the greater part of the last nine months, my world has revolved around my jobs, family, and a blossoming relationship with the man of my dreams. I've been working long hours, losing and desperately seeking jobs, planning a wedding, helping my church,...and letting other things slide. While it's probably understandable, and even acceptable, to adjust priorities in the rush of life, I've felt like a piece of me has been missing for a long time--actually, make that a few pieces.

Last year I was on fire. On fire for God as I gained the courage to join a new church for the first time in five years. On fire for female bonding as I found a fantastic group of ladies in a Bible study who, time and time again, have loved on me, listened to me, encouraged me, prayed for me, and put up with my insanity. :) On fire for writing as I finished a novel, went to a national conference, and even had several publishers and an agent give me the nod to submit. It's this last one that's killing me--I let those opportunities slide.

Granted, there were valid reasons why I put off the novel submission. I had realized several stylistic and thematic holes that needed fixing. I knew, as an unpublished author, I needed a fantastic draft to really help me get into the publishing world. So I decided to take the 6-8 weeks offered and work on my book. Problem was, I was working three jobs (teaching 3 classes at one college, 2 at another, and also working part-time in financial aid) and dating a man who consumed nearly every thought I had. It became easier to fall under the stress of the workload and the bumps of a new relationship with every day...and my novel began gathering dust.

Then I decided to break myself out of my months-long dry spell and submit the novel's first few chapters to a national competition. I felt so confident as I sent off my newly-revised baby off to the judges--the style was new and fresh, every mistake had been corrected, and I had managed to weave in more details to really attract a reader. A month later I was emailed back and told, nicely, that the judges didn't really care for my work. Most of them missed the point of my unusual opener and misunderstood what I was trying to do. Some nitpicked (understandably) at details that, to them, were unrealistic when they were actually autobiographical and completely valid and true (I guess truth is too strange to be fiction some days). Feeling as though I had failed, I again shelved the book. I told people I would just work on a more "standard-format" novel in the meantime, that I hadn't given up. Truth is, I gave up a long time ago. When you're facing multiple jobs, financial stress, a looming wedding where I can't seem to make anyone happy, relationship maintenance, and the thousands of changes that occur when you promise to completely change your life...writing just seemed to be a waste of time.

I suppose what hurts the most is that while I miss writing and the passion I had for a creation that was mine and God's alone, I don't really want to do it anymore. Keeping up with blogs, the research...all those things I loved to do just pale in comparison to setting up house and trying to make my future marriage as strong as it can be. Maybe my priorities have shifted. Maybe my passion for writing was a misguided obsession. Maybe I should just not even mourn the loss of a not-really-there skill and just move on with my life. There are more important things than a woman sitting alone at a computer, trying to breathe life into a flat character. Like cleaning the mouse poop out of my kitchen drawers. Like encouraging my fiancee to be creative and explore his passions for the first time in his life. Like making sure I can help put bread on the table and heat in the house. Like finally putting myself in the precarious position as a witness for Christ and daring to reach others.

Right?

A Stronger "Thank You."

Every day I go swimming
Pools of salt water that start a deep jade
You point out the flecks of brown and blue
Then the pools shimmer, spill over
Into translucent drops
Picking up smeared colors
As they drain.

Yet like the bottomless pit
The pools never stop refilling
For each day we dive in again
And watch ourselves drown

"It wasn't like this before"
You say.
"I don't understand why."
I say.
"It'll get better in time."
We say.

But it hasn't yet.

There are many reasons why the pools can't
Just stay intact, whole, sparked instead of soaked
We can come up with so many
Like life in general;
Like pressures of techtonic plates
Shifting us into new worlds, new lives,
Letting the magma beneath rumble to the surface;
Like something mysteriously gender-specific;
Like the weather.

The one credit of nearly drowning every day
Is that you appreciate what moments of life surround death;
You holding my hand
You trying to absorb the pain
You daring to change my direction
You encouraging, reassuring, giving me courage to fight
You attempting, daily, to save me.
You never running away to save yourself.

The English language needs a stronger sentiment than
"Thank you."

Whispers in the Moonlight

Opals spill from Heaven in wavery lines
The reflection of the Sun reflects on your cheeks
Sparkles of silver, blue, green, and possibly purple underline
The dimples you declare don't exist
The soft lines declaring your sense of humor
The sweet lips that curve in warm greeting

And I melt

If this was an oceanside beach I'd hear the tumbling of white-foam waves
Opals scattered among broken shells and starfish searching for their mates

If this was a forest I'd hear treefrogs singing sweet soprano notes
As they declare the warm night perfect for yet another sonata

If this was a balcony on a tall city skyscraper I'd hear the calls of so many
Cars as they say hello, goodbye, and I hope to never see you again.

But this is just a simple lake, a simple country, a simple September date
A simple girl, a simple guy, and a simple thought in each head

So as your hair shines a deep ruby in the moonlight
And your face glows in the coolness of a sweet summer night
I will remember this night I began to fall in love with you

And melt.

A Proposal to Remember...

It's been a bit of a joke that my fiancee and I have been doing things a little backwards. We were never officially engaged and yet set a wedding date, put a deposit on the photographer, and bought wedding rings. He mentioned long ago that he was planning on proposing on Christmas Eve, and although I knew it was coming, it still seemed like a distant dream, something that could be taken away. Yes, we were getting married...weren't we? We were in love...and we were sure we would make it, right?

