What I Need....

My husband has been having some serious issues with his heart the last few weeks. He goes in for a hearth cath procedure tomorrow so the doctors can determine what exactly is wrong. The last few weeks he has been pale and gray. He's had no energy. He hasn't slept well. He's had chest pains, bradycardic episodes, dizziness and shortness of breath. He was taken by ambulance to the hospital one morning because he thought he was having a heart attack. He wakes up feeling sick every morning. He can't handle much activity. We went fishing for his birthday and walking to the pier and back to the car was about all he could handle. 

He's not himself. I'm beside myself. 

At the moment, I'm stoic and numb and in survivor mode where I get shit done and handle business because there's no time for me to have a breakdown right now. 

People keep asking me what I need, and it's a hard question to respond to because I know exactly what I need, but they aren't things I can ask of anyone. Unless someone dumped a load of cash in my driveway, I wouldn't get 80% of the things on this list that I need. So what do we do when we know what we need but there's no way of getting it?

I haven't found the answer to that question. In the meantime, I've got my big girl panties pulled up and I'm trudging through one difficulty after another because life is a big shit-show. 

What I need is rest.

What I need is to catch a fucking break.

What I need is for my husband to be okay and make it through all of this terrifying cardiovascular crap and feel healthy and normal again.

What I need is a friend. A real life one that shows up and loves me in spite of my flaws and inconsistencies and knows that life is a big fat mess, just like me. And one that doesn't walk away - no matter what.

What I need is for life to stop costing so much money.

What I need is for someone to fill my pantry and my fridge with all of the food so I don't have to think about groceries or spending money on groceries. And if someone wanted to come and cook all the food for my entire giant family, that would be pretty great too.

What I need is for someone to clean and organize my entire house, because I am too exhausted and overwhelmed and my house feels like chaos which leaves me with no real place to retreat to.

What I need is just a moment to fall apart. Completely.

What I need is for someone to mow my yard and make it look pretty so I don't get ugly letters from the HOA.

What I need is for someone to come do all of the laundry in my house and then fold it, put it away and hang it up.

What I need is a sleep study and a mammogram and a trip to the gyno and the dentist and all of the things I need to do to take care of my own damn body.

What I need is more therapy.

What I need is for people to stop telling me to hang in there. 

What I need is for people to stop telling me that God is preparing me for something or He's at work making me more like Christ. Just no. Stop it. I get it and I don't necessarily disagree. BUT STOP TELLING ME THIS. Like, seriously.

What I need is someone to take all of our kids this weekend so I can recover from this week's emotional rollercoaster.

What I need is for something - anything - to go right.

What I need is money. I'm missing work. My husband is missing work. We have less money coming in and more going out. Don't even get me started on medical bills. I couldn't bring myself to even open the mail yesterday as the stack of mounting bills was an invitation to a sob fest I wasn't up for.

What I need are new shoes. New bras. New clothing. A new pillow for my bed. I haven't bought myself anything from anywhere because everyone else comes first.

What I need is a very long vacation. Preferably at the beach.

What I need is a pedicure and a massage and all of the pampering so I can feel some physical relief and comfort.

What I need is Jesus - the real, physical, flesh and blood Jesus - to come to my house and hold me while I cry until I don't have any tears left. I need Him to look at me with how I imagine His understanding Jesus eyes to be, and tell me that He still loves me and all of this neverending hardship isn't a punishment for my sins because that's what everything feels like.

Old dogs, new tricks

College didn't work out for me. Is it terrible to say that I didn't like school? Don't get me wrong - I was all about making 3:00am Cool Ranch Dorito runs and wearing pajamas to music theory first thing in the morning. I was very into my friends, hot guys and stupid shenanigans, but the school part - meh. Not so much. It's not that I don't like learning - I simply prefer to learn in more non-traditional ways. While I may have my Masters in Life degree from The School of Hard Knocks, pursuing education after my attempt at going to college was never on my list of things to do. 

About a year after I left college, I worked as a Sonic carhop. This was back in the glory days when we made regular minimum wage and everyone tipped the carhops, and when we could literally eat or drink anything we wanted while on shift. My lunch every single day consisted of two chicken strips on a hamburger bun with cheese and ranch dressing and a small side of tater tots that I dipped in their barbecue sauce. I have quite the sophisticated palate. 

I worked there until I had enough cash saved up to buy my first on-my-own car which was a teal green 1994 Chevy Beretta that I affectionately named Buttercup after the green PowerPuff girl who was known for being a little mean and feisty. My first real grown up job was as a secretary for the sweetest old man named Ron. My dad knew him from the HVAC business and knew he had a need for someone in his office to answer phones and do administrative work. I'll never forget how important and adult I felt the first day I drove up to my very first office job in my black slacks and silky work blouse holding my to-go mug of coffee. I was bright eyed, bushy tailed and 20 years old when I entered the work force.

His office is where I got my start in bookkeeping. While I started out as a secretary, I ended up teaching myself how to use Quickbooks and eventually started taking things off of the bookkeeper's plate. When she had to leave, I was primed and ready to take the position and managed the whole tiny office all by myself. Over the years, I've worked for different companies, primarily small businesses, in mostly full charge bookkeeping positions. I've mostly enjoyed my work which seems strange to say. While I have this very outgoing and bubbly personality, I like to stay busy and keep my head down at work and I love that as a bookkeeper, I do the same thing every month over and over again. It might sound boring to some, but I've appreciated the predictability of my job as everything outside of my job is anything but predictable. I've been doing this for twenty years now which is a pretty damn long time.

