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.

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.

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.

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.

Run Away...

A week from today, I'll be packing for one of the biggest events of my year--the ACFW conference. I've been to conferences before, some absolutely huge (try MLA--Modern Language Association--for starters). I've presented my writing at the College English Association conference, several local university-based conferences, and even in front of semi-drunk people at a open mic night. I've invested well over a thousand dollars of hard-earned money into this conference. I've lined up roommates for hotel rooms, carpoolers to split fuel costs, and even a few author friends to try to meet up with for lunch sometime. I've done extremely heavy revisions on my novel and I know (by English professor standards) that it's in pretty good shape. It seems like everything is falling into place perfectly.

And I'm terrified.

I do get nervous before big events where I'll be the center or part of the center of attention. This is different. I'm having massive doubts. I look at my novel and think, "You're a nonfictionist. You have no formal training in fiction, at least not at the college level. There's probably still a handful of head-jumping moments in there. The writers or high-level readers you've asked to read the book have never gotten through it. You'll never be able to sell this thing! No one is going to want to read this! Who are you kidding?"

Yeah, pretty brutal. What's worse is that it's partially true. The few people with good writing skills haven't finished the book--although they have also been extraordinarily busy lately. I didn't take any specialized fiction courses in college. I know there are still aspects of fiction that I need to learn, more that I need to read, more that I need to study. I know I don't manage my time nearly well enough to accommodate three jobs, a church family, a boyfriend, my own family, and my writing. With the economy, I know first-time authors are a dime a dozen and my chances are naturally slim. If it wasn't for all the promises I made, arrangements settled, and money invested, I'd be highly tempted to hide out and make excuses for not following through.

Seriously? You can still see me? Dude...need new hiding place, like now!

A Daughter's Heart is not in perfect condition. I know that. It's probably not the best novel I'll ever write (I think my trilogy in the works already is shaping up better). But it is a good story. It does have real issues with trust and faith to be worked out. It does have good grammar and syntax (I am a professor, after all). It does have great potential. As much as I wish it could be better, I'm also proud of my novel baby. Not everyone actually finishes a novel...and not to toot my own horn, but not everyone can piece a story together well. I'm not saying I'm superb at this, but it's better than a lot of things I've read.

Still the fear and anxiety niggle at me constantly. What if no one likes it? What if no one gives me a chance? What if I get so nervous I pick the wrong words to speak? What if I completely ruin my career as an author before I even start? Is the fact that I have a completed manuscript enough to begin marketing it, or should I wait until I'm more advanced as a fiction writer?

If your questions and doubts have gotten so big that not only do they make a fairly comfortable sitting place but you are also hard-pressed to figure out how to get down without twisting an ankle...it's time to do something about it.

I can hear the twisted logic in my fears and questions, but that doesn't soothe the anxiety much. I want so badly to be published, to start this next chapter in my life (insert pun-groan here). Right now I could use a good dose of courage and strength...the real stuff, not the kind mixed into chocolate and other sugar-happy food that I so depend on.

Although there are limits as to how brave chocolate can make you...

So I'm off to pray, to hand God my worries and concerns and fears. I'll stop being somewhat of a hypocrite and practice what I preach--God is in control, not me, and it's better off that way.

God's Providence...

No risk, no reward. It's the mantra of many a stockbroker (as well as "pass the Tums--my ulcers are killing me!"). It should also, in some respects, be the mantra of Christians. If we stay in our cozy little familiar worlds, we may be "safe," but we can also miss out on many great blessings. Even opportunities that seem illogical or hardly attainable can be brought to our doorsteps by a wonderful and powerful God.

On August 17th, I was told by my father about an ad he saw in the paper asking for English teachers to help with tutoring students. While I am ok with the two jobs I have now, I was intrigued. I looked the ad up online and found a second listing for a teacher, but this one hadn't been printed in the paper. It was for a adjunct communication teacher to teach public speaking courses at a local university. This university was one I had finished my undergraduate degree and also completed my master's degree at. I loved this school, missed it terribly, and while all schools have their problems, I would love to teach there. It got my attention...but there was a problem. I had a MA in English. This called for a MA in Communications. There is a lot of overlap between the two fields, but they are very different. Community colleges will let English majors teach many communication classes, but universities often are pickier. I wasn't qualified to apply.

Something made me call the provost office, though, and ask if the position was still open. The deadline for applications was August 18 (*really* late in the semester to be hiring!) and according to the secretary, she didn't think anyone had applied, but knew for sure that no one had been hired. At this news, I knew there were a few things going for me. First, I had taught several sections of public speaking at the community college I worked at, and was pretty sure both colleges used the same textbook. Second, being an alumnus, I had some connections and had a good reputation among the English faculty. Third, if they were within a week of classes starting and no one had applied, they'd be desperate enough to hire anyone. Desperate times are what get green teachers like me hired. :)

So I ran home and spent a few hours updating my CV and working on a cover letter and teaching philosophy. I had only mixed hopes about this job...and when I didn't hear anything by the weekend, I just shrugged it off. It was a very long shot anyway. I had two good jobs that together paid for my bills. God had blessed me.

