What Do a Vacation Loft, Porch Swing, College Class, and Church Have In Common?

As I climbed the stairs to the loft to check out my digs for the weekend, I immediately spied it: a wasp clinging to the window over the only chair in a sitting area at the end of the hall obviously intended for guests.

No worries, it was dusk and as I was admiring the view to the lake, I kept a wary side eye on the insect's body trying to detect movement.

It didn't move. It just clung to the window like it was stuck. There were also a couple of ladybugs in the window sill also not moving.

Oh good, the thing is dead and apparently must have died while sitting there on the window. Whew.

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Ever since I got stung by a wasp while sitting on my grandma's front porch swing as a kid in Arkansas, wasps and I have had a nervous relationship. When we enter the same room, we are immediately aware of each other's presence.

I'm pretty sure that when I see one, my body instantly gives of the colors and smells of fear and anxiety, and apparently wasps really like my colors.

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One morning as a new college student at the University of Arkansas, I was confidently be-bopping down the sidewalk on my way to a landscape rendering class with my head full of long, freshly scrunched, permed, spiral curls.

I had the cutest leather headband to hold it out of my face, but I had allowed the full mass of curls to extend as far as they wanted out from my head. I had some big hair, y'all, I knew the boys liked it, and I planned on getting attention that day.

All of a sudden I saw one of those big Arkansas red wasps heading straight for me. I instinctively bobbed and weaved and batted at the side of my face at the last second as I heard that frightening buzz of its wings near my ear.

And then I heard and saw nothing. It disappeared as quick as it had shown up. All I could think was that it was a close call as I calmed my breathing, regained my composure, and continued on my way.

I'd forgotten about the near miss as I found my seat in the circle of chairs in the room. I settled into my spot and retrieved my notebook and pencils, ready to sketch and take notes.

And then I heard the loudest, most scary buzz ever as I felt a movement next to my neck and the subsequent sting! I screamed and jumped up out of my chair, flipped my hair around and batted at my head sending my headband into the middle of the room!

The professor's and other student's reactions at first were "WTH!", and I'm assuming they would have thought I had been possessed by a demon if the large, wasp evidence hadn't been splatted on the floor next to me courtesy of the bottom of a friend's shoe.

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When I was a young married in my early 20's, my husband and I arrived as guests at the catholic church his family was attending. It was a very large congregation, and they were meeting in a massive gymnasium.

Didn't matter. As I sat down, my peripheral vision caught movement up near the ceiling on the very, very far side of the gym. I nudged my husband and pointed it out. The thing was a monster.

We settled into the flow of the service while I kept one eye on the wasp as it appeared to erratically fly this way and that with no intended destination, but I knew. We had locked eyes and it was coming for me!

My heart raced, and I tried to breathe calmly hoping to quell my anxiety and erase my aura of fear.

It swayed back and forth up near the ceiling, gradually making its way towards me. I couldn't take my eyes off it now. I was paralyzed.

Maybe I had nudged my husband a few times as it was getting closer because he was watching it too.

It was flying and swaying lower and lower, getting closer and closer. I was sitting as still as I could with my back pressed up against the seat trying to hide behind the person next to me.

I barely breathed as it hovered over our section of chairs.

Then all of a sudden, down it came with one fell, determined swoop, put on its breaks, and LANDED ON MY KNEE!!!

My husband, knowing my intense fear and typical fight or flight responses and probably hoping I wouldn't make a scene, quickly reacted, swept it off my knee with his prayer book, and stomped it into smithereens onto the gym floor!

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The next morning, I adjusted my eyes to the bright window looking for the wasp as I walked down to the little sitting area of the loft to make some Keurig coffee. It was still there in the exact same spot. Thank goodness.

Upon closer inspection, since I was going to settle underneath it in the chair to write, I noticed its wings had drooped a little from their position the night before.

Yes. I notice these details. I have PTSD wasp trauma. I'm sure it's a diagnosis. Look it up.

I thought, well it must be gradually succumbing to gravity since its not living. I suppose eventually it will dry up and fall to the window sill. So I mentally brushed it aside, and curled up in the chair.

But a couple hours later, all of a sudden I heard that buzz. The warmth from the morning must have heated up the window and RESURRECTED THE DEAD. Even the ladybugs that I thought were dead had perked up and were starting to walk in circles on the glass.

For once a wasp pretended not to notice me so I pretended not to notice it even though I was hyper aware as it made its 3-4" jaunts away from the window, circled around and then body slammed itself into the glass over and over again. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

I pressed on with my writing hoping my aura color would not get its attention. I planned to Snow White my way through the rest of the weekend. I mean, I probably wouldn't snuggle with it, but I may have to sing a little if it gets that crazy look in its eye.