At the end of 2021, which was in all actuality one hundred and ten times more horrible than 2020, I decided that it was time for a change. I want to do something more fulfilling with my work. Now, I love my current job and my boss and co-workers. The place I work now is the best, but I'm also burnt out and I want to do something new. Since December, I've been researching and reading about different writing opportunities on the internet: copy writing, content writing, ghost writing, articles and blog posts. After talking with a couple of professional writers and checking out dozens of hilarious and amazing copy writers on the internet, I decided this is something I could see myself doing and being good at.

It seems a bit foolish to try something new at my age though. Isn't it true what they say? "You can't teach an old dog new tricks."  Pursuing an entirely different career in this current world climate and economy - I've had my own doubts, especially with my lack of fancy degrees, about my ability to do this. And at the same time, I feel like I'm right where I belong and I would be more foolish not to try.

I have a plan, a brightly colored website, a supportive boss (because I'll be writing for him too) and a pocket full of small business owners I'm slowly reaching out to. I've been setting things in motion for weeks now and honestly, it's kind of weird to have a goal and then doing things to achieve this goal. I've never been one to dream lofty dreams and it's only been since my late 30's that I was able to start imagining a different life for myself. With 41 quickly approaching, I decided it was time to follow my greatest passion and I've been doing just that. I sent off my first application, portfolio and cover letter this morning to work with an organization that other companies use for all of their writing needs. Now, I'm fully prepared for a full on rejection, because who the heck am I to land anything on the first try? But, I felt pretty damn accomplished when I sent off an application for something I've been dreaming of and working on.

Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? I'm about to show the world that you absolutely can.

Splits: Church and Marriage

*Okay, so - I had planned on continuing my "Faith, Church and MORE nonsense" post, but this came out instead and I'm rolling with it.*

The great unraveling in our marriage gained speed in 2015 when our church went through a major split. Until that point, we had the sweetest community of friends we called framily (Sprint totally stole that from me by the way). We were in ministry together, had barbecues, girls nights, accountability groups, Bible studies and we would always come together if anyone was in need, donating of our time and ourselves to love on our brothers and sisters. I remember how good it felt to belong somewhere especially when I didn't feel that way in my own marriage. 

For the churchy folks reading this, the split was caused by usual church politics garbage where deacons felt like the elders and pastor weren't being leadery enough or preaching the right/relevant things. For the non-churchy folks, some people threw a fit and decided they didn't like this place anymore and used Scripture and prayer as a way of making themselves feel better about deserting the church to go to a "better" one. Many conversations were had about church problems that we were never apart of, so we were blindsided when we heard friends were literally just up and leaving. We felt led to stay while our huge group of friends at this church felt differently and moved on.  As a result, all of the friendships that were made at this church started to fizzle out and the people that we once shared countless meals and intimate details of our lives with, had basically vanished in a matter of weeks. 

Do you know how hard it is to explain a church split to a six year old? All Tommy knew was that he didn't get to see his friends anymore and he was sad and didn't understand what had happened. It broke. My. Heart.

It was devastating to me. This hurt and loss caused a major rift in my relationship with God, and without the distraction of friendships and things to do, all that felt broken with us as a couple seemed more tangible somehow. I lived with this ache in my throat, like I could fall apart at any moment in despair. I was incredibly lonely and having a large group of friends made me feel less alone. I didn't realize how much of a crutch my friends were for sustaining our marriage as long as it did. 

As it would turn out, we ended up leaving this church about a year later after I had become "too noisy." I was being much too vocal for a woman in the church, as women are supposed to be restricted only to children's ministry and other women's things, to sit and be quiet and look pretty and to absolutely not have any kind of voice of influence with the serious and spiritual men. I still have the email from the elder who when repsonding to my thoughts and concerns about the youth group and the teens I had worked with for years, told me that things were simply going to be his way. I was to remember that he was an elder and was speaking on authority of the Pastor and that as a woman and church member, I had to submit to him and his decisions. So I said no. I actually didn't have to submit to this man in any way. So, I waved good riddance and sobbed the entire way home on our last Sunday there. I deserted a couple dozen teenagers after everyone else had left them the year before and I felt like the worst person ever. It was awful. It made me want to be done with church entirely. 

Fast forward another year and a half, the same people who disappeared in the church split, were the exact same people who crawled out of the woodwork to rebuke me for wanting to divorce my husband. Mind you, I hadn't seen or spoken to these people IN A VERY LONG TIME. They had deserted us when everything was falling apart. At the time I was very angry and I told most of them in ugly, angry ways to basically leave me the hell alone and work on their own damn marriages since they had it all figured out. Not my finest hour, but I was very not okay and I pushed everyone else who gave an actual sincere damn away from me because I wanted to feel something other than sad and miserable. I was convinced that mirrors and truth-tellers would keep me in my marital misery. 