The days before Christmas counted down slowly and my anticipation grew higher. He was planning on staying with my family for a few days during a snowstorm over the holidays, and I didn't see him grab the ring from its hiding place. I fell into the temptation and asked if he forgot something...and immediately hated myself for it. I mean, where is all the romance if I have to prompt it? I decided from then on, no matter what, I'd let him forget or remember, whatever would be would be, and I could just cry myself to sleep later.

So Christmas Eve stretches on. We're practically stranded in my parents' home, and he doesn't seem to be doing much besides playing computer games and watching tv. There's no sign of any romantic plan being hatched. No candles, no whispered plans with my parents, nothing. I've pretty much just given up on this whole thing and am keeping my disappointment to myself. So what if this is a moment I will only have once in my life, a moment that should have been planned and executed with all the romantic flair I dreamed about for over two decades?

I'm in the kitchen trying to find something to fix his attack of the munchies. He spots a bag of TGI Friday's Cheddar and Bacon Tato Skins over my shoulder and votes for those. I like them, too, so I grab an extra bag, cut it open, and join him on the couch. After a few minutes, the remnants of his bag are demolished and he nudges me.

"Tamara, will you share your chips with me?"

"Yeah." I hand over the bag.

"Tamara? Will you share something else with me?"

I raise my head, prepared to scoot over and grab my water bottle for him. As I look up, he pulls a familiar white leather box out of his pocket.

"Will you share your life with me?"

It's sweet, completely unlike how I had ever pictured it, and built around a bit of a pun (and kind of corny, too). I start crying.

"I love you, Tamara, with all my heart, and soul, and mind...hey, that's a song!"

Tears start rolling down my cheeks. He's distracted by a musical reference in the middle of his proposal. It's so like him. And I love him. More than I could ever imagine loving a man who thrills me, drives me crazy, and is completely devoted to me in all the ways that count.

Jerry reaches for my promise ring and begins tugging at it to replace it with my stunning diamond engagement ring. He tugs while murmuring how much he loves me, then looks at my hand with furrowed brows.

"Um, this isn't coming off."

I giggle a little and pull off my ring with an expert twist. He replaces it with my diamond and we seal my enthusiastic "Yes!" with a kiss.

Sometimes it's the person, not the plans, that makes it all worthwhile. It wasn't a fairy tale with him on one knee and me holding a dozen roses, but real life is about working with what you have--in this case, a quirky sense of humor and a $1 bag of potato chips from Dollar General. This proposal was unique, not cookie-cutter romance. Romance fades after a while--love, real love, the kind worth marrying over...it lasts forever.

Now, if you will excuse me, I'm going to drag my fiancee's laptop out of his lap and really give him a good kiss for this very special, very lovely Christmas Eve night.

A Disturbance in the Force

I'm finding it incredibly interesting to watch the development of my relationship with my boyfriend. It's a lot more than just an accumulation of facts, observances of behavioral patterns, and a sky-rocketing cell phone bill (oh, thank the Lord for free mobile-to-mobile minutes when you have the same carrier). As we spend more time together, apparently we are getting better at "reading" each other--or as my good friend Amy would say, "discerning a disturbance in the force."

I've been able instinctively understand others at times, usually people I'm really close to, but always with a varying degree of accuracy. I was certain several times that my mother was upset about something, but she was really just tired (that's a hard distinction to make). I'm pretty good at hiding my emotions when I really want to, so it's not too surprising when others miss out on my changing moods. As we get closer, though, my boyfriend is getting uncanny results on reading me.

Last night I was really frustrated with a breakdown in communication with people, and while some of my signals were pretty obvious (being silent and refusing to look at people are pretty big signs that something's seriously wrong--in this case, I was desperatly trying to control both my temper and my tongue), he had sensed my anxiety level rising long before I resorted to physical signs of distress. It wasn't so much reading me but, without even looking at me, knowing that something had changed. A sixth sense. A ripple in an emotional pond where we are both swimming.

I've heard of twins being able to communicate like this, a deep bond keeping them in touch despite miles or even continents separating them. I never thought I would have anything even remotely like that with a boyfriend--after all, we're from different planets and neither gender can make sense of the other, right?

Maybe the magic ingredient that ties two people together so much isn't necessarily a "love connection" or an awareness of Star Wars terms. Maybe it's the Holy Spirit whispering another's needs in our ear--and since we have such a strong emotional bond with that person, we're more receptive/understanding/attentive to the pull at our hearts and minds.

I haven't figured this out yet, but while I'm working on this new puzzling aspect of being part of a couple, I'll enjoy the attention and comfort of knowing he gets me...at least a little, for now. :)

Deserter

From Jan to Dean, upon a very bad night of arguments.
Rough draft #2

We knew the war was looming off in the distance
Under a blood-tinted sunset.
We knew it was inevitable--we would have to fight.
Neither of us are skilled warriors in this kind of battle--
The kind where you fight those who know you
The kind where you can lose more than you could ever gain
The kind where hiding until the rage storm blows over is more desirable than ever.

Afraid and hopeful that there would come a new solution
A way to avoid the war
To escape unscathed
We worked hard behind the lines
Prayed
And kept our silence.

There comes a time, though,
When the enemy senses your position;
Keeping still and silent will not save you from being surrounded
And with anger, they confront your fearful heart.

I stepped out of the shadows and began to fight
Trying for peace all along
But knowing it wouldn't come until after great struggle and pain.
You were not caught as I
And instead of joining me,
You hid.
You left me alone.

Abandoned, I cried for you
I begged you to come
Begged you to let me run to you.
Together, we are stronger--
Or so I thought

You knew my precarious position
The sharp weapons thrust at me
The wounds already etched into my skin.
A dagger pierced through part of my heart.
My will would keep me in strength for only so long.
Still, you ignored my calls,
Licking your own wounds in a cave of your own making
Barring the door to my entry
And leaving me to the mercy of my foes.