Today, I get a phone call at 3:30 in the afternoon. Someone from the selection committee is calling to see if I could do a phone interview today. "I'm in town, so would being there in person be better?" He seemed pleasantly surprised at my suggestion and jumped on it, asking me to be there in an hour. I rush home, change, try to do something with my crazy hair, and get back to the university just in time for the interview. I find myself in a room with five people, all kind professors who seem really helpful and supportive. One of the professors has a wife who works at the community college with me, so it was nice to have that connection.

The interview went well, and I was surprisingly not that nervous. I explained how I taught my classes currently and they were impressed with my creativity. There were some major differences: I approach public speaking from a performance and literary perspective while they have different levels of rhetoric that they use. I admitted that I didn't know much about those other fields, but instead of being hesitant, they welcomed my questions and said they would fill in the gaps with their knowledge and resources. In other words, I'm going to get an unofficial master's in communication if I listen to them. :) I heard several repeated comments about this being an 11th hour hiring, so they would really guide me through this fall semester without huge expectations. How 11th hour? Here's the skinny: if they hire me (the decision needing to pass through several high levels of administrations first), I'll be told Wednesday afternoon. My first class meets Thursday morning. Yeah, it's really last-minute.

Am I nervous about this, especially as I have a strong feeling I'm probably going to get offered the position? Extremely. I'm hearing this little snippy voice in the back of my head saying, "You're not a communications major! This is a very high-level university! You're not going to be able to convince those kids that you know more than they do. You can't pull this off at this high of a level. You don't even have that much teaching experience! If you wash out here, what do you think your future chances of employment are going to be?" I know these are all lies, and that I can do a lot of things once I really buckle down and focus. I will learn. I'm not lying or hiding my inexperience or even some of the downsides to hiring me, but I'm not downplaying my passion for my career or my willingness to try a new challenge.

I took a risk applying for this job. I'll take a bigger one accepting it. The blessings, though, will be immense. The job turns full-time with benefits come spring semester, which means I'll have the opportunity I've wanted for years--to have one full-time job that will support me and let me have time to write, spend time with family and my church, and enjoy a budding romance that I'm beginning with a new guy. God is answering my long-time prayer in a very unexpected way, and I have faith that He would not put me in a situation I could not handle or not be successful in. This is going to be a challenge, somewhat stressful at first, but a beautiful, beautiful blessing.

If I get hired. :)

A request you can't deny

A prayer I pray a lot, especially lately, is "God, show me what you want me to do." Note the word choice there--show me. Yes, I'm from Missouri, which indicates one of two things depending on which story you believe about the origin of our state motto: I am either slow on the uptake and need to be shown everything to understand it, or I want proof before I will act on something. In my prayer life, it's a little of both. I admit to being a bit dense sometimes when it comes to making decisions. For instance, I was battling with a particularly sticky situation when a friend came in and, with common sense, parted the murky waters I was wandering lost in. The light bulb indicating my EUREKA! moments is apparently more of a flickering candle than, say, an incandesent wonder.

Not all of us can be like the Centennial light and keep burning nonstop for 109 years...but who wants to be right and wise every single time for that long?

So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.

I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.

Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?

I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.

A bum hip is only one tragic excuse away...

God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.

I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.

This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.

I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.

Americans have given their lives in response to an ad from a fictional character. How can we expect any less from a request from a very real God?

How to get out of a speeding ticket...

I have been pulled over a total of two times in my life. The first was a state trooper who stopped me to make sure that I knew I had a headlight out (I had bought a replacement bulb and was driving home so I could repair it...amusing timing). The second happened last night...but it wasn't so innocent.

In the town I live in, there's a back road I travel nearly every day that winds past a hospital. The speed limit sharply drops from 35 to 20 mph on a downhill curve by the emergency center. It's a tough thing to do, but I'm used to riding my brakes down the road. Last night, however, I apparently didn't hit them as hard as I usually do, because when I was halfway-past the hospital, I was still at 25mph. I saw the cop car in the parking lot just ahead. The first thought in my head was that he'd stay there for someone driving much faster--and after all, my brake lights were clearly on, so it was obvious that I was slowing down. I have *NEVER* been pulled over for speeding and RARELY ever drive more than five miles over the limit. This couldn't happen to me.

A few seconds later, the cop pulled out behind me. His lights turned on. My stomach twisted like a frustrated teen trying to work out a Rubic's Cube. Panic and reason battled for control of my thoughts, eventually working out a 50/50 split that had my hands shaking but my voice steady. I busied myself pulling my driver's license from my wallet, searching for my registration, and trying to find my most current insurance card (I never throw them out for some reason, so it took a good few minutes to find the one that wasn't expired). The police officer, a guy I didn't know--shocking for my hometown, actually--walked up to my window, asked for the paperwork, and retreated to his car. That minute was one of the longest minutes of my life. I was in trouble. I hated being in trouble. It's one thing to admit you were driving a little fast. It's another to have to literally pay for it.

The officer approaches my car again and hands me back my paperwork.

"Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma'am?"

I nod. "I'm guessing it's because I wasn't slowed down fast enough. I was hitting the brakes, but apparently since you pulled me over, I was still over twenty."