It broke me to leave there and it ended up breaking us too. Without the community of people we had grown accustomed to doing life with, there was little left for me to hang on to. I had tried to be as godly as possible and throw myself into every Bible and church activity I could be a part of hoping that I just needed a spiritual kick in the pants to keep me committed to my marriage. The things that usually worked for me didn't work. It took us ages to find another church to call home, and even then, I felt cautious and weary to get involved with anything outside of Sunday morning service. When our marriage ended, there were only a few people that knew or noticed. Our Bible study group frantically tried to keep us together but then ultimately wrote me off because I had no interest in anything other than getting a divorce. Everyone seemed shocked that I wasn't willing to "let him work on some things," and I wasn't "giving him a chance." All I have to say to people like that is: SHUSH YOUR MOUTH. You don't know what you don't know.  

Sidebar: FYI, people going through divorces aren't okay. Realize you don't know the whole story and offer them some unconditional support and encouragement. Regardless of the circumstances, what God says in Scripture about how He hates divorce, or your personal convictions - there is so much going on that you cannot, will not and don't need to understand or know about. Just love people without judgement. And if you can't, then SAY NOTHING and go about your business. 

I went about everything all wrong when it came to my divorce and social media. Shortly after I had filed, I met Travis and we went public with our relationship before my divorce was final. Again, not my finest hour or wisest choice, but there's no going back and undoing what I did. Meeting Travis though was extraordinary and I cannot convey in any amount of words how good it felt to be HAPPY. 

Was it so wrong to want to be with someone new and feel happy after a very long time of not knowing happiness in a relationship? If you ask a churchy person, their answer would be a loud and very holy-sounding, YES. That is wrong. And for good measure, this statement would also be added: "God doesn't care about your happiness Jennifer. He only cares about your holiness." I felt like I had to make a choice between God and being free from a life-less and sad marriage. So I chose freedom.

What I didn't realize then, was that I never had to choose.

Faith, church and nonsense

I grew up in the church - actually and literally grew up there. My Grandfather was the Pastor of the church I went to as a girl so we would be there on Sunday mornings for church service, Wednesday nights for prayer and Friday nights for Bible study. My dad was a deacon and led worship with his guitar with music from those old 80's Maranatha praise song books. My very own aunt and uncle were real-life missionaries and I always thought I was especially Christian cool because not many other kids I knew had actual missionaries in their families.  My mom sang "special music" almost every Sunday, her voice as powerful as the great Sandi Patti. My Sunday school teacher Alice taught Bible stories with paper figures on felt boards.  We always had to memorize a verse every week and recite them first thing Sunday morning for a gold star. My daddy read me a story every night out of The Big Storybook Picture Bible and Grammy made all of my Sunday dresses in precious patterned fabrics where there was always a white collar and a bow.

When I was in middle school, my Grandfather took a Pastoral position in a rural country town and we found a new non-denominational church to attend. The church building was made of white stone and nestled in dozens of huge oak trees that created a canopy to walk under with dark green ivy peeking over all of the sidewalks between the different buildings on campus. I grew up with Christian friends and my closest friends were always from youth group and Sunday school.  To this very day, I am still friends with a guy I've known since the 7th grade and somehow we've always stayed friends because "Friends are Friends Forever." (If you know, you know.) I sported my WWJD bracelet and Christian tees that were supposed to communicate to the world, I'm a really good Christian. I have several friends on social media that I went to church with in middle and high school, with memories of playing Barbarian Women at youth group, moshing to Jesus Freak by DC Talk, scavenger hunts, car washes and spaghetti fundraisers where we served meals and hoped people would donate money to go on a "service" beach trip which was actually a beach trip where on a Saturday afternoon, we washed cars for free in parking lot except for a couple of the bad kids who snuck off to make out and buy sno-cones. Youth group was a whole thing that looked like teenagers learning about God, but in reality it was all about who was crushing on who and who was wearing what, strange, hilarious games, Christian rock music and junk food. Tell me I'm not wrong.

Everything made sense then. Even God. Rules felt clear. Doctrine was black and white. A woman's "place" in the church was understood and rarely challenged. There was always a tasteful balance of hymns and modern worship songs to satisfy the old folks steeped in tradition. Kids obeyed their parents and families all lived in clean suburban neighborhoods where they hosted barbecues and Bible studies and Fellowship Feasts and pre-marital counseling. You didn't associate much with anyone you didn't see outside of Sunday mornings.  Those people were politely and nicely looked down on because they obviously weren't serious about their faith. That was never spoken out loud, but it was clearly seen and understood, even by my adolescent self.

I always got excited when I met another girl who didn't fit the churchy box in the neat and tidy ways that were acceptable. I felt more connected to someone who also liked things that weren't necessarily approved of in Christian circles like Beverly Hills 90210, secular music and collecting Troll dolls because they were cute (not because they represented some kind of evil or witchcraft and yes I was told this). Once I made a friend named Molly who was the coolest chick I'd ever known.  She loved the Beatles and had all of these random things plastered to her bedroom wall - magazine clippsings, art, movie stubs, restaurant napkins, deflated mylar balloons. I ended up modeling my own bedroom just like her because I wanted to be Molly-awesome. She was the coolest and she also said shit sometimes and I loved how she seemed to not care that I heard and she didn't act embarassed that she had used foul language in front of me. She had opinions and vocalized them.  And sometimes, SHE TALKED BACK to her dad. In front of me. The girl was an enigma.