Didn't you understand my vulnerability?
Didn't you see that our bond might be broken?
Didn't you care that I might die?

I survived the night
With God and a few brief moments of comfort
From friends who heard and responded to my cry
Despite their own battles, struggles, and needs.
But they were not my partner,
They were not my teammate.
They tried to take your place,
But no one can fill that spot shaped as you.

I needed you wild at heart
Timid, you left me.
My pain increases
My tears course down swollen cheeks
I cry out to God and run to Him
He comforts me
He didn't leave me

You cried out to me, so
I comforted you,
Cheered your shaken spirit
After my words of warning brought the war to your door.
You revived and began business as usual,
But you didn't note my bloody clothes
Dark skin marking my struggle
And still kept me at a distance
Where I could tend you
But I was left to fend for myself.

I understand why you ran
I still hate that you did
I understand why you didn't see my pain
I still hate that you didn't think to care
I understand your wounds
I still hate that you dismissed mine

Forgiveness will come
But the trust is cracked

The war will not end tomorrow
But before I again engage the enemy
I need to know--
Should I surrender now, let you be alone and accept my fate;
Or will you come rescue me
Fight beside me
And be who I need you to be:
Someone who pursues God's will,
Puts me first (as I do you),
And lets promises be kept
Even in the face of foul fear?

If you want us to continue
If you want me, at all...

Don't leave me again.

Choosing Sides

A few months I went to a high school basketball tournament at a local school. I followed my fiancee into his alma matter, looking around anxiously for people I might recognize from my own old high school. Our pasts were playing against each other tonight in two games--first girls, then boys. I didn't see anyone I either wanted to greet or drastically avoid, so I just let myself be led through the gym, up really steep steps, and onto an uncomfortable wooden bleacher. My eyes searched for two students I was currently teaching and who would be playing for Brashear--my old high school. I noted my finacee's nieces quickly. One played for Novinger's team and the other shouted encouragements from the sidelines with the other cheerleaders.

As the game started, I spotted the first of my students. She wasn't playing the best game, so I cheered extra loud for her. A few times, the people around me started giving me odd looks, but I assumed it was for being too loud. It wasn't until the second quarter that I realized that my fiancee had seated us not in the "available" side of the gym, but on the Novinger side. I was cheering on a Brashear player. Hello, CONFLICT!

Granted, the few women who were really shooting me dirty looks seemed to understand when I explained my situation--I'm cheering on individual players who are my students, not necessarily the team. They would nod as if thinking Why, yes, that does make sense. She's a teacher--she needs to support her students. I think that cheering for my fiancee's neice on the Novinger team helped.

As the game progressed, though, I found myself grinning when Brashear scored. Novinger seemed disorganized, especially on defense, and I took pride when girls, even the ones I didn't know at all, put more points on Brashear's side of the board. Apparently without realizing it, I had chosen a side despite being very proud and wanting a win for the sole Novinger player I knew.

It may not seem that odd that I picked my alma matter to support to most people...unless you've heard me talk about my experiences in this school. Granted, most of it would boil down to the usual teenage angst present in high schools, but my public school years were almost entirely miserable. A few teachers really inspired me, and not every day was a nightmare, but overall, I would NEVER want to relive a single day of my years at that school. While the school has changed a lot (and I taught there for a semester--talk about a creeptastic moment when I found THAT assignment out), I still get weird feelings every time I drive there, my inner self cringing as the gravel crunches under my tires. What am I doing here again? Are you NUTS?!?! Have you forgotten everything they put you through, how you promised you'd never return? There is nothing for you here--run now while you can!

If I dislike my past so much, and don't hold much faith in the crazy public school system I was brought up in, then why was I rooting for my hometown team? Why do we protect the familiar even when it's not at all good for us? When we're picking sides, are we doing it for the right reasons? Are we defending family members, people from our "hometowns", even though we know they're wrong but we feel like we have to protect "our own?" What kind of damage could this do to those outside our circles of influence...or even those we are standing up for?

I'm still proud of the Brashear girls--they deserved to win that night. They were, simply put, the better team on the court. My fiancee eventually forgave me my slight against his team, mostly because the Novinger boys won the next game and apparently I'm "too darn cute to stay mad at."

A new baby about to be born...

Being a woman has some great advantages some days. I occasionally get doors opened for me, I can usually wheedle my way into having some guy (even a stranger) carry heavy boxes to my car, and I get all the pretty jewelry. :)

What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.

Congratulations on your 8-pound bouncing baby novel. Now to nurse...the paper cuts.

First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.

Or a rug to cover London, for my British readers.

My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.

Although there really should be limits to said creativity.

When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.

Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.

To be fair, we'll show Yao Ming in the infamous position. Push, man, push!

Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.

What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )



A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.

Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.

A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?


Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.

Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.


Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.

When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.

And we end with Little One swaddled in my only knitted project to date. Cue "awwww" to cover the weird sensations of being far too involved in my reproductive post.

Teaser for "A Daughter's Heart"

Yes, I am still plugging away on final revisions (getting closer!) but I thought I'd post just a snippet to intrigue those of you who might be forgetting how much you want to read this tome of mine:



Tuesday morning had come around too quickly for Karen’s tastes. She had spent most of Monday at home, organizing her books and catching up on laundry, but would be reporting bright and early to the college for in-service hours. She pushed aside her glass of milk to look at the schedule again for today. Assessment practices for a couple of hours, a half-hour break for lunch, then a department-level series of meetings regarding entrance exams and support services. Important issues, but they all added up to a very long day. Nothing got people arguing faster than trying to agree on how tests should be administered and interpreted—a sign of a diverse system of teaching theories. In theory, having such a wide range of opinions was not only appropriate but desired. In practice, however, it meant that nothing got done on time and nobody agreed with any system put in place. Lord, whatever stores of patience you have up in Heaven, I could use about a gallon or two.