"I clocked you at 26."

I nod. There was no point arguing it. My old car had a faulty spedometer, but this one was fairly accurate as well as I knew. Now that I was thinking about the details, the needle had been resting above the long line marking the legal speed limit.

"So...do you think I should give you a ticket?"

My face must have shown just how confused and surprised I was at his statement, but his face remained impassive. Should he give me a ticket? What kind of question was that? How was I supposed to answer? For a moment, it felt like I had just been Punked or put on some crazy television hidden-camera show that would showcase a real American reaction when put on the spot. There was a correct answer to this, but it wasn't black and white. I wasn't purposefully driving too fast. I have a clean driving record. I know just about all the police officers (except this one, of course) in town and could have easily played the "friend" card. It wouldn't be lying to point out any of these things. I had excuses I could claim, too--I was tired, had bad allergies, the sun was actually in my eyes, etc. Dozens of "cover stories" raced through my mind, sorting themselves by believability and potential persuasive power. I opened my mouth after making a fast choice that seemed natural and right.

"Well, obviously I don't really want a ticket, but I understand if you have to give me one. Techically, I was breaking the law when I passed you. I'd appreciate a warning instead, but if you feel you should give me a ticket, that's fine. I'll pay it."

The words had barely left my lips when I heard a voice screaming at me inside my head. Did I really just suggest to a police officer to ticket me? How was I going to pay for it? What would my mother, who has shouted from her soapbox for years about how speeding tickets were the stupidest tickets anyone could get because they were completely avoidable, say when she found out? I had little idea what all was involved in paying for such a citation, either. Would I have to go to court, or would this be as simple as mailing a check to the appropriate state office? What about the points on my record? Loudest of all, had I completely lost my mind?!?!

In the sense of the world's opinion, I had lost at least my common sense. Using an excuse or trying to downplay the event would be the most logical choice...assuming that my goal was to get out of the ticket. That would be anyone's goal. At that moment, though, even though I knew I would have a hefty financial and emotional price to pay, I just didn't want to lie or bend the truth or "come up with something." Maybe I was more afraid of getting caught in an excuse or even, had I chosen to do so, a white lie. Maybe I figured in the long run that this wasn't that big of a deal.

I'm pretty sure the streak of extreme truth was more of a sign of my strong(er) walk with God. I did what He would want me to do--be honest.

Apparently I wasn't the only one surprised by my answer. The officer looked closer at me. "Excuse me, but did you just say you were ok with getting a ticket?"

I smiled. "I guess so, yeah. I mean, I can't really deny that I was going a little too fast." My shrug at the end hopefully conveyed what I couldn't find words to say. Although this is going to really be uncomfortable, it is the right thing to do.

The officer took a step back and smiled at me. "Well, then. In that case, Ma'am, you have a nice day."

I blinked at him, mutely watching him nod respectfully as he went back to his cruiser and talked briefly into his radio before driving off down the road. My shock permeated every inch of my being. It worked...and I hadn't even been trying.

Doing the right thing is rarely the easy thing to do. What makes it harder is that even if we do the "right" thing, there's no guarantee it'll work in our favor in the end by other people responding in kind or the situation coming to a satisfying close. If I had pulled out some of those excuses or "variations" on the truth, there's no way to know for sure if I would have been as successful in avoiding the ticket. My experiences with persuasion and knowledge I have of other people's encounters with cops tells me that I probably would have been ok using the not-so-squeaky-clean methods. What I gained yesterday was not just relief after a close call. I also gained self-respect and joy that God took care of me for doing His will. He would have provided the money if I had a ticket to pay, and directions for doing it properly so my name wouldn't end up in the newspaper under the police blotter.

So today I drove down that road...very, very slowly. God blessed me once. Next time, I might have more discipline in store than a simple warning.

Let me be busy (or else I'll eat cake)

I was working away in the kitchen of a friend's house as she, her husband, and her children bustled about to prepare for a birthday party for the eldest girl. I had arrived a little later than planned (mostly due to *lots* of emergency responders on the highway--welcome to Fourth of July mayhem), but had instantly gotten to the business of stringing decorations, taping streamers, and coaxing sheet cakes out of uncooperative glass pans. When the mother was attacked by a wasp, I shooed her and her children inside while I armed myself with Raid and went on the offensive (anyone who knows me knows that my instinct is to run, scream bloody murder, and hide in the bathroom when stinging insects are around).

This is not a good picture of a wasp. This is a ruined picture of a flower. *shudders*

The cakes were just about finished with my haphazard decorating skills when the first party guests arrived. Before long, the house and yard were full of kids and friends, of whom I knew about half pretty well.

Instead of letting things fall to someone else to finish, though, and beginning my socializing, I stayed in the kitchen. It was easy to justify for a little while. There was a pile of tropical fruits to cut up and arrange. Counters needed to be wiped down. There were my dirty prep dishes to wash--I can't make a mess and "leave it" for someone else to clean when I'm a guest in someone else's home. A hundred little details needed my attention and I stayed busy in the small area of the kitchen. The father of the birthday girl thanked me nearly every time he passed by, although the last time he just muttered, "You work too hard, girl." I just smiled and rinsed off a serving tray.