At nearly every retreat, camp and conference I attended, I would "recommit" my life to God. I was mostly good and good at making all of the goodly good choices. I learned I had to cover up my boobs, not wear anything too short that highlighted my butt, and keep my purity intact until my wedding night. Pornography was presented as a man's struggle and was greatly frowned upon, however, "girls didn't have to worry about that, because porn is a guy thing." Women were expected to submit to their husbands no matter what and I always wondered how that was okay, when one boy always came to church with bruises and black eyes because his father physically abused him. I checked my boxes and knew all of the phrases, Scriptures to quote and all of the perfect spiritual answers to give at Bible Study.

Problems were always and only solved with prayer. We would lay hands on someone sick or hurting, and for major illnesses, church pastorswould anoint others with oil. Anyone who went through any kind of trial and hardship were told things like - God has a plan! God won't give you more than you can handle! Stay strong in the Lord and you will get through this! There was always a Scripture to quote that was supposed to uplift and encourage one another and I often wondered why things felt the opposite of what they were saying. God has a plan - but literally, what the hell? I definitely feel like I have more than I can handle on my plate right now. If I don't stay strong in the Lord, will He leave me and I'll be left to figure this out on my own? Is He even here helping me? Others words of encouragement ended up making me feel like faith was so much work because I had to remember to read my Bible and pray every day, not to be anxious or worry about anything, go to church every time there was anything to be there for, maintain my purity, dress appropriately and always be as good as possible. 

A specific and well defined worldview was expected of all Christians. All of us were supposed to be conservative republicans, vote pro-life and view all non-heterosexuals as an abomination. We could go to church and fellowship with people of other races, but we white Christian folks better only marry other white Christian folks. (I found this out in my early 20's when I had shown interest in an african-american man). You were supposed to always tithe 10% of your income to the church and it was rather embarassing if you had nothing to put in the plate that was passed around. The Bible said to care for the poor, the widow and the orphan - and churches did that, as long as it was with the right organization that had bylaws and mission statements that aligned with theirs. It had to fit neatly into the church budget and didn't cost them too much of course.

Everything was understandable and if you didn't understand it, you simply needed to study your Bible more. There was an underlying theology that while we have been saved by grace and salvation is a free gift from God, we absolutely had to maintain said salvation so we always appeared as the good, holy and fruit-bearing Christians we said we were. I lived most of my life believing that what I was doing wasn't enough and maybe I sinned so much because I wasn't ever really saved like I thought I was. I asked God to save me a thousand different times just in case it didn't take the last time I asked.

All of this was etched into my DNA from the moment I came into this world. I didn't question any of it because it all made sense and everything I heard was from my Grandfather-Pastor, Christian parents, church members, Sunday school teachers and Bible study leaders and obviously they were right about everything. 

All of this worked for me though.  

Until it didn't.

(To be continued...)

around the table

It's true what they say: "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." This can be true for many things, but most recently, this has especially been accurate in regards to our dining room table and not having one.

Last September, our previous landlord decided to put the house on the market to take advantage of  sky-rocketing home sales and we found ourselves needing to find a new place to live within 45 days.  All of that was a monumental headache that I don't care to revisit, but the story has a good ending considering we found a bigger, better, newer home for only $45 more a month than we had been paying. God paved the way to make it all happen for us, we secured the house and moved in last October. However, since the move we've been dining room table-less as we scrapped the set we had because all of it was falling apart.  We ended up using a card table and folding chairs in the new house so the kids would have a place to eat and we grown ups have been sitting on the couch eating on our own. It's not ideal, but it's been a temporary solution until we were able to save for something new.

The neighborhood we moved into is a brand new, cookie-cutter housing development full of simple yet nice homes. Our neighbors are pretty great and relatively easy-going. I feel like we walked back to a place in time where neighbors talked to each other, and asked to borrow a cup of sugar on occassion like the 'good ol' days.'  One of of my neighbor-friends picks Jacob up from school every day and we've been invited to a few get-togethers and parties. But our neighborhood is neighbors helping neighbors with any number of things and it's the first sense of community I've had in a very long time.  The subdivision Facebook page is where we all go to chat about all of the neighbory things - like when the farm next door accidently lets their cows out again and they walk over to eat everyone's perrenials from their neatly landscaped front yards. This group has become especially important to keep up with as all delivery services in this neighborhood seem to have a difficult time deciphering address numbers and street names and we are all picking up and taking packages to correct addresses on a daily basis. It helps that everyone is friendly and packages make it to the right place eventually.  

Just two weeks ago, my youngest came to me and asked if we were ever going to eat together as a family again because he missed it. Waves of guilt came over me because I had no idea when we were going to be able to purchase one and naturally, I have had my eye on something specific and expensive. Saving for what I really wanted was going to take awhile, yet here was my child asking me to be more present with him in the evenings around the dinner table.

