Dolly Do- All

I have a thing with bath tubs. This is my second blog centered on a bath tub revelation. I love taking a bath; I get that from my mom. I grew up knowing ‘mom bath tub time” was “mom get away from the kids and relax time”.  I don’t really understand what I find so relaxing about them. I am too tall to sit comfortably in them, I am hot and sweaty in like, three minutes, and I usually don’t make it one chapter in my book before I’m like, okay, this was cool, I’m over it”. But I relate relaxation to them anyways; probably because it is the only time I slow down for five seconds.

I was in the bath today, after a long, sweaty run, (not sure why I thought the two would go well together), and I attempted to begin relaxing. I cannot relax. I cannot take naps. I am hardly able to sleep past eight o’ clock. I have always been this way. I feel like I am wasting time I could be using to do something, and yet while I am doing those things that are so important I can’t take a nap because I need to get them done, I am thinking about how nice it would be to take a nap. I am pretty sure I am the only kid who woke up feeling guilty for falling asleep in class. But, I digress, (or random-ess, which is a MUCH more applicable term. I don’t digress, I jump, hop, skip, and slide around a conversation so much I forget what I was originally talking about) so, I am in the bathtub and I am trying to relax, and trying to calm myself down. I am stressed, I am overwhelmed, I am disappointed in someone I needed to pull through for me, and I am angry at some changes I don’t want made, that affect some changes I did want made, and a settlement in something that I was relying on to bring some balance to my life.

            I am not complaining. I am a graduate student, I have a job that allows me to pursue my dreams and still provide for myself, I have a loving and supportive family, I have a handful of the greatest friends anyone could ask for, I have a God that meets me where I’m at and wants a relationship with me, I am healthy, and I know this. But, I am overwhelmed, and Dolly Do-All over here is learning she can’t do, well, it all. It is hard for a superhero to acknowledge their kryptonite. I want to be wonder woman, but I am tired. And those shorts would give me an eternal wedgie.

I am also famously cliché. I would love to tell you I am positive during the hard times, but I’d also love to tell you I look as good at five in the morning as I do at five in the evening. Both would be lies. I stay faithful during the difficult times. I pray and remain engaged in my relationship with Christ. I don’t immediately go into the “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!??!” ugly cry out to God, but I don’t remember the things I usually thank God for everyday in prayer.

I am sitting in this bath tub and my brain is still going the way it was on my run. Thought afterthoughtafterthoughtafterthought and it just.wont.stop. I start ticking off the things I have to do tomorrow, the next day, a week from now, a year from now; with each item on my list I get angrier and angrier about the schedule I was depending on that is changing, then I beat myself up because I am lucky to have a schedule in the first place. I start hearing everyone’s helpful sentiments, “it’s all worth it, just hang in there,” “we’ll work it out” blah blah blah. I just want to scream at the top of my lungs, “SHUT UP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I am stuck in between not being at the finish line yet, but being so close I can’t turn around and run the other way, I am too old to move back into my parent’s house and let them buy my shampoo for me and remind me to take the trash cans out. My grandpa is gone now and he isn’t coming back to pay for my school, or speak in his accent about how wonderful the opportunity to educate myself is and how I must push forward. I am a grown up. I am a single grown up. I am grown.

                        I am grown.

I get overwhelmed all over again. I don’t want to be grown, I don’t want to have a business card, I don’t want to be a grad student, I don’t want to pay taxes. I don’t want to be old enough to lose people, I don’t want to have a day planner, I don’t want to pay the electric bill and have conversations about retirement plans, I DON’T EVEN WANT TO VOTE!

But then I calm down. Dolly Do-All remembers why she wants to do it all in the first place. I take a deep breath and laugh. I am sitting in my parents bath tub visiting them, and I am having my MILLIONTH melt down in this same bathroom…. the same tub I cried in when I was nervous on my first day of work for my first job ever. The same tub I cried in on my high school graduation day, my first day of college, the day I moved out, the day I got fired for the first time ever. And whether my melt down was me freaking out because I needed to ask my parents if I could borrow some money to pay off my Victoria Secret credit card (I had at 18!!!!!!!!!!!!), or how I am going to explain to my parents that I am moving back in because I am getting a divorce…everything always works out okay.

I am okay.

Dolly- do all is okay. I may not be able to do it all. I might not be the next Wonder Woman with cuter hair and tattoos, but I am at least rejuvenated enough to try. I will have other melt downs, but in the meantime I am going to enjoy how fluffy the bath mat between my toes feels, I will praise a God that never lets me down, although people will. I will smell my mom’s candles and coffee that fill this house, and listen to the sounds of all these crazy dogs barking, and smile because I know I always have a home to come home to. I will have a million more melt downs, but as long as there is a bath tub for me to sweat in, I will be all right.

