Disney Movie

Sometimes I wish life was like a Disney movie. Once we found the one we loved, we would be in eternal bliss, and live happily ever after. Money, sickness, pain: all not an object. And those who did get sick and/ or die, would either be evil, or we would be able to find peace with their death before they died. They would have some epiphany, or we would, and we would realize that everything would be okay, even when they were gone. The extent of sickness would be a spell made by a jealous old woman that could be cured by the kiss of your one true love. We would love to sing and dance, and our problems would be no more than having to clean a house for some stuck up women, but we would remain hopeful through it all, knowing that dreams really do come true.

"Getting your dreams, it's strange but it seems, a little, well, complicated. There's a kind of a sort of cost. There's a couple of things get lost. There are bridges you cross you didn't know you crossed until you crossed." (Glinda from Wicked)

I wish it wasn't complicated. But usually life doesn't turn out that way, does it? We can wish all we want for our fairy tale happy ending. In the end, life is still fragile. In the end, there is still pain. In the end, there is fear. Sickness. Death.

"If everyone cared and nobody cried
If everyone loved and nobody lied
If everyone shared and swallowed their pride
Then we'd see the day when nobody died" (Nickelback from If Everyone Cared)

I wish that was true. But it isn't. People can still get sick from mistakes. People can still die from natural causes. And in all honesty, our ideal will never happen. We all act as if we are just good people stuck in a bad rut. We're not.

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23)

For those of you who don't agree with me, look at the history of humanity. We aren't good people stuck in a bad rut. We aren't going to be able to pull out of our rut, and land in this utopia of perfection. Life is not a Disney movie.

I have two options. I can join this mass mayhem. I can choose to not care about anyone. I can choose to be selfish, and only interested in what benefits me. I can say that no one else cares about anyone else. That is one option. Living for me. That is what would best benefit me in the end, right? Living recklessly, or maybe not. Just living as if I am the only one that matters.

Or, I can live as a beacon to others. We may never get out of this rut. Actually, no. As humanity, we will never get out of this rut. We have been in this rut since the beginning. Our utopia, our perfection, will never come. So our second choice, and the harder one, is to try to rise above the difficulty. To give everything and make our lives matter. And that is what I will choose to do.

Mommy

It has been a while since I looked at your blog... thank you for the hugs. I love you. Thank you (and Dad) for being here for me. I could not be where I am without your joy and your love and your support. Sometimes I hurt. And sometimes I know I've hurt you. And I'm sorry for that. But you have loved me and been there for me to hold me up when I needed you. Thank you. Hug back. Sometimes I wish the world was like it was when I was little. I could run into my mommy's arms and all the pain would go away. You would hold me and rock me and tell me it would all be okay. And it was. Thank you for making it all okay, mommy. I love you. And even though now, my mommy's hug can only do so much, it's still a comfort. It won't stop the world from turning, and the hard times from coming, but knowing I have my mommy and my friend there means more to me than you know. I thank God for giving me such wonderful parents. Thank you for everything. Hug, hug, hug. There are more where those came from. :)

Cheese

Just a short story. Enjoy!

That must be it. The cheese. How could I have left it? And I haven’t driven the car in two weeks either. I lean over the console, and rummage around in the back seat, trying to find it. The stench wafts around my head, hovering, it feels like. Death’s ghost couldn’t smell worse than this. My mother’s home made parmesan. Upon pushing the car seat aside, I find Annie’s stash of animal crackers, which, of course, are stale, and now in little crumbs. Groaning, I roll down the window. The stuffy cheese air is making my head hurt now. Leaning back up into the driver’s seat, I gasp for air from the soft breeze outside. Then back into the almost sticky dirty sock-scented car.

I am a mother of four. You’d think it gets easier after the first one or two, but no. It doesn’t. You start doing stupid things, or, in this case, forgetting to do stupid things, like take the cheese out of the car before it’s already pungent smell grows worse, and infests all of your upholstery. But no. Let it sit in your car for two weeks, grow some mold, bake a bit in the summer sun, and then find it and take it out. Except for the fact that I can’t find the darn stuff. It seems to be hiding to spite me. The smell says, “Ha! This is what you get, Jen. This is what you get for leaving your mothers gift in your car! Your mother’s gift! That she made, just for you! You are a selfish child, not appreciating your mother.” And heavens to Betsy, does it stink!

I have finally decided to actually get out of the front seat, and look for it, since my sideways digging doesn’t seem to be working out. I reach under the seats in my van, and feel around a bit. A piece of plastic touches my fingers and I grab it and yank, hoping that it is the bag with the cheese. The stench fills my nostrils again, making me blink, and my breath catch. But what I have grabbed is not the cheese. No, it is just a bag. The cheese is taunting me. I swear…

Finally! I have found it. I think I need a gas mask.

“Mommy! What’s that?” My five year old, Jenny, runs up behind me and grabs my leg.

