New Blog

I've got a new life, so I started a new blog. I haven't been blogging much, and I really think it's because I needed to let go of my past and start over. I know that sounds weird (I mean...seriously...it's just a blog), but this blog is tied to a lot of hard times, and whenever I came here to post anything, I felt a little to close to all of the raw emotion. (Again, I realize this is irrational. It just is what it is.)

I will always be thankful for how God worked through me and allowed me to process with Grace Gets Greater. So if you want to keep up with my life, or read more of my crazy ramblings, please join me at my new blog! Thank you to anyone who encouraged me through this blog in the last few years. God has blessed me with you all, and I hope you will enjoy The Main Squeeze!

If It Ain't Broke

The Green Demon refused to start this week. It made for a very bad day.

The Green Demon is a 1995 Subaru Legacy that The Scientist has been driving for about a year. It's my parents' car. They had it laying around, and when a need came up, they were happy to share. But it's a really old car, and as most really old cars are, it's unpredictable in the whole "actually working" department.

Monday, it wouldn't start at all. We decided the time was right to get a different vehicle, even though the thought of a new payment wasn't all that appealing. We could afford it, but it would mean a much tighter budget and no more sushi. Neither of those sounded appealing. Nevertheless, we set out car shopping. Then, over the course of the day, we were hit with what my father refers to as a "gotcha." It's something that seems to come at you from left field, and Gotchas are usually game changing. They are the things that happen that you can't really plan for, and are never ready to deal with. They are your washing machine going out when your paycheck didn't electronically deposit or your savings having to be spent on a freak medical issue that you didn't realize you had. It's the kind of gut punch that leaves you trying desperately at the end of your day to count your blessings, because surely in this giant mess of crap, you still have some somewhere.

This one was most certainly a Gotcha, and it meant that buying a car would have to be put on an indefinite hold. We made our way home in silence, trying to get to somewhere in our heads that didn't involve mentally curling up in the fetal position. It was a long drive home.

The next day, my father spoke up and suggested that we just continue to fix the Green Demon. "It's bought and paid for, and as long as it's not a huge fix, you might drive this thing for another two years...or even 10 years! It's a good car if we just try to keep it running." So that's the plan, for now. We're thankful for the providence, and have mentally added it to the list of our blessings.

And then, at 5 this morning, I couldn't sleep and had a rather insane need to write. It's no secret that I've been in brokenness for the last few years. It's no secret that I've been angry at God. It's no secret that I've made mistakes and done things I wish I could take back. But something amazing has been happeneing to me in the past year. God has been moving past all of the brokenness in a healing effort. He's been using it in my career as a therapist, and I'm seeing so many ways that I am so much more effective at my calling because of my life experiences. He's right smack dab in the middle of using all of this mess for GOOD, and Praise Jesus that He has the power to make that happen.

But I was hit with something early this morning. There are some people who still only see my brokenness. I realized that it's this way with so many Christians. They look at people and see their brokenness before anything else. I spent a lot of my time with Christians like this. For many years, I was this Christian. But God has changed me, and I'm realizing that His vantage point is a bit different. Yes, he sees the brokenness. Yes, he sees the mess. Yes, he sees the long road of healing ahead. But before any of that, He sees the person's worth. He sees someone He loves, and He sees someone He sent his son to die for: the meek, the broken, the weary, the weird, and the wild.

We spend entirely too much time judging the brokenness of others, when what we are called to do is love them for their inherent worth. Christians, in my experience, are the worst at this. If you want to be judged by your actions and looked down upon by your peer group, hang out with a bunch of over zealous Christians who are trying to win favor with God.

I want to play with the people who get it, who can see WHO Christ died for before they see WHY He had to. I want to be the person who encounters someone's brokenness and is unphased by how far they have to go, because I know a God who calls them worthy of redemption along the way. I want to worship with other Christians who are redefining the societal view of Christianity by loving others in their primary language. People everywhere are broken, and people everywhere need healing. But I've learned something:

It doesn't matter that you are broken. It only matters that you are paid for.

Equipment Failure

***My father might kill me for sharing this story. But I'm going to big fat do it anyway. Ask for forgiveness not permission, right? Love you, DAD!***

Over the years my father has had a lot of hobbies. He's an avid cyclist, and every year for his birthday he rides the same number of miles as he is old. He could probably give Lance Armstrong a run for his money. And years ago, he enjoyed motorcycles. But he's had one passion since I was a little girl that still sends a look of amazement and wonder across his face: flying. He has recently reignited this passion and it reminds me of a fun little story.

When I was a little girl, I'm guessing about 11 or 12 judging from the frizzy hair and pudgy awkwardness I exhibit in all of the pictures from this era, my dad had his pilot's license. He had worked hard to earn it, logged a ton of flight hours in the sky, and at the culmination of this perseverance, he purchased a green four-seater plane.

I hated it.

I was proud of my dad for getting his pilot's license, and it was super cool to "own a plane" but I HATED flying! I got motion sickness, and in a tiny plane like his, you feel every single little bump of wind, smell nothing but fuel the entire time, and experience a continuous, loud, vibrating hum that zips through your body for the duration of the flight. My father's passion was the bane of my existence for the whole of the awkward pudgy years.

Which leads me to my story.

One year my parents decided to take the family on a vacation to Gulf Shores Alabama. It's about 10 hours away by car. But we were bold and daring, and my father had new flight equipment to try out! So we crammed into the tiny cockpit of the "Green Machine of Misery" and took off into the blue sky for the FAMILY VACATION OF A LIFETIME! (Insert sarcasm and foreshadowing here.)

We flew. And we flew. And we flew. And I got dizzy, nauseous, cold, and clammy. And then we flew some more. As we neared the end of the day, there was some generally unnerving chatter occurring between my parents, and a map had appeared from the tiny glove box. From my position in the plane behind "Captain Daddy" I noticed my father doing a lot of looking outside the window at the ground, and a lot of my mother, "The Navigator" turning the map around a lot while pointing at things out the window. But because of the incessant hum of the engine, I couldn't tell what was going on. However, the back of Captain Daddy's head and the frequency and ferocity at which The Navigator was rotating the map were communicating a very clear message. Something was amiss. My sister, The Quiet Reader (AKA "Mom, Sara's Looking At Me Again"), must have noticed as well, because she had abandoned her book and was now also watching the backs of our parents' heads with a quizzical look on her face.

About the time I was getting ready to get good and scared, Captain Daddy spotted a runway and we began to come in for a landing. I relaxed as much as a pudgy awkward airsick kid could relax and took solice in the fact that we would be out of the Green Machine of Misery soon. I felt the jolt in my stomach as our altitude decreased and then the bump underneath us as the plane's wheels made contact with the precious ground....we rolled to a stop....and then blue lights started flashing and men with air traffic control sticks began making angry gestures in our general direction.

I panicked.

"Daddy, what's wrong?!?! What's happening??? Why are they sending police cars after us? Why are those men angry at us? WHAT DID YOU DO????"

It's the only time in history that I recall my father actually yelling at me to "SHUT UP!!!!"

We exited the plane, they ushered us into a lobby, and my father was taken into a back room with a bunch of angry men who looked very official. Apparently, in an effort to get us to Gulf Shores, Alabama where there is a small, private airport for small, privately owned planes, Captain Daddy had suffered an "equipment failure" and landed The Green Machine of Misery at the Pensacola National Airport...you know....the one where commercial planes land and air traffic control clearance or some sort of special authorization to land are required. Since we were not a commercial plane and we didn't have air traffic control clearance or some sort of special authorization to land, my father was in a tiny room. Possibly under arrest. Definitely in serious trouble.

My sister resumed reading. The Navigator, I'm fairly certain, was praying. But I was stewing, still indignant that my father had told me to shut up.

A little while later, Captain Daddy sheepishly walked out of the room followed by the angry man. They shook hands, exchanged forced pleasantries, and we were ushered back into the Green Machine of Misery where my father gave me explicit instructions that I was to sit back there and be quiet. No one said a word. We took off again, and were on our way, armed with very precise directions to the small private airport in Gulf Shores. I found out later that the angry man really could have had my father arrested, as he had been forced to delay large airplanes due to us puttering into their airstrip uninvited. But he was gracious and chose to look the other way.

As it turned out, we weren't that far off from the airport we were supposed to land at, and I learned, years later, that my father had been communicating with the correct control tower, he was simply at the wrong landing strip. Nevertheless, we got to Gulf Shores and went on to have the worst vacation in family history, a mere 15 Green Machine of Misery hours away from home. Ten by car.

I'm sure my father apologized for yelling at me to Shut Up, and though this was roughly 20 years ago, we are just now able to talk about this entire incident with a touch of laughter, as Captain Daddy doesn't seem to enjoy the story as much as the rest of us.

But as is the case with nearly all of my blogs, there is a moral to the story, so here it is:

Sometimes, in life, you will have an equipment failure. Sometimes you will simply lose your way. And sometimes, when it happens, someone is there, ready to give you Grace.

But no matter what, even if it's faster, even if it's cheaper, even if Jesus himself is flying the plane,

you should always, ALWAYS, DRIVE.