Saturday, someone posted on the neighborhood page about selling their old dining room set.  He said it was a bit worn out, 15 years old, but still in great condition and wanted $100 bucks for a large rectangle table AND all six chairs. I reached out to him immediately to claim it and to our delight, he was only a few houses down on our street so we were able to carry everything from his house to ours. It's the exact shape I wanted and since it's all real wood, I can sand it all down and paint it to my desired color which is still undecided between ivory or a very, very pale light blue. I've also never refinished anything before, so this will be interesting. (Stay tuned)

We had our first meal all together around the table since we moved into the house last October.  Travis threw some burgers on the grill, I put some tater-tots in the oven, set out carrot sticks and made a huge pitcher of Koolaid. We sat at our new-to-us table and ate our simple meal on paper plates and we laughed and talked and told stories. I could tell that all four of our children were happy to be sitting together with us and each of them had something to say about what it felt like to sit around a dining room table again. There was nothing fancy about the table, or the meal we had prepared, but the simplicity of sharing a meal brought joy and contentment to all of us in one way or another.

If the last couple of years have taught me anything, it's to take nothing for granted; people, health, income, family, air conditioning, cars with good gas mileage, friendships, school-teachers. COVID has had to grow and stretch all of us in uncomfortable ways, and for me, finding contentment in what I have, and being at peace with where I am have been the biggest places of growth for me. Travis and I have been in crisis-survival mode since the week after we got married due to one unforeseen hardship or another.  He recently started a new job and we both finally feel like we can see the light at the end of a very long tunnel, though the state of the world right now makes us both acutely aware that we could lose our desired way of life at any moment just like we did in 2020.

I'm over the moon about this dining room set, even if it's my most unfavorite color of wood and I don't like the fabric on the chairs. I'm grateful to have back what we had lost. Because now I know, exactly what we have. 