Dear Someone(s)-

When I was young I would often get in trouble for the amount of responsibility I took for others lives. If my sister was upset, I was upset. If my friend was scared, I was scared. If a boy on the bus was getting bullied, I cried the whole way home, praying he wouldn't get in a fight the next day. I had a hard time separating what was appropriate for me to get upset over, from what wasn't. Needless to say, I spent countless hours crying in my room, either for my own pubescent drama, or my friends, and even more time being disciplined for this character trait. I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard, "you are trying to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders," or, "you worry about things beyond your control..." blah.blah.blah. .... Over time, and life's low blows, I developed a cynicism to replace my empathy. I had crossed over the line of forgiving compassion to hardened distrust, and I stopped feeling sorry for people. At least outwardly. I built walls. I created defenses, and I got really good at being the tough girl that "says exactly what's on her mind". Except I wasn't saying what was on my mind, I was saying what the bitterness told me to say to protect the little girl inside me that wanted to hug every person that was having a bad day.

I don't know when that line got crossed. I have an idea of what the final straw was, the final kick in the stomach that pushed me over the edge; but I am not exactly certain what blow landed just right to cause the disconnect I felt from myself. I was not a mean girl. I was never the girl who hurt people's feelings. I won "Most Likely to Cheer You Up When You're Down" for goodness sake!

The mean girl in me, the defensive, hurt person hurting people that lay within me for a few years is gone now. I don't do the displacement of anger gig anymore, and although I am not one hundred percent in my confronting someone when they've hurt me/let me down/disappointed me skill yet, I am at least capable of separating the perpetrator from the innocent Starbucks barista.

Someone I care about is going through something really hard right now. There are a few "someone(s)" I care about that are going through something difficult right now, and I am reminded of what might have caused the empathy in me to hide in its mouse hole in the first place.  My shoulders feel heavy, my sleep feels unsettled, and although I have nothing to complain about personally, I don't feel as excited about every new day as I usually do. I'm watching someone I care about struggle, and having been through what all my someone(s) have been through in one way or another before, I am having the worst time finding the balance between being supportive, offering advice from my battle with the same demon... with wanting to take this person and build a bubble around them and face the entire army by myself if that's what it takes, because I have been there before and I am capable of surviving it again.

The worst part about it is, I have so much I want to say to my someone(s), but I don't want to risk them thinking I am disconnected or insensitive.... so, in an effort to not have the awkward conversation where I am trying to talk to you about your issues, but, instead, am bawling my eyes out and allowing you to comfort me for being upset during your time of need, I will write you this, and I hope you read every word with the understanding that I mean every word. That every articulated letter formation of words on this page were chosen and felt and expressed with a love and sincerity that is incapable of being expressed any other way....

Dear Someone(s)-

I don't know why you are going through what you are going through right now. I would give anything to take that pain away from you, but it is not my responsibility. God has a plan for us all, and He never promised it would be easy, He just promised it would be worth it. I know it is so hard to sit in your own frustrations, feeling hurt, alone, abandoned even, and still feel faithful and connected to God. Many people pretend to, but I think the best thing we can do for our relationship with Christ is build the intimacy that comes with asking him why. I hate that word sometimes. Why. Why are you hurting, why is this happening, why isn't the outcome different, why are you letting this happen to me....why..why...why.???? In John 13:7 Jesus says, " you do not realize now what I am doing. Later you will understand" (emphasis mine).  We hear over and over again when we are going through life's more difficult moments, that everything has a reason, that nothing happens that isn't supposed too, cliché after cliché..but here's the one thing that always brings me comfort, God isn't a cliché. He has a plan for you, and it is hard to see that when your plan seems to be falling apart, but trust in the one who has brought you this far.

King David wrote Psalm 142 while he was in a cave, as a prayer... the man is in a cave. Let's not forget. In a cave. Writing this prayer. In a cave.

I cry aloud to the Lord;

I lift up my voice to the Lord for mercy.

I pour out my complaint before him;

before him I tell my trouble.

When my spirit grows faint within me,

it is you who know my way.

In the path where I walk

men have a hidden a snare for me.

Look to my right and see;

no one is concerned for me,

I have no refuge;

no one cares for my life.

I cry to you, O Lord;

I say, "you are my refuge,

my portion in the land of the living."

Listen to my  cry,

for I am in desperate need;

rescue me from those who pursue me,

for they are too strong for me.

Set me free from my prison,

that I may praise your name.

I know you are not in a cave, and I am certainly not God, but when you cry I will listen. I am not as strong as God, but I have a carried great weight on my shoulders before, and I can do it again. I am not in control of your path, and don't know enough to foresee and remove any obstacles, but I will walk with you, and I will help you fight.