You Can't Go Home Again

I recently attended a going away party for a friend who is moving to a tropical island so her husband can go to medical school. Her life is hard. Please pray for her. ;)

Anyway, this party consisted of a ton of people I used to go to church with a.k.a. people who have practically known me my entire life. I'm fairly certain that a small handful of people there changed my diapers at one point in time, and I know for a fact that they have all seen me at one time or another do the ugly cry. I have years of history with these people, but after my divorce from Ex, I wanted a new beginning. I moved about 30 minutes away and stopped going to this church. I now keep up with most of these people via facebook.

Because I'm from a small town, word gets around fast. When I married and divorced The Asshole That Shall No Longer Be Named, the entire community heard the news that I had obviously lost my shit and spiraled out of control. I can only imagine the thoughts and possible conversations that took place when this news came out. I mean...for a while there, I really had lost it. I was making terrible decisions. I was really unhealthy. I was kind of crazy.

But here's the thing...it was just for a little while. I made a bad decision, but I also made it right. I was acting really unhealthy, but I'm not anymore. I was kind of crazy. Now I'm using my past for God's purpose for me. But I got the distinct impression at this party that several of these people don't see that. At one point in time a conversation took place between me and someone who I have always loved and admired...and it sort of broke my heart.

When she asked me what I'm doing now, I replied that I am a counselor and building a practice in the area. Her eyes widened...she stumbled on her words...and then her husband walked up. She told him I was a counselor now. I think her exact words were, "Did you know Sara is a counselor now?" Pretty tame, right? But her tone, the widened eyes, and his expression upon hearing what I was up to these days communicated a message somewhat akin to "Sara's a counselor now?!?!?! But she's CRAZY!" And then this woman made a half hearted attempt to suggest that maybe I might be a good counselor because I've been through stuff.

But she obviously didn't believe it.

And again, it broke my heart. It's not that I need these people to approve of me. My life is just fine with or without their support. I have a network of people that love me and GET ME...and it's really not necessary for these people on the outskirts to believe in what I'm doing or the fact that I am actually good at it. What actually breaks my heart isn't that these people who I have known my whole life don't believe in me. What really gets to me is the lack of grace, the lack of compassion, and the inability to see past their misconceptions and the unwillingness to even try.

Situations like this make me thankful that it's God's grace that purposes my journey and not the perceptions of others. I made a mess of my life there for a good solid year. I got myself into hot water and made things harder that didn't have to be. But because of that same level of sickness in my life, I now know a deeper sense of security, and greater wealth of healing, a heavenly magnitude of mercy, and the white knuckle grip of grace.

People say you can't go home again, and this experience has made that phrase come to life for me. It was uncomfortable...unwelcoming...unpleasant...a place where who I used to be seemed to win over who I actually am. The people of my past may never be able to look past my mistakes. They may never be able to see the healing that has taken place in my life. And quite honestly, they may just not care. It's a hard pill to swallow, but isn't that just the case with humanity sometimes?

The truth is, I could have avoided all of that pain and hardship by simply making a better decision on the front end. Then no one would think I'm crazy. No one would raise their brows at my desire to help others. No one would have anything at all to say about anything. But that's not what happened and as a result I now know two things:

1. People still think I'm sick, crazy, or broken,

and

2. God will go to the very deepest depths of despair to meet me in my sickness, to find me in my craziness, and to accept me in my brokenness,

just so He can bring me back home again.

The Finish Line

It was late 2007 when Ex and I split up, and around that same time when I began to think long and hard about what I wanted my life to look like. I was in sales at the time and hated every minute of it. I was good at it. I could build relationships quickly, people liked me, and I could put up some impressive numbers when I really wanted to put in the effort. But most of the time, I hated what I was doing, so my effort was limited. Then, in the spring of 2008, it hit me in the middle of a praise team practice that I was supposed to go back to school to get my masters and be a therapist. And just like that, I was in motion. I applied to the Master of Marriage and Family Therapy program and got accepted to begin in the fall of 2008. There were plenty of reasons not to go. It would mean taking time away from my beautiful baby boy, and it would cost a lot of money. It would take a lot of effort, and well...it would suck.




In late August, 2008, I parked my car in front of Greathouse Science, the building where I would spend A LOT of time over the next couple of years. It's an older, red brick building, and the floor mat as you walk in the basement level double doors smells like a wet dog. There was a girl walking in at the same time as me. She asked if I knew what room we were in. In a moment of sheer departure from character, I whipped out my planner and glanced at the note that I had jotted down about the room number, which happened to be on the fourth floor. It was strange for me to be so organized and on top of things. (And I learned later, that it's CRAZY out of character for her to NOT be organized and on top of things.) But we huffed our way up four flights of stairs and she seated herself at my left side.

That day, this girl and I went to lunch at Subway, because neither of us knew anyone else. Little did I know that she would become one of the greatest girlfriends that anyone could ever ask for, and I had no idea that we would walk up those stairs and sit just like that for the next 2 and a half years. But we did. Every class...every lecture...every step of the way. We are different in more ways than we are alike. She's structured and organized. I am not. She is a planner and prefers details. I am not. But we forged a friendship that I honestly don't know if I would have survived grad school without. This is partly because she became my support system, and partly because I stopped buying the books during the second year of school and she panicked about my complete lack of preparation and unfailingly made copies for me. Some might say she is an enabler. I say she's a DAMN. FINE. FRIEND.

We graduated today. And during the (really...insanely....obscenely) long commencement service, as they were calling name after name of people I'd never met, I realized she was sitting on my left side. Again. And always. And I was reminded that I am one lucky chick. She is, without question, the biggest perk of getting a Masters degree.

There were plenty of good reasons to get my Masters. I felt like God had created me with a purpose, and now, more than ever, I realize that purpose is to offer healing in the lives of other people. I knew ever so slightly what healing looked like in 2008, but PRAISE JESUS, I KNOW HEALING NOW. I know what it's like to be my own biggest stumbling block, to invite toxicity into my life, to breathe in and breathe out in order to survive and do no more, and to mess up time and time again. But I also know HEALING. I know what it's like for God to extend his Grace, for Jesus to be enough, and for the finger of God to pull back the curtain on my shame so that I might again see a glimpse of the beautiful woman he created me to be. I have both spit in His face and curled up in His lap more times than I can possibly count. And whatever I was doing, being a bratty child or a tender heart, He received me with Grace. He ALWAYS receives me with Grace. Because that's MY God. And I can say with complete peace, that I know Him now.

There were plenty of great reasons to take this path, and at various times there were plenty of pretty great reasons to step off it. But one thing kept me going. Just one, very small thing. In 2008 I woke up to a life where it was just me and E. And I knew there would never be a better time for me to embrace education so that one day I could provide a better life for him, be more available to him, and do great things that might leave my son with a living legacy. It took a lot of sacrifice. I dropped him off at a grandparent's house more times than I can count. (And by the way, if you are one of those grandparents...I owe you. 'Thank you' will never be enough.) I left work many nights only to go to class instead of home to him, and on more occasions than I care to admit, someone other than me picked him up from school. So many times I felt guilty for sacrificing my time with him, but I kept reminding myself that SOMEDAY it would be worth it all. Someday, this process would end, and I would have opportunities to create a better life for us than I could back then.

"Someday" is here. Because today, I graduated with a Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy. The irony of this is still pretty tough for me to swallow, but when I actually started working with people in my internship, I realized that I had something special to offer them. I am able to offer understanding and empathy to a degree that I would never be able to if I had not had to WALK HEALING. He really does make all things good. And I have waited two and a half years for this picture:

the one with my degree in my right hand...

and the reason for it in my left.

"Vitality shows not only in the ability to persist, but the ability to start over."

~F. Scott Fitzgerald

A Tale of Two Women

For a while, God and I weren't on speaking terms as much as we just generally passed each other in the hallway and tried to avoid eye contact. Well...ok...that was just me. But you get the point. However, in the last 6 weeks or so, He's been loving on my spirit, and I've slowly been allowing it to happen, begrudgingly at first and then, lately, with abandon. But there's a price to pay for allowing God's mercies to seep back into your soul, and that price is, in my world, known as "self-awareness." And while it's ALWAYS a good thing in the end, sometimes it feels a bit like wiping your ass with damp toilet paper. Icky.

Two and a half years ago I started this blog and named it Grace Gets Greater, because at that particular moment in my life, I was surviving on absolutely nothing but the Grace of God. I had just come off a very painful divorce from Ex, and found myself each day trying to find the old pieces of my life that were scattered around and working with exhausting ferociousness to connect them to the new pieces. It didn't always work out so well...Lord, help me...but today, there's a pretty calm peace settled over me, and life is good. However...

There's been one pretty big piece from my old life that's been looming in my new life, and it doesn't fit, it doesn't feel good, and I'm tired of pretending that it's not there. I've been struggling with it for two years, and my renewed connection with God has brought this to the forefront so that I can no longer pretend it doesn't bother me. During the mess of my divorce a few years ago, someone involved in that process caused a great deal of pain and hurt in my life. Their presence in my life has continued on a limited, but unavoidable, basis, and it's become increasingly obvious to me over the last few months, that my peace and sanity, and perhaps more importantly, the peace and sanity of my son, depend on righting this wronged relationship.

I can't adequately express in a blog just HOW TALL AN ORDER THIS IS.

You see, for the last couple of years my pain has found a tiny bit of solice in the arms of karma. She's fast, loose, dependable...and known for being quite a bitch. I've kind of been counting on her. When all else fails, Karma will sweep in and right the wrongs...set the record straight...and shine light into the dark corners. In several moments of shattered weakness, she has been my only strength. And again...I HAVE BEEN COUNTING ON HER.

