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.