First Kiss

Below is a small excerpt from my memoirs (not published - yet). The boy's name has been changed to protect his identity because I feel like this story is equally embarassing for the both of us. To this day he is still my Facebook friend and we occasionally comment about our children and reminisce about the good ol' days of the 1990's.

~~~~~~~

In the 7^th grade I had a huge crush on a boy named Brandon who went to church youth group with me.  He was a "bad boy" and I was drawn to the rebellious edge he had going on. He had spent weeks leading me on, talking to me on the phone, telling me I was pretty, and I was full of all the pre-teen hope that he would ask me to be his girlfriend.  One spring night at youth group, I pulled him outside and asked if I could tell him my birthday wish.  I confessed that the only thing I wanted for my 13th birthday was for him to kiss me.  I had never been kissed and I wanted him to be the one. Somewhere in my adolescent brain, I believed that 13 years old was the time I should start my kissing journey because that's simply what teenagers did at that age according to Party of Five and 90210.  Even D.J. Tanner was kissed at her 13th birthday party.

“Well, I have like potato chip stuff in my mouth, so I dunno.”  This was his thoughtful 13 year old reply to my kissing request.  

“Not right now.  Just soon, sometime.  My birthday is next week and I want to be kissed.”  He smiled and said okay and I went home that night and wrote everywhere in my journal “I love Brandon” and how excited I was that he was going to kiss me. 

Now, it's important to note here that I practiced tongue kissing.  A lot.  

I usually practiced on my hand in bed at night when I was dreaming for some amazing boy to fall for me like Steve from Full House.  I gave up practicing on my pillow because it just got wet and that was absolutely disgusting.  The bathroom mirror was my favorite place because then I could practice as if another person was getting close to my face. Essentially I was kissing my own reflection and I've never brought this up in therapy about what that could possibly mean but I'm wondering now if it's worth delving into. *face palm*

Mirror kissing was working out well until my mom noticed a giant open mouth print on the mirror and asked me what the hell I was doing.  I tried to pin it on my brother at first, but she quickly realized he wouldn’t have been able to reach that spot on the mirror.  Once she figured out I was attempting to practice french kissing, she laughed (and boy, did she laugh) and told me to at least clean the mirror after I was done.  Of course I never did that again because how embarrassing for your mother to comment on your giant open mouth print on the bathroom mirror.  My kissing practice after that was restricted exclusively to the outside of my hand and sometimes a wall where no mouth print could be detected. Bless my heart.

Exactly one week later was the night of my big first kiss. My birthday was in three days and the youth pastor’s wife had made cupcakes for me.  I was styled to perfection in my tapered hunter green jeans, a white button down blouse and these cute floral tennis shoes I got at the Payless.  My mother had started allowing me to wear lip gloss AND mascara when I started school that year, so I was all the 13-year version of hot I could be.  

With butterflies in my stomach, I attempted to be nonchalant all night, borderline ignoring him. But then, it finally happened.  A group of us had been outside and everyone was starting to head in. He was hanging back waiting for me and I knew that this was finally my time.  I was about to know what being kissed actually felt like.  

He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me close to him. For some reason I was looking down which was probably because I was 13 years old and was slightly terrified of losing my kissing virginity.  He put his hand on my chin and brought my face up to his and we kissed, just like I had wished for him to.  It was all kinds of wonderful, except for the fact that he did this really weird thing with his tongue and it didn’t feel anything like I thought it would or how I had practiced it on my hand every night. He moved his tongue around in this rapid, quick motion and it was weird. I only wished that it had felt slower and lasted much, much longer like in Little Women when Laurie kissed Jo.  Before I knew it, the kiss was over and sadly, so was his interest in me.  Perhaps I was an awful kisser because Brandon didn’t acknowledge me much after that until he was a senior in high school. By then, I completely ignored his interests in me as I was now 16 and had my eyes set on the youth group's golden boy Derek, who was crushed on by EVERY other girl at church.

Somewhere in a box in my garage is a cassette tape of my 13 year old self reading all the letters I wrote to Brandon about how much I loved him and wished he was mine.  I wrote dozens of letters that I never gave him which are nothing short of mortifying to read today. The tape is also accompanied by several mementos I collected during my Brandon obsessed era: a soda tab, a silly picture of him, a gum wrapper from a piece he gave me and a conversation heart from 1994 that reads "KISS ME." It was probably for the best that he lost interest in me and moved on because I was the boy-craziest crazy that ever crazied.  

As my life would turn out, I wouldn't kiss another guy until I was 18 and in college.  And that kiss, was life-changing.

Does this thing still fit?

Many, many seasons and stories have come and gone since I last visited this space.  I almost feel like I don't belong here, as the woman who wrote here so regularly before isn't the same woman writing today. I'm still figuring out exactly where I belong on the interwebs and I suppose this blog is like a pair of old jeans I havent' worn in a while.  I'm trying "Seasons and Stories" back on to see if it still fits. Will I need to make some adjusments or go shopping for something brand new altogether?  If this blog is anything like my ever changing waistline, I'll probably be going shopping for something new soon.

Looking back at old posts, I remember my old life and nothing is the same accept for my struggles with anxiety, weight and having to wake up early in the morning.  I used to have so many friends and write about sunshine on a regular basis and take pictures of table settings for whatever I was hosting. After recently moving into a new house, I threw away placemats and napkin rings because they seemed silly as my current life has no need for such things.  In the past few years, I've also gotten over my need to impress people or want them to like me, and my napkin rings were a reminder of the old me that wanted to be accepted.

My boys are older and bigger.  Praise the Lord we survived the little years! Jacob grew out of his need to scream about everything and only does that on special occasions now.  His fashion sense and personal style is ever-evolving as he's very into having longer hair, leather bracelets and plaid flannel shirts to wear over EVERYTHING.  Tommy is an inch taller than me now and my once joy-filled boy is now a mess of hilarious joke-telling, complicated feelings and crazy hormones as he is about to head into teenager land in a few months. He recently earned third chair in All Region band for middle school as a SEVENTH grader and I am still so stinking proud, you would have thought I was the trombone player.

I got divorced.  It was very awful and sad.

I married (after I swore off marriage) a man named Travis who is the cheese to my macaroni.  He's a big bearded man who curses like a sailor and has a heart of gold. We haven't stopped going on adventures, we both love the beach and recently we've become passionate about going to bed at 9:30 every night.  He likes to talk.  I like to talk.  He's funny.  I'm hilarious. He's a romantic and I like to swoon.  We're both very into sex. It's working out pretty well so far.