But in the past couple of weeks, God reintroduced me to my long lost friend...someone that had drifted from my memory like a facebook friend from grade school. Grace showed up again with her bag of tricks that, at first glance, seem benign. But as she opens the bag, they come tumbling out, an unending array of novelties, like Mary Poppins and her carpet bag of surprises. They were all there...kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, compassion, and the one that she carries so well, forgiveness.

I realized recently that while both of these women have obvious appeal, this heart isn't big enough for both of them. I've been best friends with Karma for a good long while now, only to learn that she is harsh, bitter, and selfish. And my, oh my, how I have missed Grace. The truth is that we all screw up...we all, for moments at a time, turn into people that we don't recognize...we all should have done it differently...and we all have it coming. Karma used to tell me that vengeance was my right. Grace tells me that forgiveness is my privilege.

Grace is my steadfast truth. Karma is...has always been... the other woman.

Modern Day Miracles

I get to people watch a lot from behind the bar. Most of the time it's just business men drinking or an occasional bachelor party. And most of the time I tune everything out and just get through the night. Every now and then I have a good conversation. And once in a while, I make a friend. But last night something happened that blessed me in a way that I haven't experienced in a good long while.

I first met Wilbur and Karen in January. They are about my parents' age and Wilbur was mad at me before he ever knew my name. We were out of Ribeye that night, and he was simply disgusted that a hotel such as ours would run out of an entree such as Ribeye. I tried to make it better with vodka, but it only worked marginally. He was ill. I will admit to plenty of muttering under my breath and thinking about what he could do with that steak knife...until his son walked up to me and said, "I'm sorry about my dad. My brother is in the hospital and he's really stressed out. He really doesn't mean it."

Immediately my heart melted and I felt the uncontrollable need to give them free cheesecake. That always helps, right? So the next night, when Wilbur and Karen returned, without their son, I talked to them longer and learned their other son, Eric, was in the hospital with aplastic anemia. He was 34 and facing the fight of his life. His brother had come to town to see if he was a bone marrow match as finding a donor would be his best opportunity for healing. Over the next few days I watched as the couple came rolling in each night, worry on their faces, determination in their voices, and Ribeye in their bellies. (High five to my hotel for actually getting their shit together.)

They kept me up to speed with the treatment Eric was getting at the hospital. He would need to be stripped of all of his bone marrow, lots of toxic medicines, days upon days in sterile rooms hosed down with bleach, and lots of endless question marks. His brother, sadly, was not a match, so he faced an aggressive treatment with only a sliver of hope on the other side. Every night, while he was sleeping in his sterile room, I fed Wilbur and Karen calamari and steak, vodka and wine. We talked. They asked about my life, which I felt almost embarrassed to share knowing they were going through such hard times. But I got to KNOW them. They told me how Wilbur's first wife (Eric's mom) had died in a car accident and how that had made Eric angry at God. But they KNEW that God would find him again and maybe this, the sickness and the fear, would get his attention. They talked about their granddaughter, their brilliant ray of sunshine, in such a gray world. They laughed as openly as a couple that had just come from the store instead of the hospital. They smiled and encouraged one another, and at some point, the LET ME IN.

What they didn't know about me, was that I was having my own struggles with God. I hadn't felt spiritually connected in a long time, and had really begun to question just how big God's involvement in my own life really was. They had no idea that as they talked about prayer and miracles that in my own mind I was questioning whether or not God really cared...or whether or not prayer would work...or whether it mattered at all. It was a spiritually dry place that had been suffocating my soul for months. And as they talked about their faith, on the inside I ached for it. Nevertheless, I said a few prayers for them...out of respect...out of affection...out of habit.

After a while they went home to West Virginia and every few weeks I would watch as they turned the corner into the restaurant, always nervous about why they were back, and always armed with wine and vodka for the purposes of either celebration or alcohol induced sleep, as the case demanded.

Last night something special happened. I was watching American Idol with Kenny, the Coors Lite drinker for Cincinnati, when I saw Wilbur and Karen come into the restaurant. I got nervous. Why were they back? What had happened? Was Eric ok? I watched nervously as they sat down at the bar, my eyes wide with anticipation of what they were about to say.

"You're back?" I asked anxiously.

"Yep! And do we have a story for you!" Wilbur said. "Pour me a vodka and get ready for this..."

I poured a glass of Grey Goose and Karen said, "We're not even staying at this hotel. You guys didn't have any rooms. But when we found out about this we knew we had to stop by and tell you."

And they told me the story of a miracle. Actually...several miracles. Several years back, Eric had a friend that died of Leukemia, and he was so inspired by her journey with the illness that he decided to donate stem cells. The stem cells were given to a family with a young child, also suffering from Leukemia. And then they were forgotten about. Now, unbeknownst to Wilbur, Karen, and Eric, his Dr. had been searching for those stem cells only to discover that they had never been used by the young child, because miraculously, the child had gone into remission. And miraculously, the family was found. And miraculously, they were willing to relinquish the stem cells back to Eric's Dr. And miraculously, those stem cells, which Eric had donated to save a life,

WILL BE USED TO SAVE HIS OWN.

Wilbur and Karen credit prayer and give God every ounce of glory. Eric has said he's ready to talk to his pastor again. And last night, behind the bar, with a bottle of Grey Goose in my hand, my eyes welled up with tears of celebration and silently I prayed,

Ok God. You have my attention.

Walk Softly and Carry A Big Stick

There's a scene in the Swiss Family Robinson where a zebra is stuck in quicksand struggling to get out. The two oldest sons and the girl that they rescued from the pirates spend a while trying to get the animal out of the muck until finally the zebra is freed. Then, because what else would you do with a zebra, they ride it home. Obviously.

This scene popped into my head this week while I was doing therapy with a client. I may not have mentioned on here, but I'm neck deep in my grad school internship at the moment, which means that several days a week I sit across from people on a one on one basis and watch as they pour out their guts, cry out their eyes, and generally make sense of their issues. I LOVE IT. For awhile I felt like all of the brokenness in my life meant that I was a failure. Now I just think God will use the brokenness by letting me watch (and hopefully using me) as he heals the brokenness of others. It's a humbling experience, to say the least, but I'm incredibly excited for this next phase of life. Anyway, I was working with a client this week and she was describing something that many describe when they are faced with struggles. She felt stuck. Her world was crashing down on her. She was sinking. And no matter what, she felt there was no way out.

I found myself during the session picturing the zebra in the quicksand, struggling to get free and sinking down even farther. And because I have also been in this stuck...world crashing down...no way out place, I knew the feeling of despair that sits on your soul when you are there. So that day, when I got home, I googled "how to get out of quicksand." The result was shockingly therapeutic. There are a couple of different lists out there with various bullet points of helpful hints. My favorite is "walk softly and carry a big stick," because really...how many things can you not solve by walking softly and carrying a big stick. Damn near nothing.

But the basics of quicksand survival are as follows:

1. Remain Calm
2. Shed excess weight
3. Keep as still as possible until your feet reach solid ground
4. Move or swim with slow, deliberate motions.
5. Work in the direction of the last known bit of solid ground.
6.Pull yourself out.

As I read through this list, it seemed so fitting for these places in life where we struggle and feel nothing but sinking dread and despair. I thought about times in my life when I didn't know the answers, couldn't hear God's guiding, felt angry or confused, and generally wanted to give up, throw in the towel, call it a day, or take my ball and go home. What would happen if I had simply:

Remained calm: reminded myself that in this moment I was breathing in and then breathing out with perfectly timed rhythm...that right here, right now, I am O.K...

Shed excess weight: cast aside the things that were weighing me down...said no to overwhelming commitments, asked for help, called a friend, or asked God to bear the burden...

Kept as still as possible: not made decisions out of fear, waited for God's timing, been patient with the possibilities, asked for understanding, or prayed for confirmation and wisdom...

Moved with slow deliberate motions: lived intentionally instead of reactively, moved forward with purpose, been driven by a spirit of direction instead of chaos...

Worked toward the last known bit of solid ground: remembered God's real presence in my life and invited that back to me instead of floundering on my own, centered my spirit instead of living in urgency, allowed God to find me instead of looking, hunting, scavenging...

Pulled myself out....by the arms of grace instead of by my own will...

What would have happened? And what might happen in the future if when I'm stuck, sinking, floundering, and the world is crashing down that I remember these tips for survival? Will the muck and the mire win?

Or, like the zebra, will I find myself safely heading home?

Peaks and Valleys and Turning 30

In 14 days I turn 30. I always thought I would dread this time in my life, because isn't that what people are supposed to do to mourn the death of their twenties? But I can't wait to walk through this particular doorway. I feel like my twenties have been one giant ball of confusion, a misstep at life almost. And while I'm meeting 30 with a new bag of questions to explore, I'm excited about what's next. While life is still a question mark to me, I feel that the grit and grind of life is slowly being sifted away, like I have survived the pain and the hurdles, like I am standing on the peak of the mountain of my youth.

During the summer of 2000, I participated in a summer mission project in South Lake Tahoe, California. The summer involved a lot of spiritual growth, learning to share the gospel, and working in the area. Some of the students I was on project with had cool jobs like working at the Ponderosa Ranch where they had filmed the show Bonanza. Others got to work on the Tahoe Queen, a local riverboat.

I worked at McDonald's.