I do love to cook and bake. Preparing food for people makes me overflow with joy, and while I don't always enjoy cleaning, I don't mind it most of the time; periodically I even get a little anxious when I see something messy and know I could help clean it up (funny how that only occasionally kicks in at my own house). I love to serve people, help them with their needs, and make their lives better. Easing the strong vibrations of stress and tension that flowed from the parents before the party made me feel helpful, important, and wanted. I didn't need anything more than the look of relief and sincere appreciation in the mother's eyes as she looked at the finished projects over a bandaged finger and her calmed-down baby. It was fun for me to help design decorations and help corral children. It was powerful being the one who could step in, get the important work done, and be the calm and serene one in the midst of mini-crises (especially because if this had been my party, I would have been freaking out, too). I kept very busy...until everything was done.

The bad thing about a hefty to-do list for an event is that eventually it will be completed. I stood by the sink of clean dishes, eying the fully-stocked table of food, and thought "Well, now what?" Most people would have then thrust into the party, talking with others, finally grabbing some food for themselves, and generally have a great time. I felt awkward and froze. My safety net was the kitchen. Suddenly I didn't know how to talk to people. Being rejected hadn't been an issue when I was fumbling my way through slicing a watermelon.

My results with the stubborn melon and an oversized knife were a bit prettier, but this is so much more impressive on the entertainment factor.

After thirty minutes of standing around and pretending I had things to do, I eventually maneuvered myself to a place where I could gracefully exit. Guilt twanged a bit in my core (or was that hunger? Besides a few chunks of pineapple, I hadn't bothered to eat--too busy, other people wanted that food, etc.) as my car rolled away, the first to leave. I knew that I wasn't likely to get into a confrontation with anyone. From what I had learned over the past five months, I was surrounded by loving people. As soon as my usefulness was over, though, I felt every bit of the outsider, the "newbie" interloper who just doesn't fit in. I'm too young or old, smart or ignorant, liberal or conservative. A voice in the back of my mind pointed out just how much I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb...and eventually people tire of the offensive element and push/cut it out. I knew it was Satan whispering these lies to me. My faith is stronger than it has ever been. I knew better. I still ran.

You don't have to be a Carrol fan to realize that very memorable characters suddenly taking off at top speed tends to be noticeable, and a bit of a drag.

I can list a whole host of great reasons why I felt like this. I can justify every reaction, blame my misgivings on an ugly past that rears its head more than a bucking bronco. It's not going to change my behavior, my feelings, or my fears the next time I accept an invitation to a party or assist during a church event. The problem is deeper than just understanding the why behind it. I have to fight that reason. I have to change. I have to take more risks and be vulnerable again, no matter how many times I get hurt.

Funny--I suddenly feel too exhausted to move.

Timing

I had come in to the college an hour before I had to teach. After weaving my way through the empty student computer lab, I walked the couple yards to the employee work room where I usually held my office hours. I left the door open in my haste to get to work--I hadn't refreshed my memory on the story I had assigned in my American Literature course, and while I could have bumbled my way through well enough, I wanted to be well-prepared. Forty minutes passed and I was only 3/4 done with the in-depth analysis. A loud conversation drifted in through the room and my eyes stilled on the page. The students' voices were instantly familiar. One was quite loud, a girl lamenting to a guy about the email she had received a few days earlier.

"...and then she replies and says, 'Well, there are a few techniques I can show you, but it would be better if we could go over it in person.' Like that was going to help me, and now I'm completely lost and have no clue what to do."

The snippet confirmed exactly who the girl was--a student in my morning class...and she was talking about me. She had missed the previous class, and while she had claimed in the email to have been ill, I was told by one of her friends that she hadn't finished her paper and had elected not to come to class because of it (I still give the student the benefit of the doubt, but the other story rang true with the girl's personality). Had she come, she would have realized that all of her classmates were struggling and I spent the entire class period helping them revise and strengthen their papers--using techniques that worked much better for an in-person demonstration. To be honest, I could have described the methods to the girl in the e-mail, but I wanted to work with her one-on-one and encouraged her in the e-mail to make an appointment when she could for us to go over the material. She hadn't.

Leaving my prep work behind, I walked to the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb, and looked at the young woman. "Well, if you want, I can help you right now." Both the girl and the male classmate looked up with the expected expression.

Even plastic and acrylic can cry out, "Uh-oh."

The smile on my face had some underlying cheekiness to it, although I schooled my features to be as professional as possible. I had busted them, vividly proving the old addage that people should be careful what they say--someone could be listening. Since I knew I had done nothing wrong or inappropriate, I was more than willing to tease the young students. After all, I could have responded very negatively, and there was certainly some tension in the room. The male student transitioned from shock into amusement after ascertaining that I was not upset. The young woman remained angry and frustrated.

Heloise's Hint: back away slowly and offer chocolate/coffee/vice of choice.

She began ranting, still loud and angry, about how she didn't "get any of this stuff" and she was only in the class for financial aid purposes. She wanted to drop the class and it was "too hard to understand the reading." She burst into tears. I sat down next to her, my mood instantly changing. The subtext was screaming into my mind as though her thoughts came equipped with a megaphone. I'm stupid. I can't understand this. I never will. No one will help me. I'm beyond help. I feel trapped.