When she arrived at the school a half-hour early for the proceedings, a few of her colleagues were already in the shared adjunct office, crowded around the coffee pot and discussing, amiably at the moment, whether the contemporary American literature courses should be restricted to sophomores. It was a nice change from the concerned whispers over the events of the fall semester. The light odor of fresh paint still lingered in the air, enough of a reminder and yet faded enough to keep most memories quiet.

Karen smiled at her colleagues but didn’t join their conversation, electing instead to quickly check her e-mail and registration lists. Turning her back to the room was an effective way to discourage most people from eliciting her support for their arguments. If she was going to make it through the day, she would have to start pacing herself now. When Don called out her name, though, it seemed like her methods weren’t going to work this time.

“Karen, I was going to put this in your mailbox, but I got a little distracted. Someone slipped it into mine by mistake again—they really need to make it clearer that your shelf is above your nameplate, not below.”

She smiled gratefully, thanking him as he passed her the long white envelope. A single piece of paper was inside, the bold black letters comprising the simple message nearly stopping her heart.

“Something wrong?”

Karen glanced back at Don, concern evident in his tone of voice. She quickly smiled to reassured him. “Not at all. I’m just trying to do too many things at once and having trouble concentrating. Let me just check a few things online and I’ll walk with you to the auditorium for the opening session, ok?”

Don nodded and turned back to refilling his coffee thermos. Karen shoved the note back into the envelope and slid it safely out of sight in her coat pocket before turning back to the computer monitor.

A few clicks had the registration lists up, her creative writing seminar on top. Her eyes quickly scanned the last names. Arton, Attison, Becker, DeNalli, Guzman, Kellmann… Her heart slowed as relief washed over her. Ben had dropped the class. If she was lucky, he would be out of her life forever. Moving away and leaving her to a quiet existence would be the kindest thing he could ever do for her—and now, the safest thing for himself. Her focus reacquired, she pulled up her email browser and began sifting through the override requests, questions about textbooks, and notes from the department head about new class proposals for the summer.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Karen turned at Don’s deep voice, curious about the visitor to the office. Her face froze when she recognized the tall man in a dark blue uniform.

“I think I’ve found her, thanks.”

Karen cleared the computer with a short series of keystrokes and grabbed her things. “Sorry, but I have a meeting in just a few moments.”

She tried to brush past him in the small space, but the officer caught her arm. “Karen, we need to talk.”

Her glare was intense. “It’s Professor Edwards to you, and I really don’t have time right now.”

Don wiped the surprised expression off his face as he tapped his debating partner on the shoulder. “Patricia, we’d better be off.” He turned towards Karen, giving her a small smile. “I’ll tell everyone that you’ll be a little late—don’t worry about it. We’ll save you a seat.” He nodded respectfully to Ben and led his colleague out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

Now that she had a little more room to maneuver in, Karen angrily pushed Ben off her arm and stepped backwards. “Despite what Don—Professor Fulton—said, I really don’t have time for this.”

Ben let her have some space but maneuvered himself closer to the door so she couldn’t escape. “I have no doubt that he’ll make excuses for you.” He grinned a bit sheepishly at his clothing. “The uniform helps.”

Karen closed her eyes, willing her temper under control as she pulled her lips between her teeth. While she really wanted to let him have it, a little voice reminded her that Grandma Susie’s funeral was just a few days ago and it wouldn’t be right to let her temper flare.

“I know you’re upset, but I really need you to look at me.” Karen obeyed, but allowed the simmering anger to prevail in her expression. Ben sighed. “I need to apologize for what I said that night.” Her expression didn’t change. He ran a hand over his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Karen crossed her arms protectively in front of herself. “Ben, no one says things like that unless they want to hurt someone.”

“You know what I mean. It’s just that I didn’t expect you to react like that, and with everything going on, I just lost it. There’s no excuse for it, and I’m sorry I was so cruel.” Karen looked away, staring at the coffeepot for a few moments, biting her lips again. The apology was sincere—that much she could tell. She couldn’t take any more risks, though. She forced her arms to relax.

“I dropped your class this morning.”

Karen glanced back at Ben and nodded, her eyes dropping to her fingers fidgeting with the ring on her right hand. “I know. I appreciate it—things would have been awkward otherwise for both of us after the fight.”

Ben took a step forward, reaching for her shoulder. She allowed the hand to rest gently there, gazing at his long fingers curving over the fabric of her blouse. “Karen, I didn’t drop the class because of the fight. I dropped it because of the kiss.”

She started at bit at his revelation and looked up at him. Focus, Karen. Don’t give him anything, don’t say anything. You have to let him go. You have to make him go, now more than ever. Ben continued speaking.

“When you left, Will told Courtney how upset you were. The two of them tag-teamed me before the service. Courtney told me something that morning: there’s no way that I would have reacted so poorly, let alone kissed you like that, if I didn’t really care about you—not just as my teacher, or even as a friend…but as something more.” Ben paused, looking over her features with obvious caution. “I know there’s a lot going on right now, and you’re probably confused and overwhelmed, but I need you to know that I’m not giving up. I want to be with you, Karen. Can you please forgive me, give us a chance?”