Not only did I work at McDonald's, but the location of our camp was about 6 miles from the store that I worked at. My car was in Tennessee. So I purchased a bicycle, and 5 days a week I rode 6 miles to McDonald's, took orders for burgers and fries for 5 or 6 hours, and then rode 6 miles back to camp. Now, I guess if you have to ride your bike to and from work, doing it in the beautiful city of Lake Tahoe isn't all that bad, because every day on the way home from work this was my view:

This is Mt. Tallac. It's the tallest mountain peak in Lake Tahoe at 3, 250 ft. It's known for it's "snow cross" which you can see here to the left of the mountain's summit. Even in the heat of the summer, the snow is visible in the cross shaped crevice, and all summer long I got to gaze at this beautiful creation.

However, in all the time I was gazing at this thing...I never thought I'd actually climb it.

All summer, a large portion of our group talked about climbing Tallac. The climbing rating by the United States Forest Service is "difficult" which means that it is a day's hike that should not be done alone and also should probably not be done by someone who gets winded walking up a steep flight of stairs. However, it doesn't require ropes or any kind of rock climbing experience. It's just a strenuous hike. A strenuous 5 mile, straight up the damn mountain, kind of hike. One day towards the end of the summer talking about hiking the mountain turned into actually doing it, and I found myself putting on my tennis shoes with two pairs of socks and packing a sack lunch.

Have I mentioned that I don't really enjoy hiking? There are bugs. And it is hard. And there is nothing to look at but nature. And it is hard. And after about 15 minutes, nature is boring. And...it is hard.

But I went. And after about 15 minutes, nature was boring, and I was tired of looking at my doubled socked feet. And I was getting nervous, because looking up to see how far there was left to go meant tipping your head all the way back until the bones in the back of your neck popped and being met with the sight of a 3,250 ft MOUNTAIN. But peer pressure is a funny thing, and because everyone else seemed to be enjoying hiking the big damn mountain, I put on my best "this is awesome" face and kept going. And going. And going. And going. For about 5 hours. There were bugs. It was hot. Phrases like "I can't do this" and "What was I thinking" and "I'm never going to make it" flashed through my mind on repeat. The landscape of the mountain turned from wildflowers and pebbles to evergreen and boulder. It got colder. I put on my fleece pullover and marveled at a family of deer. We stopped for a water break. And then we started climbing again. Up and up and up. And bit by bit by bit. And eventually I didn't have to tip my head so far back to see the peak of the mountain, because a little at a time, the peak of the mountain was getting closer. And closer. And closer. And then, I climbed over a giant rock, with patches of snow on the ground around me, and just like that, the peak of the mountain had come to meet me.

The top of the mountain was rocky, and our group began to snap pictures of the view below us.

It was breathtaking. Any way you turned you saw something spectacular. Emerald Bay and Fallen Leaf Lake were tiny from thousands of feet away, and I felt sorry for the people below us who were oblivious to the beauty that was escaping them from the safety of sea level. Standing on the the patch of rocky earth that formed the peak of that mountain was like being in such intimate conversation with God. Almost like he was letting me in on one of his many secrets, like he was giving me a glimpse of how big He was without ever saying a word. There was a deafening quiet on the top of that mountain, and I became so absorbed by the silence that I forgot every moment of "I can't do this" and "What was I thinking" and "I'll never make it." I forgot about the heat and the bugs and the hours that it took to get there. I forgot about the aches in my legs and the blisters on my feet, and the fact that my lunch had long ago abandoned me. All I heard was the silence of God's voice in my spirit saying "You did it. This is yours."

That single moment of peace was worth all of the pain and suffering and labor and effort it took to get there. Because for a brief moment in time, the world stood still, peace lived within me,
and God and I were on the same page of the story and the same peak of the mountain.

Turning 30 takes me back to that moment, because for all of the "What was I thinkings" and the "I'll never make its," I have found myself at the peak of my youth. Looking back, I remember the pain and the lost footing, and the longing to turn around and go back home. So many times felt like failure, and so many times felt like shame. But now that I am on the verge of living my better life, there is peace in this place. I can appreciate where I am, because I know where I have been. I can look back on the journey and say

"I did it. This is mine."

The One About Marriage....

So far I'm 0 for 2 on this whole marriage thing, which is, at the least slightly irritating, and at the most unbearably heartbreaking. Most days I occupy a small bit of space somewhere between the two, because that seems to be the easiest place to fly under the radar. It's also where acceptance and new beginnings frolic exhaustively with denial and self hatred...an interesting little game of freeze tag to say the least.

In the past month or so, there has been a tugging in my spirit for some peace about my history with marriage. It probably has something to do with the fact that I'm dating whom I believe to be one of the most precious human beings on the planet. And it probably has something to do with the fact that I would someday like to have more children. And it might just have something to do with the fact that I truly believe I will be a blessing as a wife to the right person. And, while we're pinpointing...it just might have something to do with the fact that I've spent the last 2+ years studying the ins and outs of relationships and how to give and take and make things work.

But combine all of those desires with two very misguided marriages and you get a girl who is a little (VERY) gun shy when it comes to the logistics of "til death do you part." Is it really possible for two flawed human beings to stay together and do so happily for THE REST OF THEIR LIVES?

I went into both of my marriages with the best of intentions, but the worst of reasons. I was in love. Well....I was in love the first time. I don't really know what I was the second time actually. Stupid, definitely. In love? Not so much. But the first time, I married someone that I believed (and still believe in a different way) that I had a soul connection with. At the time, I would have said we were soul mates. Our journey had multiple twists and turns prior to our marriage, but there seemed to be some kind of magnetic force that kept pulling us back together. Our relationship made no sense, but at the time, I couldn't see NOT being with him. I loved him, and I don't really question that for a time in his life he really loved me. We were young and impulsive and knew nothing of shattered dreams and broken promises. Our world was filled with possibilities and plans and the naive desires of two kids who were oblivious to the harsh reality that they had everything to lose. We spent a small number of years fumbling our way through "marriage" and then a more recent number of years trying to figure out how to not be married anymore. And somewhere in the mess of it all, this person that I knit my life to, though he really hasn't changed all that much, has turned into someone that I kind of know but barely recognize. The pieces of our story don't quite fit together anymore, but our child shuffles between them as proof that at one point in time there was a story to tell. It's like when a word or a sound or a taste or a smell triggers a memory so poignant that you find yourself reliving it, and yet at the same time you somehow managed to forget that the memory was ever there at all.

And then, for some reason I can boil down only to brokenness, I remarried someone who 90% of the time I didn't even like. It's weird what pain can make you do.

So here I am at the most intense level of introspection that I think I am capable of about to dig into the history of marriage in order to learn more about what made it work, what made it fail, and historically why people got married before "love" got involved. This process involves a lot of google searches and a book that I am about to go purchase and read fervently with my highlighter poised and ready to go. I've already discovered that the concept of marriage for love is in its infancy while "hey, I'll marry her because she has a goat" is the more historically accepted measure of marital success. I figure somewhere in between those two I'll find a wealth of healthy building blocks for marriage, and hopefully a little bit of peace and healing.

Because if I'm ever to do this again and feel good about it, it can't be just about love. And lord knows there's no room in this house for a goat. So here goes nothing....

Dearly beloved, brace yourself for impact.

Mark

Life has been good lately. I've had the last month or so off of school, so instead of running around crazy, I've actually had time to sit around the house and do a whole lot of nothing all that spectacular. It's been, in a word, amazing. My crazy schedule starts back next week, but I feel rejuvenated and ready to take on this last semester. I graduate in May...so the countdown is O.N. (I actually wish the word "on" had more letters in it so I could make that point even more emphatically. Two just didn't quite feel satisfying...)

Anyway, I've continued working at the bar which has been both interesting and frustrating for the past month. The bar that I work at is in a hotel that I may have mentioned before mainly caters to business travel. As you can imagine, most of our patrons head home for the holidays, so with the exception of New Year's Eve, for the last month I've been pouring drinks less often than I've been standing behind the bar and counting how many cars can drive by outside the floor to ceiling window during the amount of time it takes me to sing the chorus of "Glory of Love" in my head. The record is 13...in case you were curious.

The week after New Years brought a sigh of relief, because most of my regular guys were back. Paul got back in town and took his usual seat, drinking his usual Corona. Kenny came back from Cincinnati, Doug came back from Philly, and Mark came back from Houston.

Mark is here on business with a company that does very official IT business with a very official local corporation. He is probably in his mid to late 50's and often sports a salt and pepper 5 o'clock shadow that seems to argue "I'm masculine" while his eyes gently urge that he's kind. He always starts the night with a shot of Glenlivet on the rocks. He pays $15 a glass for the good stuff, insisting that the difference between the 12 year and the 18 year is like a prepubescent kid and John Wayne smoking a cigarette with a naked blond in the room. He carries around a quiet demeanor but exudes an aire of "get the job done." He's wealthy beyond measure, but he wears it like a man who at one point in time probably had to shovel manure in cowboy boots and 100 degree heat just to get his beat up pinto running again. I like him, because he drinks enough to come to the bar, but not enough to stop talking nice about his wife. Whenever he comes to the bar he starts by asking me how my day has been. And whenever he stands to go, he ends the night with, "Well, Sara....that's all for me."