15 Minutes, Flip, 15 Minutes

It all happened so fast. There she was just lying there minding her own business, trying to get her 30 minutes of sun by the pool for the week, 15 minutes on one side, 15 minutes on the other - she sets a timer, y'all, she's precise.

Now on her second 15 minute side, she had moved to a raft in the pool because she was literally melting into a puddle of sweat while lying on the chaise lounge. She got balanced on the raft and positioned herself at just the right angle for the afternoon sun, no shadows on either side, perfect alignment. (You tanners out there know).

A couple of bees buzzed her head, and since they were persistent, she splashed around trying to convey to them that she was neither a landing pad nor a source of food. She must have succeeded because she finally couldn't hear them anymore. She rested for a moment from all the energy expended from the splashing.

She then realized she had splashed herself out of alignment so she reached out for the pool edge to pull herself back.

ZAP!!!

What the heck?! She squealed/yelped and brushed her hand across her hip, rolled to look at it, and instantly realized there was a barbed, black stinger in her skin which she pulled out with lightning quick reflexes!

Seriously folks, what could she possibly have done to deserve that? She loves the bees, provides for them in spring with her yellow flowering palo verde tree and in the summer with her purple sage shrubs.

Yet here was this bee probably thinking those sparkly droplets of water on her skin would be an easy source of water to drink. Do bees even drink? She's giving the sucker the benefit of the doubt - the poor thing was thirsty, it felt threatened when she moved her hand to grab the side of the pool, it tried to push off extra fast and just accidentally used its stinger like the down direction of a pogo stick.

After she said "fudge" several times, she got out of the pool and patted dry. She could see the tiny thing floundering in the pool. He was so small and fuzzy, and he had sacrificed himself out of fear. She felt sorry for him.

As she hobbled into the house to find the insect lotion and Tylenol and to tattle on the bee to her husband, she tried to be brave and tell herself it didn't/couldn't hurt that much. She had birthed one baby without drugs. She had dislocated her pelvis during another birth. She had tried to walk before she knew about said dislocated pelvis. (Don't try that at home.) She was pretty tough.

Yet this bee. She marveled at how a small creature could make such a big impact. This small creature made her write all these words hoping for fake sympathy or at least to entertain someone. And she wonders if she can brave the outdoors tomorrow. There are lots of prickly small creatures out there...

The Boy

When I think back about my childhood/teen years, I can see how much the characters in my books influenced my thoughts, actions, and expectations in life.

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As breakfast came to an end, she quickly grabbed a hot chocolate, the requisite daily devotional materials, and headed outside into the chilly, crisp air to "find a spot for her 'quiet time'", i.e. to look for the boy.

She'd seen him exit the youth camp cabin alone a few minutes before. Her junior high crush sported sandy hair, soft brown eyes, and a lop-sided grin. Popular and outgoing, yet also a hint of reservation and mystery, he was the perfect fodder for her imagination, a physical manifestation right out of her teen romance novels.

As the morning sun filtered through the trees casting hopeful rays across her path, she hurried along hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

She quickly slowed her pace and came to a stop when she spotted him near the creek. He stood on the small boulders at the water's edge casually skipping rocks. She tucked herself into the shadow of a nearby tree.

"What could he be thinking about?" she mused, "an anticipated boy adventure? a cute girl? a disagreement with a friend?*

The next rock skipped 4 or 5 times as he stooped to pick up another one.

*Sigh* If only he was thinking about her.

But she accepted she was an invisible introvert and bookworm, her looks plain except for too much eyebrows and an unruly head of dark hair that needed 21st century hair products yet to be invented.

He was still boyish enough to be a naive Henry Huggins, Tom Sawyer, or Huck Finn just planning a day full of adventure. But he was also mature enough to fit the bill as an irresistible 'Sweet Dreams' or 'Sweet Valley High' boy-next-door.

He turned slightly and she caught the look on his face.

"Wait! Did she just glimpse a deep brooding, sad expression?!" her heart fluttered with the thought.

If only she could catch his eye, and he could look into her soul, then he wouldn't be able to prevent himself from seeing past her dowdy looks and awkward social skills. He would know deep down that she was the only one that could tame his restless spirit and save him from himself.

It was so obvious. She was Jane Eyre to his Mr. Rochester.