There was real pleading, honest desire in his eyes. He really wanted her. Her eyes closed softly, the familiar prickling sensation behind her lids warning that if she didn’t regain control soon, she might just cry for the first time in years. The pain of rejecting him might destroy her. Her hand rearranged the coat slung over an arm, a slight crinkling of paper accompanying her movements. Her resolve returned. She slowly turned her eyes back onto his face, a hand reaching to cover his still resting on her shoulder.

“I can’t do that, Ben.”

His face fell. “You can’t forgive me?”

“I can forgive you, Ben—and have.” Karen gently pushed his hand from her shoulder, letting it fall to his side. Her sigh was deep but only vaguely audible. She was going to hurt him—there was no way to avoid it. He wouldn’t understand, but she had to give him the truth. “I just can’t trust you.” Her mouth twitched slightly as she fought the urge to say more. Instead, she quietly slipped past him, opened the door, and left him inside the shared office space. Her hand trailed behind on the doorknob after pulling the door shut behind her. The pain in his eyes was killing her, haunting her as she rested against the wall and pulled in a shaky breath. She had to do this. It was the only way to protect herself. The only way to protect him.

The envelope crinkled as she folded her coat neatly over her arm. She pulled it back out, rereading the block-style letters. Talk to the cop again and the blood spilled will be worse. This wasn’t a prank anymore. There was a creep out there who could get to her car, her house, and even her office without being detected. This wasn’t a matter of bored kids or even wannabe gangsters. This was serious. Karen glanced back at the still-closed door to her shared office and sighed. It was better this way, for everyone.

A Story of Faith...

My dad told me this story--I'm not sure what school it is from, but I'm sure someone out there will recognize it. :)

A student was preparing for a speech in his public speaking class. He went to the classroom early and taped a tennis ball on a string to the top middle of the chalkboard. He then pulled the ball to one side, marked the placement, and let the ball go. Every time the ball swung back, it reached a lower height. The student took great pains to mark everything as exactly as he could and finished his other preparations before the class arrived.

When it came to be his turn for his speech, he showed the class the tennis ball markings and explained the law of inertia--that when swinging from a fixed point, an object in motion will come back at a slightly lower place than before due to the forces of gravity. ((As best as I can tell, this is accurate--science majors can correct me if they like.)) He fully demonstrated this law and then turned to the class and the professor.

"Do you believe in the law of inertia?" The class agreed. "Do you really believe that no matter how many times I repeat this experiment, even with different materials, the results will still be the same?" The class, including the professor, agreed. The student smiled. He walked over to the corner of the room and pulled a blanket away, revealing a chair seated on a table. He turned to the professor and invited the man to take a seat. Being a good sport, the professor oomplied. The student asked the professor again if he believed in the law of inertia. The professor, once again, agreed.

The student then walked a few yards away and pulled another blanket off a hidden object, revealing a bowling ball suspended by a rope. The student pulled the bowling ball to within an inch of the professor's nose and looked his professor in the eye as the class oohed, giggled, and gasped.

"Do you believe in the law of intertia?"

"Yes."

The student let go of the bowling ball. The glossy black sphere swung out at a surprising speed, reached its zenith on the other side of the room, then began to quickly return towards the professor. The professor dove off the chair and crashed to the floor just before the bowling ball came within a foot of his body. The student turned to the class and grinned. "You see, he didn't really believe in the law of intertia, did he?"

**

So many times in our lives it's easy to say we believe in things. We believe in equality for the sexes. We believe that we should follow the law. We believe in God, Allah, Yahweh, or according to some of my friends, the Flying Spaghetti Monster (I don't think their being Italian has anything to do with it, though). We claim a lot of things, but when it really comes down to a show of faith, do we perform according to our beliefs? Do we hire the female daycare worker instead of the male because she'd supposedly be more motherly and caring? Do we actually follow the 55 mph speed limit on the highway? Do we really follow the God we claim to be our own?

We're not perfect beings. We all make mistakes and fall short of glory. As a Christian, there are times that I have had opportunities to share my faith, but I've backed off even though it's what I am commanded to do. Sometimes it's because in that particular situation it would be unethical to "preach my religion," mostly because of my career as a college professor. Sometimes it's because the people I am with are obviously not receptive to having a theological discussion. Sometimes it's because I'm not prepared to answer the questions I know are hard enough to answer even with a degree in Biblical studies. Sometimes it's because I'm just plain scared--scared of being rejected, ridiculed, or failing so badly that the person will chalk me up as just another "Bible thumper" or "hypocritical Christian."

Maybe witnessing isn't just about the ABC or Roman's Road methods. Maybe what a pastor said a few days ago to me is another key to changing a person: "Share the gospel--and if necessary, use words."

Actions do speak louder than words (anyone in a relationship of any kind can testify to this...oy, vey!). If we don't live our faith, make it clear to every bowling-ball-weilding person that we do have a trust in God that defies even primal instincts, then what does that say to the person about Who we believe in? We trust God, but only in these areas? What kind of faith is that? Who would want that?

The next time that an opportunity arises for me to prove my faith, whether it's prioritizing someone over myself, actually following the speed limit, or not being afraid to say on a very liberal college campus that I am a Christian, I pray that I have the strength to follow through. Who knows--maybe someone is out there with a bowling ball, testing the waters, and willing to consider belief based on what I do.

Bittersweet Blessings

I'm addicted to Facebook...to a point, anyway. A certain somebody in my life can distract me well from my online pursuits. Ah, well, enough mushy stuff--back to the point. I love Facebook, being able to see pictures of my friends and family, keeping up with status updates, and even being reminded when I've forgotten someone's birthday.