The other students in the room silently turned back to their computers or left the room, letting her have the modicum of privacy available in the public lab. I knew asking her to come to the office wasn't a move that she would respond well to, so I let her express her fears and frustration through the tears and occasional rants against the class. As she spoke, my mind flitted to a memory of a twenty-year-old woman who had stood before an older male professor. Her tears blocked all but the fuzziest appearance of the man as she admitted her inability to understand the grammatical structures he had talked about for a week. She felt stupid, alone, and trapped. Especially stupid. Although flabbergasted at the emotional response, the professor kindly gave up part of his lunch hour and stood in the empty classroom, demonstrating point-by-point the essence of a copula and antecedents, eventually stumbling across different ways of explanation so the young woman could finally grasp onto the definitions. I've never forgotten those concepts since that day.

All but ignoring the other students in the room, I sat by her side and waited until the emotional malestrom ebbed. I handed her a tissue, then reassured her that literary criticism was often hard to understand but she could do it. We discovered that a great deal of her problem was reading comprehension and worked together to decipher a 19th century essay. The time ticked past the point that I was to begin class, but I ignored the clock. At the moment, I had more important things to do.

When it comes to priorities, sometimes we just gotta smash the critters.

As a professor, it was my responsibility to start class on time--I had policies on tardiness for my students. If this had been just a week later, my boss would have been also in attendance for my semester evaluations. I was supposed to do something, and I chose not to. I knew that the ten or fifteen minutes it would take to finish encouraging this young woman back onto a positive track would not be the end of the world for the rest of my students. The young man she had spoken to would surely explain the situation, so no one would leave. They were all adults and perfectly capable of starting the discussion without me--or at least entertaining themselves (they chose the latter. Big surprise.). There was no way I would leave until I knew she was able to work on the paper on her own again--even if it meant she would miss the first half of class in order to have that precious time to do so.

Hours later, I started thinking about Jesus' parable about the lost sheep.

In this depiction, the sheep's black. Think about that (and not so much that Jesus oddly resembles Tom Cruise here).

Jesus said (in Luke 15:3-7, if you want to look it up) that he would leave the 99 to find the one lost lamb. I remember thinking when I first heard this story that it didn't quite make sense. Shouldn't he be worried about the big flock, too? Who's going to watch over them while Jesus goes looking for the single lost lamb? Is one lamb really worth the danger he could be putting the others in?

The point of the story isn't about the 99, though. They're fine, they're safe, and they can take care of themselves for the time being (note that He said He left them to look for the other lamb, not for infinity--this isn't abandonment but a shift in priorities; also, since God is omnipresent, He never *really* leaves...but that's a blog for another day.). Jesus is saying that He will pursue those who are lost and alone, afraid and frustrated. For a moment, in a very small way, I ministered to that student in a way that God ministered to me. By taking the time to really care, listen, and invest in her progress, I showed that she was important to me and I was willing to put the others, who were prepared, on hold in order to catch her up.

I'm not saying that "the greater good" isn't a good policy or that I should always pause my teaching for a single straggler (that is also what one-on-one conferences are for). I can't realistically afford to do this every single class period. I can, however, give her enough hope and faith in herself and in my attention to her that she can succeed even in an American Literature course. Maybe this will transfer to the rest of her college classes and, perhaps, to her life in general. Only God knows how far the ripples of this moment will reach in the pond of her life and in the lives of my other students. My prayer is that it will spread good to all involved...and lend a little sanity to an insane world.

Stolen--or is it?

Over the past few weeks, there are several moments (days, even) that, if pressed to describe, I would say that "it feels like my joy, my happiness, is just...gone." Some of these moments have definite causes. I feel criticized for things I cannot help or sincerely cannot see anything wrong with (such as the way I eat beef jerky...that was a weird conversation). I had to follow a driver who was doing a poor job and made me have to swerve or slam on my brakes multiple times to avoid an accident. Over the past few days especially, I've had encounters with a large amount of very rude people...something that instantly gets under my skin on even the brightest of days.

Even as a child, Stephanie Tanner had a good grasp of the situation.

I've "dealt" with these situations and moved on from each specific occurrence, but there still seems to be something--or someone--keeping me from being the bubbly person I normally am. Instead of laughing and smiling all the time, I'm getting a little mopey and have even burst into tears a couple of times for no reason. No, it's not PMS (and shame on you for thinking so...hehehe). The blue fog fades after a few minutes or hours...and then I'll be busy with one of my jobs, projects, or listening to my Christian fantasy novels on my iPod. The joy returns.

A close friend told me that it sounded like a spiritual attack--Satan was stealing my joy, putting obstacles in my way, because he's scared of me and the wonderful work I'm doing for God. It made (and still does make) a lot of sense. All of my jobs are service-oriented. My writing is primarily Christian or from Christian perspective. The music and books I listen to are almost all Christian as well. My sports and singing work, the goodies I bake...all are tied to my church. When I'm serving God, I'm joyful again. The more I work, the more joyful I am...and the more I encounter these periods of blue funk. Hmmm. Doesn't take a genius to start connecting these dots.