I have two more bonus kids with my husband now and entering into the role of step-mom has been overwhelming.  Only recently have I felt like I'm finding a groove of step-momming. One of my bonus kids is a bonus DAUGHTER, so clothes shopping for kids has become infinitely more exciting.  Except she's getting to the age where she doesn't like anything I pick out and she is only 10.  Lawd help.

I've become a dog person and have my very own dog named Chester - and if you would have told the woman who wrote here six and eight years ago that she would have Pit-Lab mix that she slept with every night and fork-fed salmon to, I would have laughed in your adorable face. He is the best dog in the history of dogs and I love him like he's my child.

Most of my friendships were a casualty of the divorce including those that I thought would be in my life forever. I have no "best friend" other than my husband Travis.  I miss female friendship and it's also weird because I am not lonely - not one bit. 

I stopped doing so many of the things that I loved because my heart was utterly wrecked and everything I thought I knew about faith, God, family, and friendships flew out the window after the divorce.  I'm back at the beginning of something new which makes me tired if I'm being honest. Picking myself up after going through all that I did has been the hardest I've had to work for anything in my life. But, here I am doing it. 

It's 2022 and I turn 41 in March. I have zero things figured out, and my ducks have long wandered off, but I'm grateful to be living and breathing and present here.

Some things are better.  Some things are harder. Some things are just entirely different. And it's time to write about all of it. 

Eighteen and Thirty-Seven

Eighteen years old and at my mother's funeral, I refused to go into the sanctuary until they had closed the casket.  After watching my vibrant mother self-destruct to drugs, alcohol and depression, I had watcher her morph into another person and couldn't imagine seeing her dead body dressed up inside  a box.  I had to concentrate to muster up tears that day.  I couldn't cry.  Everyone came up to me tearful and full of sorrow, saying how sorry they were for me.  Yet, I remained stoic and numb.  Tears that ordinarily come easily for me did not come that day.

I had already mourned my mother's death in the two years prior to her passing.  Watching her change and succumb to addictions and several asshole men was a devastating thing to watch as a teenager.  I knew she was dying a little bit more with every passing day.  All of my tears had already been cried, so the day she died I almost felt relieved.  Some of my pain would stop because now my mother was dead and gone, not just avoiding me and cutting me out of her life because it was too hard to see me.

My marriage was like that.

The day I went down to the courthouse and filed for divorce, I pressed inward to search my feelings but I couldn't find sadness.  There was peace and then guilt for feeling peace.

According to some of my family and most of my friends, I should definitely not be feeling peace when I am stepping out of God's will and ending the covenant I made to my husband before God.  I was afraid to ask Him why I felt that way.  Had it come from Him or had He left me now that I had committed what some believe to be an unforgivable sin?  Does God allow us to feel His peace when we've committed the magnanimous sin of divorce?  I was scared to hear those answers.

Thirty-seven years old, no tears fell on the day I went to finalize the divorce.  Seeing the words "decree of divorce" with our names written in black and white brought more peace.  I breathed deeply and that familiar feeling of relief set in as I knew some of my pain would stop because our marriage was officially and legally over.  All that I had been holding and living with was no longer a burden I had to bear.  It felt good to let it go.

Now I hold the tension of relief and sorrow.  My ambivalent feelings of abundant happiness and dark sorrow have been difficult to navigate through.  Daily, I feel the weight of the pain and hurt I have caused my ex-husband, the boys and our family and friends.  Those are the places I easily find my tears again.  I've held both of my boys in my arms weeping with them saying I'm sorry, over and over again; giving them permission to feel whatever it is they do, even if it's anger or hurt towards me. I imagine that is something I will always carry as this was a decision that I did not come to quickly or easily.  And it was costly - just as costly as I imagined it would be.

Maybe we're all given a certain amount of tears meant to be cried over one thing or one person.  Or maybe the lack of them, or the running out of tears means our grief has moved into the phase of acceptance and something inside us moves forward with surprising ease.  Because during the really, really hard times, we felt our feelings and cried our tears and screamed our screams.  We didn't stuff or suppress them or numb them away with too much pizza or tumblers full of vodka.  We gave those feelings words and paintings, tattoos and photographs because we learned to turn pain into beauty.

Remaining present in the sad, gray moments and feeling my longings collide with reality was a daily fight for me, especially in my marriage.  But I fought, and I felt it and I know in the depth of my heart that I gave my all, my whole heart and whole effort to my marriage.

The shift came and the hard decision I wrestled with for so long was made, my soul was finally at rest.  And regardless of what anyone else thinks or believes or assumes - there is peace.

December Fifteenth

"God's reputation is on the line when it comes to your marriage."

My Grandfather spoke these words as he performed the wedding ceremony of my cousin and his beautiful bride.  Her elegant ivory dress fluttered in the mild December breeze.  I tried to focus on it and emotionally check out of hearing their wedding vows, but the heavy words he spoke managed to hit my chest like a sharp arrow.

I imagined the word G-O-D spelled out in beautiful sparkling letters on a plaque that you might find at a Home Goods store, lying in the mud, broken and damaged because I had put it there.  I was going to "drag his name through the mud" and ruin His good name because I was wanting to end my marriage.  Swallowing the ball in my throat, I heard a whisper of truth.  My reputation and goodness doesn't depend on yours.  I am still God and I am still good and I am still reputable.  Even if I mar the sanctity of marriage by choosing to divorce my husband?  Yes, even then.

Vivid memories of the same vows I made to my husband years before echoed in my mind.  I had promised my love and fidelity for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer.  All of that until death.  We hadn't physically died, but something had.  It felt like I was married to a corpse.  I had told him that before, but being an emotional leper, it never motivated him enough to change or seek the care and counsel he needed on his own.

When my cousin and his new wife joyously walked back down the aisle, I felt the tension I was holding release a little.  I made it through the hardest part of the wedding as I consciously separated my heart from my body so I didn't sob and cause a scene.  I had wanted to break down and let everyone see how wrecked I was.  Someone in my family needed to know, but I knew it would break everyone's hearts.  My parents had divorced and I swore that I never would.  Telling my family was going to be the hardest part of the choice I was making.  It would come with devastatingly great cost and I knew which relationships would shift and look like silence and "disfellowship" because I was in sin.

As the night went on and margaritas flowed, I skipped around the wedding grounds like the social butterfly I was.  Mingling, drinking, dancing, laughing; taking the silly photo op pictures with ugly hats and large glasses.  I felt as sparkly as my sequined dress and felt aware of my beauty and magnetism of others to me.