I am not a mean girl anymore. Life made my edges rough for awhile, but that isn't who I am now. And the same God that brought me through my struggles, and delivered me from my own stupid self, will bring you through yours. He never promised He would bring us around struggles, or over them, or under them.... there was no promise of avoiding the hard times, just a promise we would get through them. He meets us where we are at, but I promise to take it from there.

I will help you move from the "why' of it all, to the "what now". I promise to see the best in you, that you aren't so good at recognizing right now. I promise to remind you of all the reasons you're amazing until you're able to remember yourself. I promise to pray for you, and give you every verse or psalm that comes into my mind. I promise not to get upset when you tell me to shut up and quit giving you every verse or psalm that comes into my mind. I promise, even when I am pretending not to be mad you just told me to shut up, to pray for you still. I promise to stand by your side, with a human loyalty nowhere near the loyalty God will show you. I promise to pick the restaurants for awhile. I promise to make you laugh when you need a laugh, and to cry with you when you need a cry, and to know you well enough to know the difference. I promise to tell you when I think you're carrying on a little too long, and kick you in the butt to get you moving again. God has a plan for you someone, and I won't stand back and watch you miss it. I promise I won't give up on you, and I won't let you give up on yourself.

Give it all to God, and trust me with the rest. I can handle it. I am most likely to cheer you up when you're down after all, you can't argue with fact.

Polar Bears and Vanilla Ice Cream

When I was in eighth grade my Grandfather took my sister and me to Sea World. It was a good day. I remember being happy while I was there, but I didn't realize just how special that day was until years later. I think of that day a lot actually. Do you have memories like that? Days that were just kind of normal and then you end up looking back at them, the next week even, and thinking, "that was a really good day." Like Luci Swindall would say, my "soul was engaged".

               My grandpa bought me a stuffed polar bear that day. I remember him paying for it. I was fourteen at the time, too old for stuffed animals, but that's what I loved about my grandpa, I was his grandbaby, no matter how old I got, and he was buying me a stuffed polar bear. I still have that bear, and I can't tell you how many times I have cried into that thing. I am 26 now, still too old for stuffed animals, but my grandpa bought me that bear, and if my house caught fire right now, I swear it would be one of first things I grabbed.

               My grandfather has been dead almost ten years now, and I still cry at least once a week. I cannot explain the love and adoration I had for that man. Being tall, I was called "big" a lot, and it quite honestly caused an insecurity in me that led to unhealthy behaviors. I tried for the past ten years, ironically since he died, to do everything I could to shrink. I went days without food, but never without the gym. I kept my achievements quiet so as not to draw attention to myself. I would be loud, because I am naturally loud, but then I would remember, and I would get quiet. I would not raise my hand in class, although I honestly always know the answer, and I slouched myself into hiding, and bad posture. I was told once by a woman I did not know, as I was walking by her on my way to the treadmill, that she sees me in the gym all the time and I carry myself beautifully. I wanted to be flattered, but all I could think was, "You don't have a clue what you're talking about lady."

               I never felt big when my grandpa was around. I felt special. I never felt in the way, I felt wanted. I would sit on the ottoman in front of his favorite leather chair and he would brush my long, thick, ridiculous curly hair for an hour, listening to me ramble about God knows what, but I never felt stupid, just heard.  I loved sitting in my grandpa's lap. I loved his smell, and his stubble on his chin, I loved his glasses, and his strong French nose. I loved his gray hair, and I loved his collared shirts. I loved how I felt when I was with him, and I can honestly say it's a feeling I haven't felt since he died.

               I will sound contradictory to my faith right now, but I know my mom was not supposed to be with my dad forever, BUT, if they had not been married, I would not have my grandfather, and although I only got 17 short years with that angel, I am half of who I am today because of him.

               I have been searching for a long time for a man who might love me like he did, not in his heart necessarily, but out loud. My grandfather opened every door for me I EVER walked through next to that man, and in my childhood adolescence I would always say, " I can do it myself Grandpa." At the time I thought he was treating me like a child, but now I realize he was treating me like a lady, because even at six years old, that's what I was to him. Oh, how many times I have expected so much less for myself. How many times have I deviated from an example like that that was set for me. When I look back at my failed relationships, I always wonder what he is thinking. I wonder if he is sad for me, or if he knows I just made some mistakes. I wonder if he thinks, Megan Daleen, of all the things I wanted for you, this was never it.