What is really striking about these attacks is how they are resolved. I do something, whether it's praying, serving someone, singing, worshiping, reading something inspiring, or using the talent God gave me for writing and creating a new blog entry or advancing a fiction novel to the next level. Satan may know exactly what buttons to push to drain out the stores of joy I've built up, but there's a problem with his plumbing pranks. He's stealing a renewable resource. Every time I turn back to my faith, turn back to the path that God has me on, I'm given joy unspeakable and full of glory (to paraphrase that old song). I will never run out of joy provided that I never stop choosing God over the darkness.

Just one of many daily occurrences as a Christian...although I don't look *this* fantastic in draped fabric.

I will still have bad days. I will still have moments where I doubt myself or God when I truly know better than that (just like I know better than to walk down the candy aisle at Wal-Mart....). I will still struggle sometimes and need friends and God to help push me back to where I need to be. The difference between the woman I was six years ago who fell to the brink of no return and woman I am now is mostly my relationship with God. It's not a perfect relationship by any means--I want it to be a closer, stronger one. I need it to be.

I still find great comfort in knowing that God's got my back. With Him for me, who can really be against me? I have faith in that no matter how I feel or what is going on, God will NEVER give me more than what I can handle. He will ALWAYS keep me, love me, and protect me in his infinite wisdom and power. It's like ADT...only a billion times better with an unbreakable guarantee.

A supernatural security plan is more available than you might think....

Passionate Devotion

It's no secret to those who get to be around me for even just a short while that I'm a very passionate person. I love a lot of things, and I pour myself into them. My time, money, energy, creativity...you name it, it's in there.

Kind of like the chemical composition of some processed food...only I don't think I cause cancer.

I adopt a church family and suddenly I'm there all the time, taking care of babies, baking pies, dashing off trays of danishes, crooning worship songs, and catching fly softballs (well, I try, anyway). I take on teaching classes and I'm bringing in treats, buying DVDs of documentaries to show (Netflix isn't that reliable around here), and even agreeing to meet with students on the weekends or talk them through tough paper problems in the late evening hours (I've stopped the 1am conferences mostly out of respect to a promise I made to a friend about erecting and policing boundaries). As a babysitter, I can't leave a sink full of nasty dirty dishes behind, even though I didn't contribute to them while making the kids' dinner. I've even scrubbed tile grout on my hands and knees while the children were sleeping because it needed to be done. Passion...and insanity..are intrinsic to who I am as a person.

This goes double for me in relationships. I pour who I am into my serious relationships. I call, send texts, write emails and mail off cards (just don't expect one on the "normal" days, like birthdays or anniversaries, because I can't seem to remember those obvious ones). The investment I make into these relationships involves money, energy, and an extreme amount of time and caring. I give people my heart as though it was that crappy tootsie-roll wannabe candy people on floats throw out during homecoming parades--with near-complete abandon and way too much trust. It's no wonder, then, that my heart ends up trampled and damaged on a fairly regular basis. I want to believe people will treat me the way I treat them...and since we're all humans, it's going to involve mistakes and disappointments. Lately I've been learning that someone I gave my heart to really didn't deserve it...and the consequences for this choice are still somewhat affecting me.

We're going to need to buy stock in Scotch tape on this one, folks....

The simple solution, at least for future avoidance of this painful problem, seems to be to just guard my heart with jealous abandon and stop giving it away. In fact, it's even Biblical--we are supposed to guard our hearts so that we aren't influenced by Satan's attacks and seductive promises.

Not too bad of a job, but even the National Guard gets a day off once in a while.

Still, for me to not invest myself in something I care deeply about, whether it be my career, my friends, my family, my faith, my relationships...it's just not me. God created me to be a person who loves, and loves deeply. Guarding my heart is fine, but closing it off to where I don't give of myself anymore...that's not an option.

So what am I supposed to do with this incredible spirit of devotion and passion within me? If I trust other people with it, I get hurt. If I trust only myself with it, I lose the blessings I receive from my successful interactions with others...and I waste the gift that it is. It rots on a shelf, the opportunities for sharing long gone and now nobody can receive anything beneficial from it. There doesn't seem to be a safe path...or is there?

Enter God. It seems so obvious, but it is also what I forget the most. God is more wise, powerful, loving, and gracious than anyone or anything in the universe and beyond. He sacrificed so much for me so I could have this relationship with Him. He wants my heart, my passion, my devotion, and it's not a fallible human relationship on His end. He will NEVER mistreat or mishandle the gift of my love and devotion...and the benefits of giving everything to Him are unending and truly amazing. God will guide me through the brambles of life, showing me where and whom I need to love...even if it may hurt. No matter what, God will always love me. I need to say that again. No matter what, God will always love me. If He is holding my hand, I can make it through the pain and strife in this frail human life. He's never going to let me down, betray me, or suddenly decide that He just doesn't have feelings for me anymore. I'm safe with Him. I can trust Him.

For once, there won't even be the awkwardness that always comes with my gigantic-sized hands--everything fits perfectly. Now if this could only translate to when I go shoe shopping....