I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).

"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."

"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."

Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.

I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.

I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:

*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.

So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)

Check Your Tongue with Your Teeth

As a younger sister, I learned early how to share (and demand my part). For most of my friends, I don't mind sharing things that truly bother some people. If someone's really thirsty, I'll unscrew the top of my water bottle and let them drink. If they're hungry, I'll cut my lunch in half and offer it. In the case of my boyfriend, since we kiss each other, I figure it's perfectly acceptable to drink after each other and, in certain cases, eat off the other person's plate (this way I get the momentary bliss of a crispy french fry before I return to my responsible order of string beans and broccoli).

My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.

Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.

Not to be confused with Dante's fifth circle, which is apparently an extreme form of unending constipation. Yeah, that'll ruin eternity for you.

The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.

I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.

I *so* want this shirt...because it is *so* true. Bwahahahaha!

Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."

Bless you, friend.

I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).

It's my new motto: A wise tongue is valued, but wise teeth are highly overrated.

This Chocolate Bar is not a Lifesaving Device

My security has been threatened recently from many fronts. My job situation in the spring is up in the air with no safety nets surviving the storm of economics and my insane schedule. My health has thrown me a few curve balls that I'm somewhat managing. "Bob" is probably getting annoyed with my emotional swings, although he's being quite the trooper about it. I was shown some very powerful examples of how I may not be the personality type I thought I was--which may not mean anything to most people, but when it places me in a category that I don't find flattering in people, it was rather shattering. Add in the usual stress of two jobs, big projects lying uncompleted, and a cat who apparently feels a little abandoned himself, and I'm reeling.

Losing my good grip on my identity was probably the hardest blow. It's helping to illuminate some issues I've been having with adjusting to being with Bob, so that does have a solid benefit. My independent and co-dependent issues have been clashing hard. I work very well on my own--the flexibility of having little "overhead direction" allows my creative side the room it needs to roam about and still get things done, even if they are done differently than other people would do them. Being part of a couple, adjusting to nearly constant compromise, collaboration, and teamwork, has been very challenging. I love having someone to share things with, who can and will help, but it's hard dealing with not having as much "creative license" as I'm used to. It's hard to figure out when I need to push for more equality and when I need to just pick up the slack (because it's usually me who perceives there is slack, anyway, whether there is or not). It goes back to the issue of before--having needs and wants, not sharing them, and then getting upset/angry/worried/scared when they're not met.

When I'm feeling insecure, though, what do I do? Lately, eat chocolate, cry on people, and contemplate ways I can escape from everything and be safe (albeit alone and lonely). After a little while, I get distracted, the feelings fade, and I'm back to pushing through the week, encounter high stress...and then the cycle starts all over again.

What I'm doing is literally insane. I'm doing the same thing, treading water, and expecting it to eventually solve the problem (considering the currents I'm caught in, that's not going to happen). I'm subjecting the people around me to torrents of emotion that probably make less sense than a week of severe PMS (and no, I'm not hormonal that I know of). This is not a recipe for anything more than mere survival and testing the perseverence of the people around me.

My big problem is that I am avoiding the giant lifesaver in front of me, one I've known about this whole time, that has been willing and able to carry me through the seas and onto dry land again. Why I've avoided it, I'm not exactly sure. Maybe because it's not as tangible as the sea I know so well. Maybe because I'm stubbornly believing I can get through this through dry humor and patience; I don't want to admit I need more help after everything I've already taken. Maybe because I'm afraid of what it'll cost to take the way out. I may be forced to change, to give up some things I want so badly to stay in my life.

Could I still make it through the next two months without the lifesaver? It's possible, but given where I'm at, I'm not sure I can last that long. I'm almost positive my friends and family won't last that long. It's time for me to swallow my pride (that I can survive anything), take a chance on the safest bet around, and let God save me again. He made me. He gets it. He doesn't mind my insanity. He'll listen and give me peace again.

So, okay, God. Stick on the water wings. I'll wear them with pride. My Daddy bought them for me. :)

Risky Behavior

Getting a tattoo from a "beginner." Texting while driving, irregardless of age (in Missouri, it's only illegal if you are under 21). Bungee jumping with your dentures in. We could make a list stretch on for miles over risky things we do, but probably one of the riskiest ones would be far down on the list despite it being one that we humans do every day. Talking to other people.

Sure, there are obvious ways our words can get us in trouble. Telling a cop he should spend less time chasing our car and instead chase donuts. Sassing back to a teacher when she asks that we stop pulling our classmate's hair. Using certain derogatory words around people of other ethnic/racial groups. From the time we were children (and for some of us late-bloomers, teenagers), we have learned that you just don't say certain things. For the most part, this is good--respect is such a rare commodity these days (and yes, I'm starting to sound like my grandparents already and I'm still in my twenties). In some cases, though, not saying something is more harmful than we could ever imagine.

Although I have gotten better at constructively criticizing those around me when I need to, I recently discovered that this is a skill that still needs work. Case and point? My very serious romantic relationship with a guy I'll name "Bob." I haven't been that honest with him lately, mostly because I'm still figuring out when I need to say something and when I need to keep quiet. To be safe, I've been keeping quiet a lot...and that led to a repressive emotional blowout full of sobbing and a chucked Kleenex box (to my credit, I was alone in the room at the time and I just threw it at the tabletop). It was a lot of little things, really, things that didn't really bother me that much. Added all together, they created feelings of resentment, disappointment, pain, and fear. I knew I was feeling insecure, and was able to share that with Bob, but I didn't understand why, especially when I had conquered most of my past ghosts.