Last week, he joined me in the bar and I poured his regular glass of scotch. A young man in a jeans and white t shirt sat beside him. I had never seen this guy before, and seeing as how he was leaving town the next day, I bothered only to get his name and the basic "What are you in town for" information. His name was Jim, and he was in town on business from Cincinnati. He was from Michigan, but his wife wanted to move to Ohio, so he did. His head was shaved, and he kept rubbing it like it itched. He drank a Bud Light and ordered a burger. When Mark sat next to him they began to chat. I brought their food and listened to them talk between moving around behind the bar refilling drinks. The talked about their wives...their kids....the game....business. For about an hour, they chit chatted like old friends, as perfect strangers in bars tend to do. I perched myself in front of them and listened to them talk about the holidays and found myself smiling. Then, as I gathered dirty plates and printed tabs for them to sign, Mark looked at me and smiled asking, "Sara, are you happy?"

And I felt my smile widen as I replied, "I really am." And Mark looked to his right at the young man sitting beside him and said, "I knew she was happy. That's why I asked that." Then he looked back at me, placed the ink pen back in the black check presenter, drank the last bit of scotch from the bottom of his glass, and said, "Well, Sara...that's all for me." And with that, he walked out of the bar.

I didn't really see it coming, but seeing as how it's visible from the other side of the bar, I must be wearing happiness well these days. It fits better than it used to....like a pair of jeans the day after you take them out of the dryer. Somehow I managed in this crazy life to make sense of motherhood, of grad school, of divorce, of work, of love. For the first time in almost 30 years, I feel that I am owning my life instead of it owning me. I feel like I have served my time in the trenches of confusion and made my peace with the demons there. And I feel like I have won....like I'm blessed....like I'm whole...like I'm doing this life thing right. Happiness used to be like a coat to put on when it was cold and take off when it wasn't. Now it's like an ember in my core, something that lights up inside of me when the wind hits it just right, and without any effort at all, suddenly I'm warm.

The journey hasn't been quite as smooth as a glass of 18 year scotch, but I'll drink in the life just the same...and well....that's all for me.

The Farting Cousin

Dear Farting Cousin,

Happy belated birthday. This blog's for you. I love you!

For the past three months I've been hiding a boyfriend from you all for reasons that, if you've been keeping up, should seem kind of obvious. I am the girl who cried "love." But that's a whole other blog in itself, and I promise to get there soon. Nevertheless, I recently found myself trying to school my bf, The Scientist, on my family, as he was getting ready to be included in our annual dirty santa gift card giveaway. I explained who was who and who would be there and who would be missing, and when it came time to tell him about my cousin I couldn't help but introduce her to him as "My Farting Cousin." I went on to tell him a story about why I have dubbed her with such a nickname. It goes like this:

A handful of years ago I found myself shopping with this particular cousin who is about 6 years younger than me. She and I bare a family resemblance, except that she is blond, buxom, and shall we say bootylicious. I am none of those things. But still....we look like cousins. We were in a major department store in between two racks of clothing when she came up to me quickly and muttered under her breath, "We gotta go. Move...go. Go now. We have to go."

I was confused as to why I had to suddenly drop the clearance priced sweater in my hand and get the hell out of dodge so I asked, "Um...ok...why?"

And the blond, buxom, bootylicious one replied with, "Fart and run, Fart and run." She had, evidently, lost control of her flatulence and left a rather unpleasant cloud of toxic vapor waiting for the next unsuspecting clearance shopper.

This isn't the only reason that I have nicknamed her My Farting Cousin. It's enough of one. But it's not the only reason. She is proud of her gas. On numerous occasions I have witnessed her lift one butt cheek from her chair in order to let a slow rumble emerge. And when she does it she laughs about as heartily as E does when he farts. And he's four. Our family suspects that she has an intolerance to gluten, because no blond, buxom, bootylicious young woman should produce such excessive amounts of gas, and yet she does...every time. It's got to be because of the gluten. And maybe the dairy...

But there's another reason that My Farting Cousin is so special. She isn't just blond, buxom, and bootylicious. She isn't just gassy. She isn't just good with kids or kind or funny. My cousin has been blessed with "it." I'm sure you know "it". It's the indescribable thing that some people have that can't be categorized. It has nothing to do with kindness or smarts or intentions or purpose. It's just "that thing" that you can't put your finger on or adequately quantify with words. It's an essence or an aura that reaches out from behind a bright smile or the sparkle in the corner of an eye that digs back behind your ribs and makes friends with your dark places. My cousin has the ability to light up a room simply by walking through it. She is by far the easiest person I have ever had the honor of being around, because she has the uncanny ability to quickly find her place in the room and fill it up with joy. And she does it effortlessly and without the slightest realization that she's doing it. "It" is what happens when a genuine spirit plays tag with easy laughter, an absence of judgment, and an open heart. The result of this sweet, unassuming, friendly little game is a person who drips little drops of sunshine into the path of every soul that she briefly brushes by. Someone like that is a gift to know, and my cousin is one of them. Wherever she goes, people are certain to be blessed.

As long as she hasn't had gluten. And possibly dairy.

Two Kinds of People...

The weather has turned a bit colder here in Tennessee, and last night was my first night back to work since the day before Thanksgiving. I had fallen into a very comfortable rut in the days following Thanksgiving of doing nothing but eating leftover stuffing and cream cheese apple cake, so it took slightly more momentum than I'd like to admit to get myself going again when Monday rolled around. I had spent the day at the counseling center talking to clients about depression, and boys, and boundaries, and....well....boys, and then it was time to head to the bar.

As I drove into the parking garage of the hotel, I noticed the color of the sky shifting towards the shade of gray that I associate with my pajamas and old lifetime movies. I knew that if it actually started raining it would be a busy night. So I went in, slid my key into the safe deposit box where my bank is kept, set out the half consumed bottles of scotch and red wine, and began slicing limes. SportsCenter was playing on the tv behind me, and before I knew it people started drifting over to the bar for a quick beer or a glass of whiskey and coke. I saw a few of my regulars. Paul joined me around 5pm, earlier than usual, but like always he drank a few coronas and ate a wedge salad. While he was there, Wayne came down for a glass of red, and Kenny stopped by for a quick beer before heading to the pub to watch Monday Night Football.

And then the bottom fell out of the sky, and rain pounded the pavement outside the floor to ceiling windows.

Within twenty minutes the bar and the restaurant filled with guests all asking for menus and requesting glasses of water and iced tea. As the bartender, one of my responsibilities is to answer the calls that come in for room service. I take the order, write it on a form, and then pass it off to the server on duty who puts it in the system and then delivers the order when it is ready to go up. Normally, this isn't an issue as the volume of guests is fairly manageable. However, last night was unlike anything I've ever seen. It was almost as if every guest in the hotel conspired against our dining staff, consisting of one server, one supervisor and me, and decided to descend upon the dining room all at one time.

As guests found seats wherever they could, the room service phone began ringing non stop. For the next two hours I juggled 6 dining tables of guests, 6 guests dining and drinking at the bar, and over 50 room service orders. I ran between tables refilling water glasses, grabbing silverware, filling ramekins with extra salad dressing or extra tomatoes, refilling wine glasses, making martinis, pulling beer from the refrigerator, and jotting down room service orders to hand over to the server, who was also running wild. It was pure insanity, and it was no better in the kitchen. If you were brave enough to venture to the other side of the swinging door between the dining room and the kitchen, you would find one supervising cook slinging pans and flipping steaks with a non stop ribbon of orders sprouting from the ticket printer. It didn't help that it was his line cook's first time to work at night. And it didn't help that she didn't know what the dinner plates were supposed to look like. And while we're at it, it didn't really help that she didn't speak English.

The wait time for a burger went from the normal 20 minutes to about an hour, and before long room service callers were buzzing the phone again to check on the status of their food. About an hour into the chaos, a couple walked into the lounge area and requested menus and a couple glasses of wine. I brought their wine and they, apparently having taken in the sea of heads in the dining room impatiently tapping their fingers on their tables and the sweat dripping from my forehead asked if we were having trouble in the kitchen. I acknowledged that we were a bit short staffed. They requested an appetizer and said they didn't mind waiting. Not long after I put in their order for tomato artichoke dip, I answered a room service call and wrote down the order after the woman stated this:

"I want a chocolate brownie sundae. But I want the brownie, warmed for 30 seconds in the microwave, on one plate and the ice cream on another. And I don't want the hot fudge, just the whipped cream. You can put it on the ice cream. Not the brownie. I don't like for them to touch. And don't put the walnuts on the ice cream. You can put them on the brownie. On the side. And also...a diet coke."

My response was "that will be up in 30-45 minutes."

Her response was "THIRTY TO FORTY FIVE MINUTES FOR A DAMN BROWNIE?!?!?!?"

She hung up the phone and I delivered the order to the server.....and I may or may not have made a noise of contempt in the process. Then, I returned to refilling drinks, delivering food, and apologizing to about 50 different people for their wait and thanking them for their patience. I offered a third round of drinks to the couple in the lounge who at this point had waited about 45 minutes for an appetizer, and again they were pleasant. A few more minutes went by and I was finally able to bring them their food. They complimented the dip, told me I was doing a great job, and asked for their check.

While printing their check the room service phone rang. By this time, the dining room had cleared out some and most everyone had their food, but the frustrating feeling of helplessness hadn't quite gone away. I answered. This is what I heard in a not so pleasant tone:

"This is room 808. What did I order?"