I've had a burning desire for nearly all of my life to be a wife and a mother. I know God has given me the ability and temperament to be pretty darn good at both. For right now, though, I'm accepting that it's just not God's plan. He has things for me to do that I can do better as a single woman. All my projects, the ministries I'm involved in, the jobs I hold that help so many people--they all need time and attention that I would have to (and want to) give to a husband/family. In a way, it's hard for me to do this, give up fighting for this dream. In another way...it's incredibly freeing. The guilt, confusion, pain, and disappointment that comes with shattered dreams is only hindering me in what is a truly joyful existence. Instead of jealousy watching my married friends be held and loved by their husbands, I will be happy for them...and happy that I don't have to deal with twice the laundry and weird video game obsessions. If God grants my dream someday, I will joyfully accept the glass slipper and cry tears of happiness down the aisle. If not...then I will joyfully accept my independence and relax with a "perfect" husband that no mortal man can ever compete with.

So today I will use my passionate devotion to work on a few projects for my church, perhaps revise more of my novel, and maybe even finish the final storyboards for a children's book or two (and, of course, finish my grading/teaching prep for the week). Watch out, world...I'm going to love you. :)

A Christian Walk(through)

While I've never been very "into" video games, computer games have been a part of my life for over a decade. Things have changed a lot since the simplistic MS-DOS adventures--now there are complicated adventure, arcade, and strategy games to tickle my fancy. While most of the time I enjoy bumbling my way around these virtual worlds, figuring out puzzles and discovering the elusive paths to rewards, there are many times when I lose patience or am just a little too eager to reach the end of the game and find out "the ending." It's similar to my impulse I try to control when reading suspense novels--I want to flip to the back and find out whodunit. (Now, when I exercise enough restraint to keep plowing through the book instead, I often end up skimming the reading and staying up all hours of the night until I'm done. Not exactly a better option, although it depends on how you look at it.)

Enter the wonderful invention of walkthroughs. These are postings, sometimes with uber-helpful illustrations (screen captures) that describe, step by step, how to progress through the game. If I can't figure out just the right combination to the secret safe, the answer is just a google away. Annoyed that this "boss" won't keel over so I can rescue the cute, imprisoned kitty? A walkthrough will give me suggestions that usually work perfectly. My anxieties are over, and I can progress confidently, knowing that any future sticking points can be easily solved once again. If only real life could be this simple.

In real life, I'm often worried, confused, frustrated, and even scared. I've been constantly asking God for signs in many respects of my life. My job situation is a little shaky, thanks to the economy; I want a steady, full-time job with benefits. I don't like the insecurity that comes with working two part-time jobs that aren't permanent but rather contract-renewable. I don't like the insecurity of being in a "dating" relationship. I don't like the insecurity of being around people who don't know the meaning of "constructive criticism." I'm scared and frightened and want to flip forward in the book of my life to reassure myself that things are all going to work out. I want to know if it's worth the pain and drama of a long-distance relationship or if my current boyfriend and I are only destined to be friends. I want to know when I'm going to get that job, and if there are avenues I need to start pursuing now (like my PhD) in order to find that job. I beg God almost daily for signs, for revelations. I want concrete, undeniable (or at least certifiable) messages. Billboards would be nice. I want to google my life, find the walkthrough, and examine how to best get through this tricky maze. Then I get frustrated because nothing's popping up, which makes me more scared...and it turns into a vicious cycle.

Like most times in a game (this one being Life, and not the Hasbro version) when I can't see the way out, I realize I've been looking in the wrong place the whole time. God has given me a walkthrough, but I've been ignoring it in favor of things that I think I must do or will help me escape from the painful reality. It's the obvious answer: the Bible.

Now, I'm not saying that all the answers are explicitly in there. Nowhere does it say, "Tamara, you will be married in three years, have five children (keep the youngest away from bees--trust me on that one), be a published author after your 29th rejection, and will be a New York Times Bestselling Author on your third book." It does say a few things about my namesakes, but those two stories are...for another day. :) What the Bible does provide is exactly what I've been asking for: Revelations. Although I am an English professor and enjoy playing around with symbolism occasionally, this book is not what even I, the girl who reads the Oxford English Grammar for fun, would call a satisfying and understandable read. I get all caught up in the minutia of horns and seals and colorful horses that I forget the big picture. It's a walkthrough, and the ultimate ending is there for me to know in black-and-white: God wins. Satan loses. Enter peaceful eternity.

My "minutia" seems enormous to me, but in the scope of eternity, whether or not I get a full-time job or end up marrying my boyfriend is practially insignificant. My jobs, as my pastor says, are primarily to love God, love people, and enlarge Heaven (by leading others to Christ). If I take my focus off my problems and worries and instead focus it on God, I can find that peace and reassurance that I've been searching for. In the end, God wins. In the end, it is HIS will. In the end, He is in control. I just need to focus on what is right in front of me and let God take care of the rest. He's got it. I need to trust Him.

An Awkward First...

Tonight I went to my first birthday party. Granted...there might have been party or two in my very young past, but I don't really remember much about them and so I don't really count them. I've been invited to a handful...but I don't usually go. Tonight I expected to spend about an hour singing a very familiar song, watching people eat cake, and then go home to talk to my boyfriend (long-distance relationship) and do some grading. Instead, I got schooled on birthday fun.