Magical Childhoods, Mommy Moms, and Miracles

I was asked to share some of my story with teenagers this past Wednesday night during their youth group meeting. I was asked to share my perspective of what part Christianity plays in an adult's life.  After praying and asking God what I should talk about, and how deep I should go into my story, I was led to share the following. If you have read other stories in my blog, you know that this is just a glossing over and certainly neither complete nor the end, but I wanted to give them something to relate to, as well as impart the hope the Bible promises. Therefore, I felt led to end on a positive note even though as an adult Christian, I'm not always in a positive place. But maybe, if I assume God impressed upon someone to ask me to do this, the whole point of this exercise was God reminding me of the hope I've experienced and known in the past, and that he has always brought me out of my place of perceived disappointment and despair. I can attest that I am in a positive place right now.

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{Questions for discussion}

Do you ever make plans for next week or next month? Or what about next year? How do you feel when your plans work out? How do you feel when your plans don't work out? Do ever you imagine or dream about what you will be doing as an adult? What life will be like?

{Question to think about}

Have you experienced anything really “hard” where you asked God why? Or got mad at God for allowing it? Or blamed Him for not making it right, or for not fixing things the way you want it?

{Story #1}

Once upon a time there was a little girl with long dark hair and hazel eyes. She had a shy, introverted personality and spent a lot of time in her room alone as a child, reading books and day dreaming.

She lived in a nice house in a quite neighborhood in Texas. She obeyed her parents and got good grades. At six years old, she asked Jesus into her heart and became a Christian. She grew up in the church going to Sunday school, Sunday morning and Sunday night church services, Wednesday night missions groups and later youth group. She understood God loved her as best she could.

This little girl had a best friend. Her friend was friendly and bubbly and pretty. And through the years they talked about everything – especially about BOYS! She can't remember when they didn't talk about boys - boys at church, boys at school, boys in the neighborhood, boys at the mall. They discussed who they wanted to have as a boyfriend, who was cute, who was funny, who may or may not have looked their way that day.

Then one day in 8th grade her best friend got asked out. However, SHE did not. Her best friend began dating, but SHE did not. This made her very sad and she cried a lot. She began to wonder what was wrong with her. Why did God made her this way? Why was she so quiet and shy? Why was she so ugly? Why didn't the boys want to ask her out?

{Questions for discussion}

Where should she have looked to find her worth? Have you ever experienced a desire so strong that it seemed like the end of the world if it didn't happen? What do you guys do when you experience disappointment? If you were her friend, can you think of any Bible verses or stories that might have encouraged her?

{Story #2}

One day in high school a boy asked her out and she finally started dating. This made her happy because she had a plan. She planned that one day she would get married, have two kids, be a stay-at-home mom, and spend all her time being one of those mom's that creates magical experiences all the time for her kids, and they would live happily ever after (this is the kind of mom that she now calls a “mommy” mom or a “gifted” mom).

When she was twenty years old, she married a boy that she was “best friends” with in high school. They lived in Arkansas trying to make ends meet while completing their college degrees. She graduated first while he went to school part time and worked. Then she got a job, and they moved to Oklahoma and bought a house. He then went to school full time to finish his college degree and then went to Law School full time. After he graduated Law School, they moved to Montana.

Finishing school took time and they planned to wait until they were out of school to start having those two kids. So EIGHT years after they were married, and once they both had jobs and had bought their second house, she got pregnant with their first boy. His name was Michael. About two and half years later they had their second boy. His name was Jonathan. And so their family seemed complete. All was going to plan.

EXCEPT. She found working out of the house and being a mom to two small children was extremely difficult. She was not able to create those magical experiences she had planned. There was absolutely NO magic going on when she was torn between tending to her kid's needs and meeting a work deadline. AND, she found out she was NOT a “gifted” mom. She didn't really enjoy hanging out with just kids all day. Her husband worked a lot, and she missed having a friend. She was tired and frustrated, and again, she became very sad and cried a lot. She didn't want to work anymore. She didn't feel like parenting anymore. And she was lonely.

Again she questioned God. Why did he make her this way? Why couldn't she love being a mom? Why did she have to work? Why couldn't she make a close friend? What was wrong with her?

{Questions for discussion}

Is she allowed to question God? What should you do if you feel depressed and sad? If you were her friend, can you think of any Bible verses or stories that might encourage her?

{Story #3}

Eventually, she got to cut back on the hours at her job, she made friends with other moms by spending more time at the school, and her kids were growing up and participating in all kinds of activities. She learned the trick to creating a SOMEWHAT magical childhood for her kids was to become best friends with another mom who was a REAL “mommy” mom. This other mom had great ideas, and all she had to do was find out when and where, and show up. This other mom was also good at making friends and soon she had a group of friends that she could hang out with. Life finally seemed fun now. AND easier.