               I want a man like my grandpa, every woman deserves a man like him. Someone who will have Cheerio's and Nilla Wafers ready when you come over. Someone who will teach you to appreciate the simple things like Vanilla ice cream. Someone who will be screaming at a football game, while brushing your long, tangled hair. Someone who will open the door for you because he wants you to expect that for yourself, even if you don't understand that you should. Someone who celebrates every victory, no matter how small, and brings flowers to your childhood dance recitals. Someone who buys you the best of the best, because even if you don't see it, that's what you deserve. Someone who will let you sneak and watch talk shows at his house, even though he knows you're not allowed, because you need someone to share some secrets with him, and he's honored you chose him. Someone who answers your childish questions with patience, and never makes you feel inadequate for asking them. Someone who nurtures your curiosities and uniqueness, even if he's the only one. Someone who buys you a shake at In-n-Out, and then a soda because you're still thirsty.

               I am glad my grandfather is with our God in Heaven, but I won't pretend I don't still wish he was here. I miss watching him say grace before dinner, I miss watching my grandmother comb his hair. He would turn around and smile a sheepish smile at me, almost saying, " I can do this for myself, I just like your grandma to do it for me." I loved that smile, it made me laugh because I thought we had our own little secret. I loved that this man that I thought was superman, needed his hair combed. I miss the sound of him gurgling mouthwash in the morning, I miss his laugh most of all. I would give anything to have him here, but I'm okay with where he's at.

               The last visit I had with my grandfather we took a walk. He had just been released from the hospital a couple of weeks prior, having gotten a surgery they told us he might not make it through. We talked about how he was feeling, he said he was getting stronger. I told him I wanted him to come see me cheer at my first varsity game, he said he would. He died two weeks later, but he  came to my game anyways. I'd give anything to hug him again, but I'm glad he's where he's at. My faith is the greatest thing I have, my family comes next. But sometimes I waver, as anyone does, and I get lonely and I feel afraid. I have been through the absolute worst six years of my life,  most of it being my own doing. I don't know what I would have done without that polar bear doll to cry into, the way I am crying into it now.

               I don't like much of this world anymore. I get scared a lot lately. I hate how mean people are, because hurt people hurt people. I work in a job that makes me question my faith in humanity every day. I have many days where my love for God is the only thing that keeps me happy, because it restores my love for life again. I am scared to die, but I know where I am going, and I cannot wait to be there. I know my grandpa is the first person I will see, and I will have someone to brush my hair again.

I bought a stuffed polar bear from Sea World. It does not look the same, obviously. And it will never be the same. But there was something about standing in line in the same building I stood in with him 12 years ago that reminded me he was here. Soon I will have lived on this earth more days without him, then with him, and it makes me sad. But I have an old,  soft polar bear to cry into, and a new one to remind me life moves on. The man I marry one day will buy me a stuffed polar bear. I will be far too old for one, but I will be his baby, and he will want me to have one. He will open doors for me, and I will comb his hair. I don't know if I will ever get married again. It's funny because I thought my standards weren't high enough, but I think it might be the opposite. I think my standards are so high, I settle for less assuming no one will ever compare. I am not worth the work to a lot of men out there, and that's okay, because I was worth the work to one man. I didn't have the choice to shrink when I was with him. No matter how hard I tried to be smaller, he made me larger than life. I wish he was here to remind me of that, but I'm okay with where he's at.

I just hope he is thinking the same about me.

The "Ricky Ricardo's "

               Remember when you were little and you would be sitting in the front seat of the car, your mother or father would slam on their brakes for one reason or another and what would happen? That hand would come out. Like some type of internal reflex that is programmed in the brain and activated by the birth of a child, the ever familiar "hand across the child's body to protect them from slamming forward" move would happen..every.single.time. As a stubborn and strong willed child, I would always say, "I'm fine Mom". Like I had to prove my ability to protect myself. Like that simple, protective hand gesture was going to strip me of all my potty trained independence.

               The other day my mother and I were leaving the Honda Center after finishing watching the final day of the Women of Faith Conference. The atmosphere in the lobby was understandably excited, and women were more concerned with sharing their inspirations with the women across the room from them, than they were walking in a relatively controlled manner. As my mother and I were walking out the door, a group of women kind of cut in front of us from the side in a super-woman-ninja-Jedi way that caused us to have to step back in the middle of steps we were taking to step forward. And what happened? The hand came out. Only this time, it was mine. My hand went behind my mother's back creating an almost bar, while simultaneously sending the message, "you bump into my mom, you get the bar."  I caught what I was doing and thought almost instantly to myself, "Whoa- when did THAT happen?" At what point in our lives do we become the hand protector and not the hand protectee?

               Now, truthfully, I was always a rather worried child. I remember there were many times I would question my mother about my parents finances because I was concerned they were struggling, or I would stay up all night wondering what disciplinary action they'd be taking against my sister for getting in trouble about something I probably made her do; but my mother would never let me in on business that wasn't mine, and so I remained " the worrier". But this, this hand protector move, this is different! This is a genetically coded behavior that only mothers and fathers have! When do we become the one's protecting the ones who protected us?