"I"m sorry, ma'am. I don't have your order in front of me, Can you refresh my memory?"

"I asked for a brownie..."

"Oh yes ma'am, you wanted the brownie on one plate and the ice cream on another."

Pissy...."YES....THAT'S RIGHT. AND WHAT ELSE DID I WANT?"

At this point, I was done. I replied that I didn't have her order in front of me but would be glad to get my supervisor to which she responded,

"YES. DO THAT. I'D LIKE TO TALK TO SOMEONE ABOUT YOU."

I called Dave to the phone, feeling as if just one glass tipped over or one fork fell on the floor, that I just might cry. He took the call, and I could hear him apologizing and offering to do everything but lick the woman's big toe while I gathered plates and laid checks on tables.

In the few minutes following, the room cleared out and we were left with a heap of dirty dishes to bus and checks to close out. My tomato artichoke couple had waved goodbye to me during the chaos. They had signed their dinner to their room, so I grabbed the black presenter and held it in my hand as I asked Dave what the lady on the phone had been so upset about. He prefaced his story with "This is the most ridiculous thing ever..." and then filled me in while I rolled my eyes. Just as I was about to go off on how some people are so incredibly rude, I opened the black presenter from my tomato artichoke couple and saw their ticket. They had signed their dinner to their room credit card, and across the top of their ticket they wrote, "You did a great job!" The encouragement alone was a welcome tip, but underneath the credit slip, was a crisp $20 bill.

I breathed in a little bit of Jesus in that moment, and I was hit with the realization that there are two types of people in the world. There are those precious few who go out of their way to build up their neighbor, to offer a word of encouragement, to leave a much needed tip, and to make a difference in someone's night. Just because they can.

And then there are those who pitch a fit because their nuts fell off their brownie.

God bless the tomato artichoke couple, wherever they might be...and God have mercy on the man that the brownie lady goes home to.

I have a feeling he might need a tomato artichoke couple of his own.

Can I see your ID

The other night at work, my bar was crazy busy and I was completely exhausted. I had stayed up until about 2AM for the two previous nights, then participated in consecutive hours of counseling at the counseling center where I am doing my internship (YAY!), then worked, then stayed up dreadfully late again, then got up and wrangled stuff out of my garage for a yard sale, then worked some more. The last place I wanted to be was behind a bar pouring beer and whiskey for a bunch of rowdy tourists. So when I carded the two black, British men asking for Coronas, I was less than happy when they looked at me and asked, "Seriously? What are you wanting to see?"

Apparently there is no ABC board in the UK, because these men honestly didn't realize that they needed their identification on them in order for me to serve them. I sent them up to their room to retrieve their passports in order to make sure I stayed out of trouble. When they returned and I explained that they couldn't even enter most bars in the area without getting carded they thanked me and placed their order for drinks and dinner. It wasn't until later that I learned that the younger of the two was a rising British pop star signed by Simon Cowell. I later looked him up on YouTube. Pretty talented kid. However, I still think it's funny that they were so perplexed when I asked for their ID. They really had no clue what I was asking for.

Ironically enough, another intern and I are on the schedule to lead an hour long discussion on the college campus where we are interning this week about "Your Identity as a Woman." We have had so many discussions about how to approach this topic, because there are so many things we want to say to these 21 and 22 year old women about this topic. You see, this is a conservative Christian school, and most of these young woman have grown up in conservative Christian households. The generic answer that we are anticipating is "My identity is in Christ." And that's all well and good. In fact, when I was 21 and 22, it's the same answer I would have given. But over the course of the last 8 years, with all of my life experience folded neatly into baggage, I have come to realize that "My identity is in Christ" is a complete cop out. It's all well and good to love Jesus and worship God, but WHO ARE YOU REALLY AND WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?

I gave this answer all those years ago, because I grew up thinking it was who I was supposed to be. It was what was expected of me. And no one ever came right out and said it was ok to be anything else. Since I was never one to rock the boat, I never questioned it. And whether it felt right or not, it's who I said I was. And then, because I could only see this one very narrow path that started with a pretty white dress, and had me pushing a stroller around the bend, I never gave myself permission to go a different way. In all honesty, I don't think it ever occurred to me that there actually was a different way. This was, for all I could see, THE ONLY WAY.

Then life happened harshly, and there was no other option for me than to redefine who I thought I was, who I wanted to be, where I wanted my life to take me, and who I wanted to go there with. It all happened so fast, and at the same time, finding myself has been the longest road.

So in an effort to find some sort of resolution to this question of "What is My Identity As a Woman" I am writing a letter to myself at the age of 22:

Dear Sara,
First of all I want you to know that I'm proud of you for finishing your bachelor's degree. I know you are second guessing your decision to major in interior design...as well you should...bad decision, my friend...but the degree will come in handy exactly two times. Once, when you are picking out paint for your home and you chose the lighter shade because paint always looks darker at home, and then again when you decide to go to grad school. It will be useful in no other way. So just accept that. I wish you knew that you were amazing, and smart, and funny, and pretty, and valuable. But I know you don't. I wish you realized that life is much bigger and much broader than marriage and babies and living like you should. I wish you would go to a party, dance with a frat boy, drink a margarita, and have fun...because you're 22 and you really shouldn't be so worried about doing the right thing all of the time. I wish you realized that your parents were proud of you...and I wish you knew that no matter how badly you screw up they always will be. You'll figure it out one day...but I wish you got it now. I wish you could dream big dreams for your life, instead of limiting yourself the way you do. Go travel, see the world, and then come home with stories to tell! I wish you could relax just long enough to see that you are worth it. I wish you knew that God could see your hurt places and doesn't judge you for them. I wish you knew that He loves you NO MATTER WHAT...because your life will be easier once you figure this out. I wish you knew exactly what you deserved...because if you knew that, you would make different choices. I wish you realized that there are no rules, no boundaries, no limits, and no expectations...because you are the one in charge. I wish you knew what I know. Because if you did, you would love you as much as I do.

But one day you'll get there...and we'll meet up somewhere, shake hands, and have a diet coke...and then I will know that you are ok. And then you will know that I am too. You should know, Sara, that the road is going to be rough for a while...but I will not give up on you.

Whatever you do, just keep going. Because once you catch up to me you'll see that it's about to get so good.

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

Eight years ago, if someone had asked who I was, I wouldn't have known how to answer them. Now...there's so much to tell, I don't even know where to start.

But at least I know who is in charge of the story.

Please Advise...

The other day I found myself driving behind a mobile memorial. It was a Honda Civic with a large motorcycle shaped cling'em to the back windshield that said In Memory of Robbie, who apparently died in 2006. I know a lot of people do this, but I've honestly never really understood it. Why does it make someone feel better to broadcast their pain on the rear windshield of their car? I have searched all the dusty corners of my brain for some sort of rationalization that makes sense as to why someone would feel compelled to do this, and I've always come up with "Well...it's not my car, so what do I care what they do?" But on this day, the memorial cling'em got me to thinking...and less than a mile later I had mind bloggled.


Over the years, I have been given lots of advice. Most of it I never follow, because usually one of two things happens. I'm either A. Way too stubborn to listen to anyone else, or B. people give stupid advice.

Example for Part A: "Don't get married. You deserve better." Need I say more?


Example for Part B: (After I had a miscarriage) "It's for the best. That child wouldn't have been right." Seriously? That's your pathetic attempt at consolation? Could you please not talk to me anymore? Ever.


But during the course of the last 29 years, there have been three pieces of advice that have stuck with me. The first came from the mouth of a woman that I worked with at a furniture store. She was older, overweight, and jolly. She wore her glasses on a chain around her neck, and I adored her. It was just prior to my marriage to Ex, and she pulled me aside to tell me the one thing that she had learned over the course of marriage, divorce, and marriage. She sat with me one afternoon on a viciously overpriced tufted sofa and said, "You will be in the mood to love at different times. That needs to be ok." She went on to clarify that she wasn't talking about sex, rather the mindset of loving someone. It was a simple piece of advice, but it carved out a place in my memory bank, because for the first time I processed the concept that loving wasn't about a feeling but an action. Over the years, this piece of wisdom has made more sense to me as my perspective on love has shifted and evolved. I get what she was trying to tell me now. Love fits differently from day to day. Some days it's a pair of ill fitting jeans, and some days it's a pair of flannel pajama pants. But each day you put it on one leg at a time and wear it the best way you know how.


The second piece of advice was given to me in a moment after my divorce from Ex. I was struggling with figuring out my new identity as a young, single, christian woman. It was difficult for me to mediate the bickering feud between "good christian" and "single horny female." Within the safety of friendships that left no room for judgement (which are few and far between, might I add) I bared all and shared the frustrating fact that I wanted to be a woman who could love God and have sex at the same time! For a while I navigated these muddy waters fairly easily by talking about dating with these "safe friends" and then going to church and worshipping God like a good little girl on Sunday mornings. It worked pretty well for awhile until the leader of the praise and worship team asked all of the team members to sign a "covenant." I knew as soon as he pulled out the c word I was in trouble. It was pretty much like I expected. Don't wear revealing clothing. Don't show up late to practice. Don't speak ill of church members. And then the scarlet A....Single members will not have sexual relations. Oh. Shit. I struggled for a full week about signing this covenant, because I didn't want to sign something knowing I was going against it. But I didn't want to step down either, because I loved singing on the praise team. The little angel and little devil argued loudly in my mind all week long, until finally one night I sat with my sister and my aunt at my grandmother's table and shared this struggle that had hounded me like a hungry dog for days. I expected a long drawn out discussion, something to assuage my fears or give me clarity on the issue. I needed a long intense discussion about the subject. And my aunt looked at me and said, "Just sign it and do whatever you want." Simple as that. And while many would argue that she was encouraging me to compromise my integrity, what I heard her say was "You are in charge of you." Period. It was the first time anyone had given me permission to think for myself and make my own rules. If I wanted to love God and date I could! If I wanted to worship in peace I could! And if I chose not to piss away my god given sexual peak on years of celibacy, it was MY decision and no one else's! And to this day, whenever life challenges me to own a choice that goes against my upbringing or social acceptance in general, I hear her voice in my head saying, "Just sign it and do whatever you want." And then, to the general fear and chagrin of all of those that love me....I go out and think for myself.