Her kids were now around 9 and 7 years old, and she and her husband let her husband's brother and fiance come live with them. As an introvert, it used up all her energy having other people in her house all the time. So she was looking forward to when they were going to move out. However, the week before they were supposed to leave, her husband had a knee injury, her father-in-law died from a heart attack, and the rest of her husband's family, his mom and brothers and sister, moved in with them for several months. Her husband ended up having ACL surgery from the knee injury, got blood clots in his lungs after the surgery, and almost died. They also experienced two more deaths of close family members that year. She got REALLY mad at God for a while for letting all these things happen, but with time, she was finally able to be ok with everything and move on.

{Questions for discussion}

Should she have gotten mad at God? Does God still love us if we get mad at Him? If you were her friend, can you think of any Bible verses or stories that might encourage her?

{Story #4}

In 2010 they decided life was good again, and they would try for a girl. She was almost 40, so in their minds, it was now or never! By May she was pregnant and the whole family was very excited. However, in September, through ultrasound, they found out the baby had a severe brain malformation and that he had several other birth defects. They were told ALL the terrible things that might be wrong with the baby. They were told the baby would die sooner or later, or would suffer a lot if the baby lived. They were told they should KILL the baby.

She was very scared and VERY sad. This time though, instead of questioning God or getting mad, she did something else. She wrote what she did in her blog a month after the ultrasound:

“That night on September 8, 2010, I cried.  I mourned my expectations of a normal baby.  Throughout the night, I gave the baby to God, the Creator of the baby - the One who forms in the womb.  I asked Jesus to hold my baby in His arms; to comfort and protect him.  I confessed my guilt and fears - guilt over considering aborting, guilt over wanting God to take the baby if he was going to struggle to live on earth, and fears of the baby dying.  I asked for love and strength to take care of a disabled child who might not be able to return the love.  And then I prayed for a miracle. 

I had swallowed my pride earlier that evening and asked my husband if I could ask for prayer on Facebook.  My husband had already called the church for prayer earlier too.  Beginning that night, after crying and praying, I began to feel peace.  I felt it had to be the Body of Christ praying for us.  I had never truly felt that before - the peace that passes understanding.”

{Questions for discussion}

How did she react differently this time when she got bad news? How could she feel peace when facing something so hard? How can YOU face hard things in YOUR future?

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The following are the three scripture passages I shared with the group:

Psalm 139:13-16 The Message (MSG) (David describing how God knows him) 

13-16 Oh yes, you shaped me first inside, then out;
    you formed me in my mother’s womb.
I thank you, High God—you’re breathtaking!
    Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
    I worship in adoration—what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
    you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
    how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
    all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
    before I’d even lived one day.

2 Corinthians 12:7-10 The Message (MSG) (Paul talking about his “thorn in his flesh” after God gave him revelations that could have resulted in pride) 

7-10 Because of the extravagance of those revelations, and so I wouldn’t get a big head, I was given the gift of a handicap to keep me in constant touch with my limitations. Satan’s angel did his best to get me down; what he in fact did was push me to my knees. No danger then of walking around high and mighty! At first I didn’t think of it as a gift, and begged God to remove it. Three times I did that, and then he told me,

My grace is enough; it’s all you need.
My strength comes into its own in your weakness.

Once I heard that, I was glad to let it happen. I quit focusing on the handicap and began appreciating the gift. It was a case of Christ’s strength moving in on my weakness. Now I take limitations in stride, and with good cheer, these limitations that cut me down to size—abuse, accidents, opposition, bad breaks. I just let Christ take over! And so the weaker I get, the stronger I become. 

Isaiah 40:27-31 The Message (MSG) (Isaiah speaking to exiled Israelites when they thought God had given up on them or forgotten about them) 

27-31 Why would you ever complain, O Jacob,
    or, whine, Israel, saying,
“God has lost track of me.
    He doesn’t care what happens to me”?
Don’t you know anything? Haven’t you been listening?
God doesn’t come and go. God lasts.
    He’s Creator of all you can see or imagine.
He doesn’t get tired out, doesn’t pause to catch his breath.
    And he knows everything, inside and out.
He energizes those who get tired,
    gives fresh strength to dropouts.
For even young people tire and drop out,
    young folk in their prime stumble and fall.
But those who wait upon God get fresh strength.
    They spread their wings and soar like eagles,
They run and don’t get tired,
    they walk and don’t lag behind.