               I am not a mother, but I am not a child. I no longer need to be parented, however I am not a parent. Although I pretend to have it all figured out, I still want my mother's input on everything I do. Of course I will then argue with her about why her input is wrong, but that's what I do, I argue with my mom.  I have been arguing with my mom for as long as I have been worrying about her. I suffer from what I, as a therapist, have diagnosed myself with, called the, " I have to learn everything the hard way syndrome." Basically the symptoms of this disease is doing things you were advised not to do, suffering the consequences, and hoping your parents won't say, "I told you so". I will listen to Jesus, and I will listen to my mother, eventually, when I am done arguing with her. Genesis 2:24 says, " For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and they will become one flesh." This has always been one of those verses I struggle with. Do not kill? Got it. Do not steal? Not a problem, I'm too tall to get away with it anyways, but leave my mother and father??? For a man??? I think of the story of Ruth. In biblical days, when a woman was married to a man and he died, she was indebted to his family still. Ruth's parents were well off, but when her husband died she chose to stay with her mother-in-law Naomi, who had lost her husband and both her sons. Ruth followed Naomi home to Naomi's hometown, and stayed there with her despite being treated badly by the townspeople. Ruth found a cave for her and Naomi to stay in, and found a field to work in to at least provide the two women with food. I get the loyalty thing, and I love this story because of Ruth's faithfulness to her mother-in-law, but the thing is, my love for the story comes from my connection with Ruth... in that I would so the same thing for my mother. My mother. I don't know that I could leave my mother to follow a mother-in-law, no matter how dear to my heart she is.

               When I study the word and go to prayer with my reflections, I have this term I use.. the "Ricky Ricardo's". Basically it's anything in the word that I come upon that causes me to go, "uhhhh.. I don't know so much about this God", it's those issues that I pray about the most. I call them the Ricky Ricardo's because I know they're my weaknesses, and when I go before my Lord on Judgment Day He will be saying to me, "Megan, you got some splainin' to do". Genesis 2:24 is like, the king, of all Ricky Ricardo's.  This woman gave birth to me, she held me, she held my hair back when I threw up, she dried my tears, she smacked me in the mouth when I needed it, she fought tooth and nail to make me a lady, not a woman, a lady. My mother made my lunch and put notes in there for me, she stopped at Rite Aid on the way home from work to pick up whatever last minute item I needed, she taught me to put make-up on, and how to sew, and how to make beds properly, and how to type, and when to use their, they're, or there. She made sure I had clothes, and food, and shampoo, and animal crackers. She buried my dead pets, she took my cat to the vet and spent money she didn't have as a single mom to get it sewn back together after a car hit it, only to have it turn around and die from cancer, like, the next day. She has listened to thousands upon thousands of my dramas and let me cry. She sees the best in me, even when I don't. She has been to every dance recital, cheer competition, football game, basketball game, and award ceremony. She took the time off work to come see me hold a sign that said CURTAIN on it in my second grade play! She is my hero, my friend, my gym buddy, my advisor, my accountability partner, my confidant. She gave me my sister who is the joy of my world. She is fair, she is loving, she is annoying most of the time, she is always right. She prays for me harder then I could pray for myself. She loves me with such an unconditional love that has always made the unconditional love, the true- un-human unconditional love, Jesus has for me seem so overwhelming. She points out my flaws, then we laugh because they're the same as hers. Our arm has the same freckle pattern on it, we stand the same way, we talk the same, we cry the same.

And I am supposed to leave her?

I will follow my God with all my heart because that is what I chose to do. BUT, when it comes to my mother, and the thought of leaving her, I will DEFINITELY have some splainin to do.

My hand will go out a million more times. Not in the "hand across the child's body to protect them from slamming forward", but in the "on my knees in gratitude with my hand lifted in the air" move. Thank you Lord. Thank you for a mother that is so unbelievable that I am even faced with the dilemma of having to make someone a priority over her one day. Thank you for loving me and my sister enough to give her to us, and thank you for a dad that loves her as much as we do. Amen.

Dear, Whoever...................Love, Me

It is no secret I have been in my share of relationships. I had a conversation tonight with a friend that made me realize one of my biggest mistakes has been my inability to communicate what I want. Not what I want for dinner, or where I want to spend the weekend, but what I want at the core of who we are.... so, here it goes.




To the next man to fall in love with me, that allows me to fall in love with him,

I am scared of a lot of things. I am scared of the dark. I am scared to sleep without the TV on. I am scared of insects. And snakes. I am scared of death. I am scared of driving on the freeway at night. I am scared when someone knocks on my door. I am scared to lose people I love. I am scared of violence. I am scared of heights.