“This? This is some cheese mommy left in the car a while ago..”

I should have guessed. As soon as I said cheese…

“JENNY! COME BACK!” She had grabbed the foul-smelling glob from my hand, and run to the side of the house. And, as inevitable as her taking the cheese, by the time I had gotten there, she had already eaten half of the hellish mush.

“It’s not so bad, mommy! It’s just a little—BLEAHHH!”

Lord, help us…

Christmas

Christmas. A time when lights gleam through chilly night air, and a hot cup of cocoa paired with carols can soften even the hardest of hearts. A time when the moon glows off the frosted ground at night and the stars sparkle in children’s eyes as they await the magical day of the year when everyone is jolly and full of the spirit of giving.

Christmas. A time of noise and chaos. A time where the stress of keeping track of every family member, for gifts, food, and space to stay can become overwhelming. A time when the money is tight, and the lines are long, and everyone wishes they could just get by to the rest of the year.

Christmas. A time when the homeless are reminded that the world still cares, even if it is for just a month or two. A time when a child receives a present for the first time in years. A time when memories of love are really made.

Christmas. A time when the streets get colder, and the wish for family gets stronger. A time when the empty spaces seem deeper, and the holes needing filling get bigger. A time when love is appreciated all the more.

Christmas. A time of imperfection, lost in a desire to be perfect. To buy the perfect gift, to serve the perfect meal. A time when we may give, but it may only be to ease guilt, or improve self worth. A time when we forget. The reasons are long gone. So why remember? Why remember something so small as a tiny babe, born on a forgotten day to an unmarried teenage mother?

Christmas. Love. Scandal. Noise.

A fourteen-year-old girl, nine months pregnant with her first child travels with her soon-to-be husband to a town called Bethlehem. Unfortunately, so many others are traveling there now as well, and as they have arrived at a very late hour, every space, including the servants’ quarters, is filled with guests. I watch from my window as the young man pleads with the innkeeper to find space. His face is tired and dusty, and his shoes worn through the soles, but it is not for himself that he pleads. It is for her.

“I have no rooms!” the innkeeper’s voice raises in anguish. “Even if I did, I would not house a slut and you! You should be ashamed of yourself. Stone her, and cleanse your families honor.” He slams the door. The man, Joseph, turns, and takes the girl’s hand, patting it lovingly.

“You know this is not easy for me either,” he says, as he looks up into her face, and gently brushes away a tear from her eyelashes. “Mary, you know I love you, and I would do anything for you.” Mary looks down into his large brown eyes, and smiles.

“I know.”

“Mary? Joseph?” Joseph straightens himself, stepping quickly away from the donkey.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Martha. My husband is the innkeeper. I’m afraid he was a bit harsh with you. He has had a hard night. We do have somewhere you can stay, but let me warn you, it will not at all be comfortable,” I say, with some resign.

“I will not stay unless your husband approves,” Joseph states. “This is his property, and I will not intrude without his consent.” I nod. “Thank you for your offer though.”

“Let me get him. Don’t leave.”

I push back through the door, back into the stuffy main room. A man, probably drunk, stumbles in front of me, yelling, like all the rest of the men, about the cursed census that is messing up all of their lives. I grab his shoulders, steadying him, and push him toward a chair. My husband is in the corner, talking to one of my maids. I see her giggle, and blush, and then glance in my direction. Her eyes grow, and she rushes off into the kitchen. Pretending to not have seen this exchange, I approach my husband.

“I have a proposal for you,” I state, almost in a cold manner.

“What?” he slurs back. He is drunk as well.

“The pregnant woman and her husband. Let them stay in our stable.”

“The whore and her betrothed?” he spits. “Why would I let them stay anywhere near my inn. They will only dirty its walls.”

I lower my voice and speak nearer to his ear. “You’re one to talk about dirtying the place up. Just because they are my maids doesn’t make it any more clean.”

My voice sobers him up a bit, and he finally harrumphs consent. I push my way back out to Mary and Joseph.

“My husband is sorry for his earlier behavior, and is sorry for our lack of space.” I can see in Mary’s questioning eyes that she doesn’t believe me, but there isn’t much more I can do. “He would like to extend our stable to you as a place to stay. We have just had fresh hay laid, so although it may not be comfortable, it will at least be clean.”

Joseph takes my hand, and kisses it. “Thank you very much. We are both grateful for yours and your husband’s compassion.”

Smiling at him, I reach for a torch above the inn door, and lead them to our stable. Mary has now dismounted their donkey, and is wobbling slightly with the weight of the baby. I pull the large piece of wood out of the latches on the door, and Joseph helps me to heave the large doors open. Looking around, everything seems, as much as possible, useable. I use my torch to light a few lanterns inside, and watch the light flicker off of the crisp yellow straw. A cow lows at the sight of the flame, so I back slowly out. I can hear the chickens clucking, and the horses pawing at this unexpected disturbance. The hogs munch happily on scraps that the maid has brought out, and the rest of the animals either look on in curiosity, or just altogether ignore the situation.