The big answer I finally figured out with the help of two wise married women? I wasn't getting some of my needs met, mostly because I hadn't told him about them. I could figure out his needs really easily without being asked (hot meals, clean[ish] house, cuddle time on the couch, a listening ear, etc.) and even then I would keep asking and discover more things I could do to make him feel secure and loved. My needs weren't so simple to tease out, and even when he did ask, I wasn't good at revealing them. Part of it was due to fear that I would be selfish to ask for things/actions/services in return, that he wouldn't be able to or want to provide those things, or that I would be too much of a "bother" or considered a "high-maintenance woman." Another part of my silence was due to literally not knowing how to word the requests. I know, I'm a writer, an English professor, and I can't figure out how to use words effectively. Insert *facepalm* here.



By trying to avoid hurting his feelings and protecting myself from possible rejection, I turned myself into ticking time bomb of emotions. I kept up this facade of "I'm okay, I can take care of myself, no need to worry about me, just let me serve you and I'll be fine..." for the most part, but found myself eventually crying nearly every time I was with him. Insecurity bombarded me with thoughts of how he didn't really care, he was going to get tired of me and my drama, he wouldn't be able to deal with my requests, or (really ugly moment here) he was just going to use me and throw me away like others have done in the past. Yes, projecting past experiences onto Bob didn't help, but one of the core reasons was that I felt neglected and negated in some respects. Whose fault was that? Mine.

I needed to stop feeling guilty asking for things, especially the small things. No matter how tired, grumpy, irritated, or sick he is, Bob loves me and wants to take care of me. He needs to take care of my needs, to provide for me just as I need to be needed by him. I'm not his slave and I need to stop acting like it--especially as he NEVER asked me to be that!

Bob's reaction to this situation? Well, it was best summed up during a conversation where I tentatively (read: tiny little-girl voice) said, "So it's ok if I ask for that?"

"Well, of course! What, is this that new-age women's lib crap where you have no needs and are all self-sufficient?"

A little crass, but the point is valid. We, as women AND men, are NOT self-sufficient. Whether we realize it or not, we desperately need God and, second to Him, each other. If not, why were those the two commandments Jesus gave us? We are to love God and love one another. That means both give and take.

Don't walk--laugh it off.

I arrived at the university thirty minutes early for my class, plenty of time to snarf down a yogurt, print off my grading sheets for speeches, change shoes, and apply the bare minimum make-up for a professional look. After dumping everything onto my office table, I shoved the rubber doorstop under the corner of the door and ran down the hall to collect my printing rubrics. When I returned to my office, the doorstop was sitting quietly in the middle of the hallway, looking lost but unperturbed about it. My door was shut. My office door automatically locks. My keys were on the table.

Locking myself out of my office wasn't that huge of a deal. All I'd have to do is go to the department office and borrow the spare key. Today, however, was the day that the secretary wasn't there at 8am like she usually was. Public Safety officers could unlock the door for me, but there would be no way they'd get there in time for my morning class. I had no pen, no make-up, no stopwatch, and my purple toenails poked out of black Old Navy flip-flops. Hardly a good match to black dress slacks. I tried waiting as long as I could for the secretary, but with only five minutes left before class and a dozen nervous speakers waiting for me, I had to go. I borrowed a pen and stopwatch from another professor then went to class. I apologized profusely for my appearance--especially given that in the previous class period I had given these students a lecture on how important it was to be prepared and professional-looking. We had a laugh about it and everything was righted after class. For a few hours.

When I arrived at a high school around lunchtime to teach my class, I kept on my dressy shoes from the morning. It was a little difficult navigating the gravel lot in clunky heels, but I made it fine and began my trek around the wood-floor gym to the tiny classroom I taught in. About half-way through my walk, I noticed how incredibly shiny the floor seemed since the last time I was there...a second before my no-traction heels slipped in opposite directions in the wax and I fell. My knees bent as I did the splits, throwing most of my weight onto my left hip, knee, and twisted ankle. I have a phobia of falling. I hate it with a passion and don't even enjoy amusement park rides that "fall" much anymore. This fall only reinforced those fears--I did some damage. Thanks to God, I didn't break anything, but my knee and ankle were already swelling and my hip protested any move I made. I hobbled to my feet (still in the heels--I have a death wish, I suppose) and made my way to the classroom.

I somehow made it through class and stopped at home for an ace bandage for the ankle (I have yet to find a good way to do this for my knee/hip--if you know or have a good diagram, fill me in!). The pain wasn't really bad until a few hours later when I had driven three more times, ran two errands, and taught another two-hour class. By the time I was off to Wal-Mart to pick up food and a few necessities, the throbbing had triggered my fibromyalgia. I popped a heavy-duty painkiller on an empty stomach (a sign of how irrational I get when in pain--Heaven help me if I end up pregnant someday) and propped up my swollen leg on the table. Near the end of the night, I ended up having some hilarious girl talk with several good friends that ended up distracting me from the pain. After that, it was sore, but remembering some of the comments had me in giggles again and I didn't feel as bad.

I know it's incredibly cliche, but laughter is good medicine for both the body and the mind. I could have been angry, irritated, or embarrassed to the point of tears over being so unprepared for class. I could have been wallowing in despair and mopey grumpiness over not being able to walk or sit comfortably anymore. Instead, I was able to shake off the foreboding feelings and relax a little. The leg will mend (and it could have been my right and I would be stuck not being able to drive--there's a blessing in this fall already). I have an excuse to wear flip-flops to class for days. My students are playing nice because they know I'm hurting. Yet another instance of locking myself out will play out nicely in my humorous memoirs one day. It's all good.