This last piece of advice is the oldest. It dates back to my high school days. I was struggling with feeling lonely and out of place, and as usual I poured my feelings out to my mentor who had heard all of my struggles and self doubts. And in the middle of vomiting up my emotional confusion, I realized I was pouring this grief onto a woman who was undergoing treatment for a recurrence of breast cancer. And in that moment it hit me like a ton of bricks that I was the most selfish human being on the planet. I immediately groveled at her feet for forgiveness. "Here you are dealing with cancer, and I'm whining to you because I'm lonely!?!?! I'm so sorry!" And this amazing woman took her hand and tilted my face up to look at hers, and said, "If it's a big deal to you, then it's a big deal." Her selflessness was almost as beautiful as she was, and this one sentence has made its home in my soul. It has since become part of my mission in working in the field of counseling, because no matter how trivial it sounds when it spills from your lips, if it's a big deal to you, then it's a big deal.

While driving down the street the other day, behind the mobile memorial, I was reminded of this piece of wisdom, given to my by my precious friend. Suddenly, the need for people to plaster their pain on the rear windshield of their car made perfect sense to me. Because it's not just a memorial cling'em to them. It's a reminder, every time they see their car, that there was someone in their life that took up part of their space and part of their being, and their absence has left a hole so big that it's necessary in their hearts to make other people, people driving to Wal Mart, or people on their way to the gas station, aware of the fact that yes, someone is missing.

I got it, because of a pine cone. E gave it to me in the parking lot of daycare one day. He "found" it for me. And we took great care to find the perfect home for it in my car. He gave it to me, because in that moment, he thought I was a pine cone kind of special. Much like I always did with the memorial window cling'ems, there are probably a lot of people that wander past my car, see a random pine cone baking on the dash and think "Why on earth would anyone do that?"

And about 15 years after she first said it, and 6 years after she died, I still rely on her wisdom.

If it's a big deal to you, then it's a big deal. Period.

In other words...You Matter.

Thoughts about Paul

You're probably thinking this is some deep introspective blog about the guy in the Bible. I hate to disappoint you, but it's not that at all. Instead, it's about some guy in a bar.

It's safe to say that the past couple of years have worked overtime at killing the hopeless romantic within me. In fact, there is a budding skeptic trying feverishly to take her place. In recent months the skeptic has even been winning the battles. But the hopeless romantic is quietly waiting in the corner, holding her breath, with the hopes of winning the war.

For the past month, I have been working as a bartender at a local hotel that accommodates mainly business travelers. Any given night of the week, there are any number of them perched at the bar, drinking beer and scotch, and shouting at the TV behind me that is almost always broadcasting some sporting event. Through the weeks, I have gotten to know many of them as "regulars." I know their names, where they come from, what they drink, and often times, why they feel so compelled to drink it.

For example...

Kenny is the red head who drinks Coors Lite. He is quiet, but pleasant, and he cheers for the Cincinnati Reds, caring nothing at all about any other sport. Kenny is recently divorced, and no, he doesn't want to discuss it. So don't ask.

Stan is a divorced millionaire from Denver who drinks Dewars and water and looks like Gene Hackman. By his fourth glass of scotch he begins talking with an Italian accent. If I happen to talk in an Italian accent back to him, I get a $20 tip. I may or may not take advantage of this little bit of knowledge every Monday-Thursday night at 9PM.

Doug is from Philadelphia. He is loud, like a proud yankee should be, but he enjoys the quiet seduction of a good Cabernet. He hates every sport, and instead prefers Dancing with the Stars. He is very much opposed to Germans, although I have yet to understand why. However, it never fails that by the second glass of red, he has mentioned something about the "loud ass Germans" in our very strange conversations.

Sean is from Nebraska...a husker. He is here on business related to the May Flood, and is currently in his last week here. He is a skydiver, and sticks to a low carb diet. Except for liquor. Sean drinks Glenlivet, on the rocks with a side of rocks, and drinks a lot of it. He has a wife, Karen, patiently waiting for him back home, and every night at 8:30PM he gets out his iPhone to give her a call. Sweet, huh? Oh yeah....his girlfriend, Kasey, flew in from Atlanta last week to spend the week with him. She drinks Fuzzy Navels and has an affinity for Coach.


These men have done nothing to aid in the survival of the hopeless romantic.


And then there's Paul. Paul is from Texas, and his smile is as big as the state he calls home. He is a distinguished man, probably pushing 70, but his face wears the excitement of a frat boy on his 21st birthday. Paul wears neatly pressed button down shirts, nice dress pants, polished shoes, and the leftovers of a very pleasant cologne that has been working hard at professionalism since early that morning. He exudes pleasantness, and when he grins, his eyes dance and even his wrinkles smile. Paul wears joy as if it were a pair of Prada sunglasses, and I like my job better when he is on the other side of the bar. Paul's wife is an opera singer who travels frequently, but he smiles when he talks about her. When they have time, they like to go to their vacation home and drink wine and cut limbs of cedar for the fire place. He drinks Corona with a wedge of lime, and every night, he pulls up a seat at the bar, the far left one to be exact, I grab his first Corona and ask him what he would like to have for dinner that night. He always gets a lettuce wedge, and often accompanies it with a ribeye, medium, or a plate of crab cakes.

Over the weeks Paul has gotten to know me as well as I know him, and he asks to see the newest pictures of E and keeps tabs on my love life. This past week, the night before he would be flying back to Texas for the weekend, he asked what I had going on this weekend. I told him I had a few days off work and I planned to let a nice boy take me out on a date. (Stay tuned for a blog about that, I'm sure.) Upon hearing that I had romantic plans, Paul became grandfatherly protective, and he asked 10 kinds of questions about the "character of this young man." He wanted to know if he was good enough for me. I assured him that I felt positive that he was, and when he signed the tab for the evening, he looked at me and said, "I want to know all about it next week!"

Then, Sunday night, as I was putting my money in the hotel office and returning the bar keys to the front desk, I walked out of the door to see Paul checking in for the week, button down shirts on hangers in his hand. He saw me and his eyes lit up. "Sara! How was (lowering his voice) your date?" I replied that it was wonderful, and he said, "How about a date with me at the bar tomorrow night at 7PM? I want to hear all about it."

The next night, at 7PM, I pulled a Corona out of the cooler as Paul walked around the corner. He pulled up his usual seat, placed his dinner order, squeezed the lime into his beer, and leaned forward asking, "So?" I filled him in on the fun of my weekend, him smiling the entire time. And in that moment I was struck by his happiness and obvious joy. So I asked him, "Paul, why are you so happy?"

He looked at me like he was about to tell me a secret, so I leaned forward a little. "I have absolutely NOTHING to complain about. Loving my wife is the easiest thing on the planet. My world is better because of her, because everywhere she goes, she makes bright brighter. I am just damn lucky."

Silently, the hopeless romantic in me replied, "Wow. I hope someone talks about me like that someday."

And then as if Paul had heard me, he leaned in further, reached across the bar, took my hand, and met my eyes with his. "Do you know why I eat in the bar every night?"

"No...why?" I replied.

"Because you remind me of her. Some guy out there has no idea how lucky he is going to be one day."

And just like that, the hopeless romantic exhaled.

There was nothing left to do but reach for another Corona, and grab a wedge of lime.

The Other G Spot

I have noticed a pattern in my life. I blog about something....post it for the world to see...and then completely abandon my blog for weeks at a time. The response to this is a deep sense of guilt, like I am an infidel to the blog gods, and my cousin posting on facebook that she is going to send the blog police after me. I wish I could blog more consistently, simply because when I gather up all of my thoughts and box them up nicely in my corner of the internet, I feel a little bit lighter. However, life, lately has not been conducive to sitting around boxing up thoughts. There's just been no time for that.

I have spent the last few weeks in the hasty throws of "I think my life might make me cry." Nothing terribly bad is happening. Nothing at all. In fact, many good things have come to light. It's just that I have been So. Terribly. Busy. I have started my internship for grad school, which means that about 15 hours a week I am getting paid absolutely nothing to sit in a counseling center and counsel mostly young woman who are also in some precarious stage of "I think my life might make me cry." And about 38 hours a week I am behind a bar making concoctions with Jack Daniels and dry vermouth that sound absolutely disgusting, but some 60 year old businessman from Denver thinks are worth $8 a pop. And another 5 or so hours are spent in supervision for my internship. And then a number of hours, which I hesitate to try and quantify for fear that the lowness of said number will make me actually want to slit my wrists, are spent mothering the most delightful little "shree year old" on the planet. Thankfully, he seems so happily distracted by the fullness of his life that he hasn't yet realized what a crap mom he has. He is too elated by the fact that he just found me an awesome shaped rock in the parking lot to care that yet again, he is getting dropped off somewhere. But I know...which is why I have numerous little treasures that E found in some parking lot somewhere in all of the little nooks and crannies of my car. And it is also exactly why they will stay there.