No, it’s not right that they should be housed here, but this is all we have. And a woman as pregnant as she is shouldn’t be without a place to rest.

Mary sits wearily on the hay, and looks to me. “Thank you.”

And at that, I close the door. There are some linens in the corner they can use for cover, and I shall bring them food in the morning. Yes, I shall make them something to make up for this poor housing arrangement…

Christmas. Unexpected.

Incoherent Prayer

Life. How can something be so painful, and yet so healing? So complex and yet so simple. So beautiful, and yet so devastatingly disgusting? “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.” (I Thessalonians 5:16-18) In all things we give thanks. All things. Thank God for the smell of the freshly fallen autumn leaves, and the feeling of cool rain on your skin. At the same time, praise Him for the knees you scraped while climbing the trees, and the flood that came with the rain. Is that it? Or is it that we praise Him for what we gained from scraping our knees and drowning in the water? And how can one pray without ceasing? My life has been less than a prayer to God. Maybe a plea of a whining child, but not a praise. Not a prayer.

So many times I feel myself at a loss for words. I find myself distracted, or unable to express coherent thought. And the only way I can say what I want to is through writing. Can I write prayer to God? If I do, it will probably end up like this; an endless thought, that runs together, again incoherently. Writing has been my form of expression for so long. I can say how I feel, and then if I can’t say it in writing, I can find music that says it. Maybe not in the words, but somehow the melody, sometimes, takes me and rolls my heart out like a map.

How does one actually tell people how they feel? And yet, we are required to. If we never told anyone how we felt, nothing would ever get done. I heard someone say that emotion was overrated, and, at the moment, I am almost inclined to believe him. But then, emotion makes up so much of our lives, and if it weren’t a part of human existence, we would just be robots without a purpose. God gave us emotion for a reason, right? What makes music so wonderful? The emotion in it. From punk rock or classical, the reason we enjoy music is because of what it makes us feel, and the emotion that the artist has invested in it. Had we no emotion, music would be a string of noises with no purpose and no meaning. And why do we react to things that people write? We react positively or negatively because of the emotion it makes us feel, or the emotion (or lack there of) in their writing.

So this is how I convey how I feel: my words. Rarely will I tell you how I feel to your face. I’m not quite sure why it is. For some reason, I am more comfortable pouring myself out in writing. If you read how I feel, for some reason, it isn’t as hard. Maybe I’m hiding behind the letters, stuck in the crook of the “s” like a little kid hiding behind her mommy on the first day of kindergarten. Maybe I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, and when I’m writing it, I can revise as many times as I want to before it is read, so I don’t say the wrong things.

Life. God put me here for a reason, right? I’m not just here to be used and thrown away, right? I will learn. I will learn to wait. I will learn to pray, and to make my life a prayer. I praise God for this confusion. God, I don’t know what you are doing with my life right now, but I pray that you will teach me to wait and see. I thank you for whatever it is, and I pray that you will give me the strength to praise you through the scraped knees and floods of this life.

Hello!

So... two weeks into college and I am loving it. It's amazing. I love my classes- they are so interesting. I love the people I hang out with (I want to meet more, though!), and I love the atmosphere. It's new, and it feels so much better than high school. I feel like I fit in, and can be whoever I want to be, without feeling like I'm being judged for who I am. Life is good right now.

A Choice

I waited too long. It’s the waiting that made the difference too. Had I said something, done something, acted like something more than an idiot, maybe, maybe something could have changed. I waited. I waited for the opportune moment, for the appropriate time. There never was one. It was never right, never okay. It makes me think, though. If we spend all of our lives waiting for the right time, will it ever come?

I made a choice today. Whether consciously or not, I made a choice. Maybe it was best, I’ll never know, because I never took the step. So many times before, I have been the one to take a step, to put myself out there, and to make myself vulnerable. Maybe I was hoping that this time, this time maybe someone would do that for me. But as someone once said, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” And I’ll never know if it would have been different if I had.

We watched a movie tonight: The Time Machine. The main character in the movie asks the question, “Why can’t we change the past?” The answer is something along the lines of: we cannot change the past because the future, or the present, is a direct result of what happened in the past, and therefore, it cannot be changed. So the fact that I am sitting here now regretting the choice that I made is a direct result, consequently, of the choice that I made. The only way I could change it is to use what time I have now to choose to say what I kept within my head before.

Unfortunately though, I have waited too long and have run out of time to express what I wished to say. I could say something now, but the use of it would be next to the usefulness of a ‘screen door on a submarine’. I waited. I waited for the right moment, the right time. In my wait though, time never changed for me. Things were never right just because I wanted them to be. I did nothing to change the future, and now I sit here, looking at the past, with only “what if…” to haunt me.