I love passionately. I love with everything I have. I love so much, it resonates from inside of me and it comes out in a big, jumbled mess. I love, but I am scared to lose. And sometimes I will push you away, expecting you to fight to come back. I love with a loyalty that can be overwhelming, even to me.



I will need you at times, but I will want you more than anything, however, I want you to need me. I am complicated. I will expect you to read my mind. I will tell you nothing is wrong when everything is wrong, and it will start as a fight over the remote and will pour out like a faucet. I want a man like my Dad, who could take one look at me and know something was wrong. I want a man who knows my thoughts before I do, but allows me the freedom to keep them to myself.



I want a man who loves Jesus. I want a man who reads the Bible. I want a man who stand next to me in church, who walks beside me. Not in front, and not behind. I want you to pray with me, and sing with me, and love with me. I want you to hold me accountable, and to tell me when I am allowing myself to show my stupid self again. I want you to correct me when I am wrong, but to speak gently and with a Godly heart.



I want you to think I am the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. I don't care if you think I am beautiful in the morning, cause I have seen myself in the morning and I'm not. I care that you think I am beautiful when I am at a podium accepting my masters degree. When I got a raise. When I wrote a book. When I spoke at a seminar(s) and finished giving a workshop. I want you to think I am beautiful when someone recognizes me from seeing my speak somewhere. I want you to think I am the most beautiful when I am walking with the Lord. I want you to want me to achieve all of my dreams, and to think I am the most beautiful for doing so.

Don't tell me I look better natural. But mean it. I want to put my make up on, and wear a pretty outfit, and smell nice, and be appreciated for it. I want to celebrate the things that make me a woman, with someone who is man enough to encourage it. I don't want you to take longer than I do to get ready. I want you to fix stuff, and watch sports, and work out, and do manly things. I want you to think logically, and tell me everything is going to be alright as your staple answer to everything. I want you to kill the bugs, and bury the dead pets. I want you to check what that noise was, or bbq for our family. I want you to fix cars, or at least know where to take the car to get fixed. I want you to die to protect me. I want you to love me with everything you have.



I cry at everything. I cry for dead animals on the side of the road, I cry when I see car accidents. I cry when I watch people lose on game shows. I cry when I think someone is embarrassed. I cry hard when I think someone is embarrassed. I cry when I am stressed, tired, sad, mad, scared, lonely, afraid, angry, anxious, excited, humbled, loved. I cry when I get a gift I wasn't expecting, I cry when I read the Bible. I cry at church, every single time, without fail. I cry when I look at pictures of my Grandpa, I cry when I am so mad my words won't come out right. I cry when my feelings get hurt. My feelings get hurt very easily, I cry for you. I cry just because. I blame every cry I have on being tired. Or pmsing.



I laugh a lot. I laugh at really inappropriate times because I can't handle the weight of the emotion. If you make me laugh, I'm yours. I want to laugh with you, at you, at me. I want to have inside jokes. I want to make you laugh.

I get excited over everything, I get excited to go out for dinner after work. I get excited to go on trips. I get excited to rent movies and have movie night. I get excited to watch you do something you love doing. I get excited over simple things, like a baby that just discovered where her foot was.

I want to have favorite TV shows we watch together. I want to read books in the park with you.

I hate camping, I think it is horribly boring. I am not interested in partying with you at the river. I am not interested in riding a dirt bike. I don't like roller coasters all that much, and I only pretend to like a lot of the movies you like. I don't eat meat off the bone, and I lapse into spurts of vegetarianism. I like to change my mind, and I need you to let me.

I want to fall into your arms. I want you to be my safe place to land. I want to know I can do no wrong now that I have you, and I want you to feel the same. I want to look at you in a way that screams I love this man, and I want you to look at me the same way. I want to have fun grocery shopping with you.

I want you to fall in love with me, and to allow me to fall in love with you.

Stay Golden

My obsession with Golden Girls is a tad much, or so I have been told. Some would argue knowing every single episode of the show by heart is over-the-top, I have a hard time agreeing with this, especially during moments like now, when I can reference an episode and illustrate all the jumbled thoughts in my own head perfectly. In this particular episode, Dorothy and Sophia come home from a funeral of one of Sophia's childhood friends (for those who will insult me by not knowing who I am talking about, Dorothy is Sophia's daughter). Dorothy confesses to Blanch and Rose that she is really upset over the passing of this woman who was only three years older than Sophia. The girls suggest Dorothy take Sophia on a weekend trip to spend some quality time with her, and so Dorothy decides to take Sophia to Disney World (because they live in Miami, I hope you're taking notes). As the weekend progresses Sophia gets increasingly more irritated with Dorothy because Sophia wants to ride the rides and walk around the park, and Dorothy has brought photo albums and slide shows she wants to go through with her Mother. Sophia ends up leaving the hotel room upset one night, and Dorothy finally finds her in hotel lounge (requesting the piano player sing "It's a Small World"- write that down). Dorothy starts explaining to Sophia that she wanted this quality time to remember her mother by because it would be so special. Sophia then explains to Dorothy that she can't force quality time and she can't hold on to memories purely because they look through a photo album remembering them. When Dorothy keeps arguing her point Sophia references a story from her childhood. She tells Dorothy about her obsession with fireflies when she was young. Sophia would take a mason jar and catch the beautiful fireflies, after she caught a few and put the lid on the jar she would run inside, ecstatic over her catch, only to wake up in the morning and find all her fireflies dead. She makes the joke they died because she forgot to punch holes in the lid; but then she says something I think about a lot. She explains to Dorothy that trying to capture something so beautiful, and special, and hold on to it so she wouldn't have to lose it, only resulted in her suffocating it, until she lost it anyways.