The past two weeks have been crammed full of busy-ness to the point that I was having to plan what time and where I would shower a couple of days ahead of time. The volcanic eruption of thoughts in my head sounded something like this: Ok...I'm leaving work now, so when I get home I need to put my clothes directly in the washer-don't forget to feed the cat while you're out there...you didn't feed her yesterday...and you won't be home tomorrow...so DON'T FORGET...-then take a shower, but don't wash your hair-your hair looks better when it's a day old-and don't forget to put the clothes in the dryer before you go to sleep because then you'll be fucked-and tomorrow you have to be in class at 8-and you were supposed to turn in that assignment, but since it didn't upload don't forget to tell your professor and leave him a copy-did you feed the cat?-Washer's not done yet, but don't forget to put your clothes in the dryer so that tomorrow you can get up and be out of the house by 7. Don't forget to put your work clothes in your car in the morning...because you'll only have 30 minutes between class and work, so you can change right before you leave. Then when you get off work go stay at your moms because E will be there and then the NEXT day you can wake up with him and take him to school. Don't forget it's Red Day at school...so make sure he has something red to wear. And he needs to take something for Show and Tell. And your mortgage is due by the end of the week, so if you don't spend any money between now and 4 days from now and you get your paycheck on Friday, you can send in your mortgage just in time. Ok...sounds good. Go to sleep. Two hours later....did you remember to put the clothes in the dryer???

My mind has been a madhouse. But this weekend, I hit a nice little spot of "good." A g-spot if you will. Everyone who needed to be counseled was counseled. E was sent off to school, items for show and tell in hand, to be picked up by his dad for the weekend. And I was OFF WORK. It was the first opportunity in two weeks to not run around bathed in my own insanity, to not feel like I was one "oh dear lord the sky is not as blue as it should be" away from tears, to not feel like I could breathe. So I spent time with my friend, slept in, did some laundry, took a long shower, cooked a nice meal, drank a bit of an adult beverage, painted my toenails, read a little of my book, went to see a movie...and blogged.

It may not sound like much...

...but I feel like God has dripped mercy, drop by precious drop into the marrow of my bones. I feel like life has paused just long enough for me to inhale and exhale deeply, and be aware again of the little benign noises of my home. I feel like normalcy has wrapped itself around me like a nice fuzzy blanket. I feel like I have been given the sweet reminder of what it feels like to sit on the couch and think long and hard about what I would like to do next...so I did it. And when the answer was "nothing" I put my book down, curled up with normalcy and took a freaking nap.

Dear Lord,
I am thankful for the direction of my life. I'm thankful for the path that I am on and that this time next year I will look back and say "it was so worth it." I'm thankful that my life has a purpose and that I am well on my way to experiencing it. I'm thankful for the busy-ness, because it means that I am going somewhere. But thank you, thank you, thank you for giving me a refreshing pocket of "good." Thank you for good company, a light movie, a tasty meal, a nice little buzz, freshly painted toes, and an updated blog. I am so very thankful for this time. Amen.

As g-spots go, this one was pretty easy to find.

Me and God

My blog is where I "put it all out there." Sometimes "it" is all pretty, and respectful, and unlikely to ruffle any feathers. And then sometimes I use "God" and "fuck" in the same sentence and someone takes offense.

In this case, the someone who spoke up about my previous blog, is someone that I love and respect and no matter what, I always will. But apparently when she read my most recent post, she "cringed" at my disrespect of God. In fact, had her cell phone not died in the middle of our conversation, I think she was about to politely request that I remove that one little line. And my immediate reaction was to feel really bad about myself for disappointing her. But then I got to thinking....

A few months back, my city of Nashville was flooded with more rain than we have ever seen and will likely ever see again. Historic buildings were destroyed and an entire mall was submerged in 8 feet of e. coli ridden waters. When the waters receded, buildings all over town had to be stripped to their studs in order for repairs.

My spirituality has gone through a similar process in the last few years. Growing up I was a good little Christian girl, always dressing nicely for church, carrying my Bible to Sunday School, faithfully attending VBS, and being respectful of my parents. As I got older, I solidified my good Christian girl status by going on mission trips (ironically enough, this is where I first encountered Ex), singing solos in the youth choir, and white knuckling my virginity, even going so far as to pass judgement on "that slutty honor student who, rumor has it, gave her boyfriend a (gasp!) blow job!"

Then in college things got really interesting. I became involved in a Christian campus organization that was heavy on the evangelism. I made instant friends who, like me, had realized the importance of being a good Christian early in life. Together, we went to Bible study, had prayer group, practiced safe boy/girl interactions like group dating where no one was allowed to hold hands until they had properly defined the intentions of their relationship, and went on conferences to exotic places like Panama City Beach where I would wear my required one piece bathing suit and share the gospel with unsuspecting spring breakers who were still slightly hung over from last night's numerous shots of tequila.

Oh but wait. I haven't mentioned God in any of this. Well...that's because He wasn't really involved. At least, not for me. My life up to this point, though Christian, wasn't at all spiritual. It was a neverending row of hoops for me to jump through in order to keep up the facade of the Good Christian Girl. It was an exhaustive process of checking boxes, putting on appearances, walking the walk, and talking the talk....so that everyone else would be convinced that God and I were, in fact, in this together.

Fast forward a few years, and a few divorces, and a few grad school classes, and a few restless nights at the hands of a toddler, and I am sure of exactly two things.

1. God and I are in this together.

and

2. There is absolutely nothing I can say, do, write, or for that matter keep to myself, that will change that.

My friend who cringes at the very glimpse of me writing a phrase that puts the beautiful word "God" and the nasty word "fuck" so close together has every right to cringe if she feels led. She is a highly spiritual person, and I would never doubt her connection with God. But that's exactly what it is...HER connection with God. I can't understand how she relates to God, because I am not there. She has a healthy handful of years on me in the way of her relationship with him, and probably thousands upon thousands of prayers communicating both her needs and her praise. She is, understandably, in a different place with her Lord than I am with mine.

Because I have not so long ago, started my relationship with MY Lord from scratch. The knowledge is all still there. The experience is still firmly in place. The ability to read and study and tear apart the many intricacies of the Bible remain unscathed. But my communication with God left my many years of habit behind and started fresh with something along the lines of, "Ok God...I'm ready. Let's do this." And since then, my spirituality has been opened in such a way that I am no longer interested in putting on a show for the sake of others thinking I am a "good Christian." In all honesty, I have absolutely no interest in being a "good Christian." I have no interest in leading others in the way of the Bible. I have no desire to be anyone's spiritual compass. I simply have a desire to be REAL with God, and REAL with people about what that looks like. My friend's concern was that my quote was "disrespectful." And I'm sure that many will agree with her. It's not often that someone who proclaims to love God will be so blatantly irreverent. But I think she's missing the point.

My walk with God is MY walk with God. And sometimes it's holy and beautiful and loving, and yes, even respectful. And sometimes it is less than stellar, a mere nod of acknowledgement during my day. And then there are times when the depths of my humanity sneak up on me, and I don't understand the things in this world, and nothing feels right or makes sense or even churns inside of me with any real rhyme or reason, and the best I can do to include God in that moment of mine is to invite Him to stand by my side as I succomb to my own carnal nature and throw a big cussing fit.

But the beautiful thing about MY God, that I love and adore more than anything...more than the fact that he created the heavens and the earth, more than the fact that He calls the stars by name and counts the hairs on my head, more than the fact that He has the power in one breath to either heal or destroy this world....

...is that He loves me enough to want to be there for the good, the bad, and the ugly. He doesn't want me to put on a show, or pretend that I have it all figured out, or to try and sound respectful when really I'm just plain old angry. He just wants me to move myself aside in those moments,

just barely enough

for Him to fill in the gaps with his Grace.

So, because I respect and love this friend SO much, I did at least have a chat with God a little earlier. It sounded something like this:

Me: Ok God..I made people cringe with my brutal honesty. They think I am being disrepectful. That wasn't my intention....I don't mean anything I write to be disrespectful....it's just where I'm at. It's just that, God, sometimes I FEEL you so clearly. And everything FEELS amazing and wonderful and all I want to do is worship you. And sometimes I FEEL so strongly that I don't get you or understand what you are doing in my life, and NOTHING makes sense. And I just want to yell and cry and cuss. And I don't mean it to be disrespectful, really I don't. It's just that's where I'm at in that moment.

And God replied: I know your heart. I know you are emotional. Heck...I created you that way. You and I have a long way to go...but we will get there day by day...breath by breath. I'm not going anywhere.

Me: So you weren't caught off guard when I threw those venomous four letters into the ante of the universe?

God: Sara....we've been over this. I'm caught off guard by NOTHING. Not the things you have done or said....or the things you are GOING to do or say. I knew you were going to screw up so many times before you were ever even born. I'm not surprised by ANYTHING.

Me: Ok...so you aren't mad at me for the four letters then?

God: I will see your four letters and raise you one more...

J E S U S