I must say that my favorite parts of the evening weren't the quick chats with new and good friends, or even learning a new card game with my pastor and several other women. It was playing with the babies. I adore children...and hanging out with the pastor's kids really reminded me of just how much I miss being with them on a regular basis. Kids just fill this hole in my heart. Maybe it's knowing I'm very much needed, desired, appreciated. Little ones are good at showing that. :)

I did have a good time. I did feel rather awkward at times. While I had my excuses--ranging from a very long day at work, being around a lot of people (I get overwhelmed in crowds), dealing with fibromyalgia symptoms, and feeling rather exhausted--most of it was due to me not really knowing how to deal with these people. They were all from the church, so I was watching what I said and did (some jokes fell flat quickly, and then I just didn't know what to say). I felt intimidated by the overexuberant personality of my pastor, something that usually makes me smile but tonight made me feel like I wanted to withdraw. Then again, I have been going through a self-isolation phase, where I desire to be alone or just with a small group of a select few.

I was so worried about doing or saying the wrong thing, figuring out how to interact with people, and trying to hide my social anxieties that I forgot the most important part of fellowship: relaxing and trusting the people around me. They weren't going to judge me because I got frustrated learning a new game or if I hadn't gotten up in time to avoid breaking a chair (talk about uber embarrassing). Instead of taking a deep breath, being myself, and laughing and having a good time, I put on a mask and dropped details to get across that I wasn't quite myself and shouldn't be pushed into things. It worked, for the most part, if by working it meant that I felt awkward and was grateful for an excuse (grading) to eventually leave.

I was honest, but not in the right way or for the right reasons. I could argue very well that my behavior was understandable....but understandable doesn't equate being right. Let's face it, folks--I'm human and I screwed up again. :)

If there's another party that I happen to get invited to, I'll have to be brave. I'll have to stop hiding behind my tiredness, my fears, my anxieties and just let myself shine, both the good and the bad. If I'm truly to bond with these members of the church, if I'm seriously thinking about taking a step towards membership myself for the first time, then I need to be trusting in God. He'll make sure that while I may not be the life of the party (who can outshine Pastor John...really?), I can be a well-burning candle among the festive midst.

Blank Directional Signs

I have been praying for signs. This is different than when I'm usually praying for signs--when I'm lost in a new (or old) town and can't seem to figure out if my directions meant Main Street or Main Drive (don't even get me started on GPS--driving in Chicago was not fun). I've been praying for God to give me a sign of my future employment, what will determine the next few months of my life. I didn't ask for wet wool on dry ground, or even a baby deer sighting (leftover from a sign I asked for in 5th grade--and got). I simply let the sign be of God's design.

I haven't had a clear directional shout, but I have had confirmation that God has a sense of humor when it comes to teaching me patience.

Hardly any of the schools I have applied to work at have contacted me to let me know of either my rejection or approval, and phone calls have yielded only lukewarm results: we're starting the process now, and should be picking people shortly. My other option was to work part-time (but full-time work) at a local community college which pays insultingly low salaries to adjunct professors. This is my back-up plan, my safety net in case God's choice is to keep me here in my hometown. I'd also work my full-time job on the weekends to keep benefits (meager as they are). If God intends for me to stay in this small town, then I am "prepared." I am also jumpy as a skittish housecat during an electrical storm as I work my way through these last remaining weeks of the school semester.

My boss at my full-time job announces that I might have a brand new client to care for soon, one who will require a lot of lifting and a lot of routine changes. I'm not that fond of change--God, is this a sign that my time at this job is over and I'm going to be moving on? My mother gives away some of the furniture that she was saving for me when I move out. God, is this a sign that I'm going to continue living here for at least another year? A good friend of mine is probably moving back to the Midwest and could use a roommate when she gets here. God, am I heading off to live with her, working in some college while she does her travel agency work? A friendly undergraduate remarks on how much he is going to miss me if I leave and really wants me to stay. God, am I still needed here to help some of these undergrads and former students? Every circumstance, every happening, from finding out I could get used to living at home without going to school (staying here) to packing up kitchen supplies for my own home someday (leaving) is being obsessively examined for clues. I look over my life with a magnifying glass, breathing a prayer for wisdom to spot the nefarious anomaly that will solve my future-seeking dilemma once and for all.

God has got to be chuckling over this. At least shaking His head and wondering what He's going to do with me.

I'm finding that fear is creeping in as the semester eeks away. I will soon be graduated. A non-student adult. My identity, for better or for worse, will be changed. Uncertainty is leading to a discomfort that I push down, deep inside, pretending that it isn't there and that I have faith enough to move mountains of doubt. Truth is, I'm getting nervous. Perhaps my back-up plan is God's sign, and I've just dismissed it. Perhaps all these mixed signals are just designed to test my faith. So far, I'm not sure I'm passing.

My prayer for today is this: God, teach me how to listen to You. Let me know what it is that You want for me, and help me to be patient and wait for that answer.

If nothing else, just keep me sane for finals. :)