I do that. I let myself love something, I let myself feel the joy of God's blessings in my life, whether it be a person, relationship, job, achievement, weight loss, anything in between... but the second it is not new, or a secret, or in my possession only, I start catching fireflies in jars. I am like the little kid that finds the best toy out of the toy box, then runs in the corner and hides to play with it. The frustrating part of figuring this out, is it's not selfish motivation that drives me to do this, I don't care if you share my blessings, and it's not a competitive motivation, if you have a better toy than me that's fine, just don't take mine..it's not even an abandonment issues of, "fine, take it, I know I'll be without anyways". So what is it? God has given me infinitely more than he has EVER taken away. If He never blessed me with another thing again, the pure face He gave His son for my stupid sins is the greatest gift I, or any one, will ever receive; and to top that off I don't have to worry about losing that?!?!? So why do I put more energy into making sure I don't lose the things that aren't completely mine? Why do I look at a relationship I'm in differently if I know people know about it? Why do I reevaluate friendships I am in if my friend gets a new friend? I am not jealous of the new friend, but I am suddenly evaluating where my place will be in my friends life. I am woman enough, sinful, broken, disillusioned woman enough, to admit I am insecure, I'm just not sure I can pinpoint that is what this is.

I have lost people I have loved dearly.. it is unavoidable when you love as passionately as I do. I have lost people to life, I have lost people to death. I still think about all of these people daily. Is that where this comes from? I enjoy nice things, but I have given even nicer things then what I possess now away and not thought twice about it. So is it material possessions I hold on to? I will be the first to tell you God does not give to you, only to take away, like it gives Him pleasure to mess with you like that... but then why am I afraid? Why do I let others gossip taint something I love? Why does a friend looking the wrong way at a shirt I liked and was excited to buy make me put it back on the shelf? Is it other's opinions of me that matter? There is a feeling of dread that rises up from inside of me when I know something I love is being put..well, out there, but, if I have to hide something to love it, then what is it I love about that thing? My mother has gotten on me forever because when something new and exciting is happening in my life, especially in relationships, I all of a sudden become very secretive, like I am hiding something. Do I think that others eyes looking at something I love will taint it? Will change it?

I have never gone without. I have always had everything I needed, and a lot of what I wanted. I have gone through very hard, lonely periods of my life, but I am never alone. I have been devastated over loss, but I have never lost everything, or everyone. I have been through my fair share of obstacles, but I have always come out stronger.

The funny thing is, a lot of people question God because you can't see him, because you can't catch God and put him in a jar with a lid on it and watch the beauty dance around until it suffocates and dies. But for me, I have seen and admired many things, loved many things, and lost them all. I have never lost Christ. He has always been here, even when I have been the one to wander off, and find new friends, and find new loves, and find new masters to serve. If all I am searching for is a love that is all mine, that is unconditional, and cannot be tainted no matter whose eyes see it, not matter what friend scoffs at it, that is always there, and it is always pure, and it is always real, and it is always mine, and I know I have that in Jesus, then why am I afraid? I can share this love with billions of people and it is still all mine.

If they made a Golden Girls episode about that, I imagine it would be the series finale, and they would be sitting around the kitchen table, with Sophia at the kitchen counter, and it would be one of those memory episodes where it shows them "remembering" clips from all the other shows; but at the end of this one, Blanch, and Dorothy, and Rose, and Sophia would realize all those men they chased, the jobs they stressed over, the banquets, the kids, the grandkids, none of it comes anywhere near the love Christ has for them, and it would fade to black and they would all live happily ever after. In Miami. With Wicker furniture. And a lanai. Write that down.