Throat Slugs and Throat Scabs

While the smell of garlicky cheese, roasted tomatoes and yeasty dough wafted through the air, the server finished taking their order. They were just finishing up their appetizers, boneless buffalo wings ordered by the 12 year old and fried cheese ordered by the 15 year old and shared by the whole family.

It was a good thing her parents, she and her husband and their two older boys were practically the only patrons in the restaurant on that Sunday after church because her family laughed raucously in the corner of the pizza joint as the conversation took its usual and inevitable turn towards body humor.

The 15 year old had just begun lamenting the fact that sometimes he had problems swallowing after eating dairy which, on that day, happened to be the fried cheese.

"Oh," she said knowingly, "I call that a 'throat slug'. You know, when there's that slimy thing in the back of your throat that you keep trying to swallow but it keeps bouncing back."

She has her family's rapt attention although there is a slight scowl on her mother's face. Smiles leading to laughing and nodding ensued on all the male faces.

"While you are correct that it often occurs after eating dairy," she continued, "it can also be caused by post nasal drip during allergy season or when you have a cold. You are constantly clearing your throat and trying to swallow, over and over again while the relentless ball of mucous sets up residence with no thought of ever relinquishing its hold. 

When I get to my wits end with that slippery critter, I consciously swallow and then quickly jam my thumb in my neck to try to sever the rubber band effect. After doing that several times, you can usually overcome the 'throat slug', and it will slide down your esophagus to its final acidic destination to be dissolved in your stomach. Often this final severing will need to be emphasized by slapping the counter or table with your hand in order to overcome the incredibly gross feeling of having ingested an alien substance.

Or if you are less of a lady than I or not in public, you can just hock a loogie and be done with it.

On another note, if you retire in the evening with said 'slug' milling around in the back of your throat, and you are too tired after going to bed to get up and take care of it (i.e. you stayed out too late in Vegas singing at the top of your lungs at the piano bar in the New York-New York), you will probably wake up in the morning with what I like to call a 'throat scab'. 

This is the throat slug's evil offspring. The 'throat scab' will result in gentle attempts to clearing your throat to vigorous coughing fits and hacking. If you are in public, people will stare at you. You will make repeated attempts to try to melt or burn it out with hot bitter dirt, i.e. coffee or some other concoction such as gargling with salt water since we all experimented with salt and actual slugs on the sidewalk as kids and learned its chemical effects."

God blessed her with a family of boys for a reason...

Ick and Fear

Sometimes I wish I didn't have access to so much information. I mean, there is only so much time and energy in the day to deal with the stuff in front of me (or in my head), much less to take in and deal with the stuff happening all over the world, or in my own city or neighborhood even.

I can't believe how much ick is out there. It's downright depressing. My self-centered nature just wants to hide.

But others don't.

How in the world do people even get it into their heads that they could make a difference in the midst of it all? Do they not have that voice telling them that nothing they do is really going to matter anyway; that no one wants to hear their opinion? Are they truly not afraid of criticism or being wrong?

I'm amazed when I randomly jump from blog to blog how many things people can believe in passionately from politics to social issues or whatever. And often the things they choose to speak out about aren't necessarily things I would agree with, but just the fact that they believe in it and feel the need to address it publicly is amazing. It's impressive and overwhelming that they are willing to take on more than what is immediately in front of them; to go beyond their current little sphere of influence; to think that what they have to say or what they think might make a change; to risk getting on a soapbox and be seen and heard.

And I'm afraid to even put my name on my blog when I am blogging about virtually nothing.

I hate fear.

Courageous, Brave and Fearless

Who writes and doesn't envision themselves as one day being published and all the world appreciating their amazing ability to put into words an experience, feeling or observation that others can relate to? Words that conjure up emotions or empathy. Words that spur others to take action.  Words that inspire. Words that are honest. Words that make you think. Words that make you want the writer to write more.

I've wondered if I could be that kind or writer. I've wanted to be that kind of writer. I've tried to be that kind of writer.

Am I even allowed to admit this out loud?

In the past couple days I have tossed around the idea of submitting something to a local magazine.  Maybe the story of our baby, maybe something else. And then there are the voices of fear - rejection, criticism, failure. And I don't do it.

Stupid, I know. To listen to these voices. Which is why I had to write about them. Perhaps if I name them and point them out, they will relinquish their hold on me. Perhaps I can be courageous, brave and fearless instead.

That's what I really want to be.