So, to encourage you to laugh off something that's niggling at you, I'll close with some corny jokes told by my friends last night:

Q: Why did the chocolate-chip cookie go see the doctor?
A: He felt crumby.

Q: How do you make a tissue dance?
A: You put a little boogie in it.

Q: If you are an American going to church and an American coming home from church, what are you when you are getting ready for church?
A: Russian.

Ok, so these may be more groaners than side-splitters for you (or your seven-year-old). Sometimes, though, when you really need a laugh, the absurd works. Monty Python proves that.

Honesty Part II: Masking the Appearance of Trouble

While in worship at the ACFW conference, I heard slight whispers in the crowd.

"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."

I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.

My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.

Is she praying...or struggling with a migraine? How can you tell?

Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.

Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.

This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"

Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.

I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.

Honesty 101

As someone who works at a highly-regarded university in the Midwest in the Communications department, you would think that I'm a fairly good communicator. Like I teach my students when we cover the communication cycle, there is always interference (otherwise known as "noise") that makes messages garbled, misunderstood, or just plain nonsensical. One form of interference that I have to deal with daily is my poor hearing. I often rhyme out words I hear and it's especially difficult for me to hear well in crowded/noisy rooms. Not being able to understand others, especially when the people around me seem to be doing just fine, annoys me to no end--and I get discouraged, uncomfortable, and tend to withdraw from the group. My problem-solving skills tend to focus on what I can change about myself to work with others, not have others shift to work around me. After all, we're supposed to love our brothers (and sisters) more than ourselves...so wouldn't that mean just dealing with the problems and only focusing on them?

Not exactly. By not communicating my needs, especially ones that aren't that big of an issue (for the most part, no one would begrudge me asking for us to move to a quieter spot. After all, if I can better listen to them, then I can minister to them more--it becomes a win-win situation for all.), I'm only hurting myself and my friends/family. Ignoring my needs and emotions will only poison my time with these wonderful people and make me less of a good support for them. I have to be brave enough to ask for help and prayer with my own issues...and be honest about what's really going on.

The big issue? Fear. I'm afraid I'll lose my friends, my family, because I'm too needy or demanding or something like that. After all, it's happened before. By not being honest, though, I'm not encouraging a real relationship with these people--just empty or superficial shells of friendship and fellowship where I can't trust the person (and maybe the God within) with my vulnerabilities. A recent two-day talk with a very close friend about some serious miscommunications really drove this point home. I was so afraid of hurting her (because I knew how sensitive she was) so I didn't confront her appropriately with the results of some of her actions. Instead, I hid the pain and the discomfort, pretending to be my usual bubbly self. When I got to the point where I couldn't hide anymore, I nearly washed my hands of the relationship and ran away. Part of it was because I couldn't bear to witness the effects of my words on her. Part of it was because I didn't know how to tell her that I was angry and felt like I couldn't trust her sometimes. She meant (and still does mean) so much to me that I didn't want to risk losing her, but as I've learned recently, it's not a bad thing to be angry. Anger is a positive emotion--it's what you do with it (kill, vandalize, hide in the corner) that makes it a negative thing. After all, even the only perfect man who ever lived got angry (John 2:13-22). We did talk things out, and while I never expressed my feelings of betrayal, I think she got the point. If she didn't...I'll soon know.

Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34). Part of love is being honest (1 Cor. 13:6). We can't hide behind fear and think our silence and crossed fingers will make everything better eventually. We have to be brave.

Can You Hear Me Now?

When it comes to prayer, maybe I just don't listen very well. I've never heard God "speaking" to me, audibly or in my mind. I usually get answers by a sense of peace, situations changing, opportunities arising, the advice of good friends, or reading the Bible. There's never been a time where I hear a great booming voice (or even a still, small one) challenging me to sacrifice my first-born son--quite the feat as the closest thing I have to a child is my cat, and the first-born one died decades ago--or to go preach the gospel in Ninevah (ironically the name of the town where my church is located). That is, until Sunday.

I'll be posting several of the things I learned at the ACFW conference, but one moment I want to memorialize early is when I first really heard God. No, I wasn't on anything besides asparagus for breakfast (still not sure how a five-star hotel justified this...two days in a row). I felt compelled to go to the prayer room after the morning worship instead of my continuing education class. I began praying about the conference, my meetings with editors/agents, the women and men I had met and their needs/hopes/dreams, and my confusion and fears over all the drama in my life currently. When I poured out to God everything I had taken onto my plate over the past few months and how overwhelmed I felt, the fear that had ruled over much of my life lately felt so intense in the small room. It was at this moment that I heard three words spoken into my mind. I know it wasn't me who came up with them because it wasn't a voice I recognized (my talk-to-myself voice is rather like my own but with a bit of a southern drawl...and now y'all are wondering what meds I'm on again...shame, shame). It was powerful, sure, strong, and vaguely male. Just three words.

Rest in Me.

It summed up everything I needed to hear in one small, powerful package. I wasn't trusting God like I should have. All my anxieties, all my fears, all my insecurities could be conquered with a simple imperative sentence (and God has good grammar...that's encouraging). All I have to do is just what is right before me--and let God handle the rest. I also need to let go of my safety nets, my human measures to protect myself, and allow the most powerful being in the universe to be in control.

Easier said, I know. But it's starting to be done. Already I feel better, lighter, more hopeful.

Although that might also be the chocolate I just ate. :)