I sat in class tonight and went over a checklist with the professor on what was needed to get my MFT (marriage and family therapy) license from the state. I was shocked to find myself feeling really stressed out and overwhelmed by the reality of something I've wanted for so long being so close within reach. I have wanted a masters degree since I was old enough to understand what one was. Although I have every intention of going for my doctorate, it still hasn't hit me I will be graduating in a few short months with my MFT. It made me think of a song I heard on the radio the other day by Drake. In the main chorus he keeps saying (singing? rapping?) "What am I afraid of , this is supposed to be what dreams are made of"... my initial response to this song was indifference, really; but after tonight I get it. I sat and thought back to my beginning days of college, remembered all the jobs I worked, most of them at the same time, to get to this point. I remembered my Dad bringing me his credit cards to go buy my school books, I remember staying up all night to study, times I took tests and felt ecstatic my work had paid off. I remembered times I would have horrible nights at work, waitressing, and having to tell myself over and over, "your day will come, there is a purpose" to keep myself from quitting. It blows my mind the same girl who couldn't decide what elective to take will be graduating.


I sound like I'm narrating the series finale of a long running sitcom, but there's a point to this.



The passion with which I began my academic journey has changed. I don't think I can say it's more, or less, but it's different. I have always wanted to be a psychologist to help people. I was the friend everyone told their problems too, and I was sensitive enough from having experienced my own that I was a really good combination of listener, and load carrier; but, I would be lying I didn't say the young girl who started college a few years ago had a passion for the money, success, and potential status a high- profile career could bring me. I had young visions of myself in killer suits and driving expensive cars, working in some corporate building somewhere, doing what I love to do. The problem is, I'm now realizing, I don't think I knew what I loved more back then.



Going through the things I have gone through, put my family through, been put through, or watched others go through in the past couple years has changed me. I went through enough to completely break me down to the core, and I was lucky enough to turn to God, and ask Him for help in rebuilding me. I hated every minute of the past couple of years struggles, but I know, if there were any purpose in any of it, at all, it was to teach me a genuine compassion that penetrates me from the inside out. I can FEEL the hurt of others, I can FEEL the embarrassment of accepting one's part in making a mistake, I can appreciate the humanness of us people, and I have delved into God's word in a way that gives me a better basis for guiding one through their own battle more than any textbook I could memorize.



So, what's the point right?



The point is a twelve hour shift goes by faster at work for me than a 6 hour shift; because my brain has prepared and accepted it will be spending a significant amount of time at work and there's really no point in clock watching. I feel like I am working a six hour shift in my life right now. I feel like I spent the years acquiring my bachelors dreaming of this day... but having it exist far enough in the future I didn't fear what I would do it when it got here. I started my masters program with such a long check list of things to complete that I allowed myself to be excited I had reached this level, but was still safe enough to know it would be a long time before I would be in the position to put my money where my mouth is.



Well my money is meeting my mouth, and I am quite honestly terrified.



What if I am horrible? What if people hate me? What if my clients walk away without realizing how much we both want them there to grow, learn, expand. What if every dream I have had is here, and I don't know what to do with it? What if I'm a much better MFT student than I am a MFT?



What if I finally put down my control issues and trusted that God wouldn't bring me this far to just leave me there?

What if I put my money where my prayers are?

What if my first thought when I get this overwhelmed was "God is with me", instead of "you're going to fail", "you're going to embarrass yourself". ....blah blah blah. Remember as kids those graphic design pictures that looked like a big jumble of whatever repeated shape was chosen for that picture repeated over and over? Like a pink and green squiggle over and over on the paper from top to bottom, but if you did some magic trick with your face and stared at it closely for thirty seconds and then pulled back and looked again, or whatever combination of craziness I could never sit still long enough to figure out, there would be an image in there. There would be a dog, or a hammer, or whatever it is.... like a highlights picture search that would take you forever to find the ax in the tree trunk.... with both of those things it took me a frustratingly long time to see what I needed to see. I would have given up many times if it weren't for the pure fact I couldn't justify to myself walking away from something after investing that much time...... well... how do I walk away from this dream after finally seeing it here, in front of me? I have seen the ax in the tree truck and now, no matter how hard I try, I can't UN-see the ax. It's there. I can comprehend that at one time that tree looked like a tree to me, but now, it looks like a tree trunk with an ax in it, and my brain will never see it otherwise. I realize there was a time in my life that my wrists didn't have tattoos on them, but I can't remember that anymore. I can't remember what I looked like with braces, although at the time I couldn't remember what I looked like without them, and I can't remember what my life's purpose was up until God showed me through pursuing "my "dreams. I can't UN-do the nights I have walked out of class, floated out of class, knowing I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I guess I am telling myself this more than I am expecting anyone to read it and understand it. It's like an electronic stamp in my world that I can come back to anytime I think I am seeing a regular old tree trunk, to remind me with pink and green squiggle patterns that there is, in fact, still an ax there.

God never brings us anywhere we aren't capable of being. I just have to remember that when I'm seeing bare wrists through the tattoos.