That evening, when the tequila had settled in enough to make me bluntly honest, I found myself outside with my Robin for a smoke.  A habit that had been sneaking back in over the last few months when I felt the need to calm and de-stress.  I admitted all I was holding; that I was going to ask him for a divorce and couldn't be married to him anymore.  That I wanted my life to look different and I felt like staying married was killing my soul. I had done Bible studies and accountability groups.  I prayed the prayers and sought counsel and therapy.  I was honest and open with him how I was feeling and what I needed from him to make it work.  Nothing changed and nothing happened and I was just done.

She spoke words to me that night I'll never forget.  "When you're the outcast Jennifer, I'll be here for you.  I'll love you.  I'll understand.  When others have walked away, you'll have me."

The woman I once had contempt for because she started off as "the other woman," was now the only person with enough understanding and grace to truly love me in the midst of this.  God really does work all things together for our good.  He took what happened with my parents and my Robin and used it to care for me when I was in desperate need of unconditional love in the exact same place I swore I'd never find myself in.

Later that night, I danced my ass off.  My husband stood there and watched me and didn't cut in when another man asked to dance with me.

And that was my marriage.  Me out on the dance floor, vibrant and living.  And him standing by the wall, gray and watching me live.

December twenty-third

Two days before Christmas and twelve years to the day he had asked me to marry him, I sat across a table from my husband with my future aching thick in my throat.  It was time to give words to the tension that had been palpable between us for months, maybe years.  I didn't believe that it was a mere coincidence that this was the day I was also going to ask him for a divorce.  It was a tragic full circle moment and I felt acutely aware of our beginning and ending. I was trying to make it through the holidays before saying a word like DIVORCE.  After all, Christmastime isn't the time for marriages to end right?  The illusion of what wasn't there between us anymore felt like death to my soul and I couldn't go on any longer without speaking my truth.

The words came easily and without tears.  I reached deep for them because I felt guilty that I didn't have any to cry.  I had given him thousands of them over the years, most of which fell to the ground lonely and lost.  He cried more than I expected him to.  He wailed and sobbed and I had only ever heard him cry like that one other time when we had to give our dog away a few years back. I wasn't sure what to do or say.  Sorry didn't feel appropriate and I knew I couldn't fix whatever he was feeling.  He could tell I was firm and settled in my decision; that I was already gone and had been for a while.  He walked away from the table that night visibly rejected and wounded.  My emotions were all running one in to the other - relief and hope. Deep sorrow and heartache, especially for all I knew I would cause.

We went separate ways that night.  My phone started blowing up with text messages and phone calls from concerned friends he had already spoken to, shocked by the news.  It wasn't the time to talk or answer questions.  Desperate to feel something else that night, I put the conversation and my marriage on an emotional shelf to be looked at later.

I walked into a bar without my diamonds sparkling on my left ring finger.  I drank until I was warm and head fuzzy, and until someone elses's lips had touched my own.  And it was sad.

Snowfall

The last time I had a real encounter with snow was the winter of 1985 when I wasn't quite four years old.  I have vague memories of seeing it, though there are pictures of my tiny self wrapped in a white winter jacket and purple mittens standing next to a tiny, lumpy snowman that I built with my dad.  He recalls the night it snowed and the glee I expressed from watching it come down and land on the swing-set in our backyard.

Chances for snow, especially at Christmastime, are unheard of in south Texas.  Most holiday seasons are mild and cool and having a 75 degree day and barbecue for Christmas is more tradition for us than roasting chestnuts over an open fire because baby, it's cold outside.  Every year though, the Christmas dreamer in me wishes and hopes for snow, because nothing could be more magical than snow in December.  My boys pray and ask Jesus to make it snow every year and I usually explain that while He is in control of all things, Jesus isn't like a magician that you ask things for and he makes things appear magically.  Though every once in a while, He totally shows off because He is actually able to make things appear out of nowhere because He is Jesus.

In early December, we had a cold and rainy day and the forecasters were calling for snow that night.  I rolled my eyes and laughed it off until my social media blew up with everyone seeing snow in their area.  I stood outside for a while watching the light rain, feeling silly for hoping that it would actually snow.  As I stood and waited, I noticed a few floating flurries mixed with rain.  I stepped out on to my driveway and literally watched the rain turn into snowfall.  It changed in a breath and took mine away as it did.  Before I knew it, giant white, magical flakes were falling from the sky and landing on my nose.

Snow fell soft and beautiful.  It covered the grass and the trees, the bushes in our front yard and rested on the windshield wipers of my car.  I made snowballs with Tommy and Jacob, all of us gleefully laughing as we threw them at each other.  It was the first snowball fight for all of us.  We all got cold and our fingers went numb so we sat bundled up in blankets by the front door to watch it snow some more.  Todd had to work late that night and I noted that I was strangely relieved he wasn't there to share in the moment with us.

He would have wanted to kiss me in the snow. He hadn't kissed me since August, and I wouldn't have wanted that kiss.  Not from him.  Not now.  Not anymore.

It was December and it was snowing and I was Lorelai Gilmore with all of my giddiness.  Yet, my soul was aching with sorrow and I was holding it all on my own; a secret I wasn't ready to burden anyone with yet.  Not even my husband.  And perhaps I was still holding out and hoping that my marriage wasn't really over.  The Savior was coming and bringing with Him miracles and hope.  But was there hope for my marriage?  Did I even want there to be?

The whole experience left me feeling alive and breathless.  Surrounded by the snow He sent, I tucked the beauty of the moment into my heart and breathed it all in to remember it on the not so beautiful moments that were sure to come.  Sitting on my front porch bench, I looked up at the dark night sky and felt flake after flake fall to my face, mixing with my brokenhearted tears, and felt something settle within me.  I didn't need to be kissed in the snow to enjoy the magic and beauty of the moment.

God's love enveloped me that night.  The same God who knows the depths of my heart and still loves me.  And that was enough.  It would always be.

Songs of Christmas

It's Christmas morning and I was awake before dawn. I made a cup of coffee and turned on the twinkle lights on our Christmas tree and sat with a blanket.  I welcomed the solitude and quiet, feeling the rest and peace that had settled in my soul even though it was accompanied by grief and sorrow.  My heart is heavy and sad this Christmas.  I didn't bake my cookies or dip my pretzles and we didn't drive to see the lights in Windcrest.  There was no downtown date night on the Riverwalk and I wasn't at church yesterday to hold a candle and sing O Come All ye Faithful.

I wanted to remember the feelings and songs that echoed the tender and sorrowful places in my heart.  I wanted to come back and read here that on Christmas of 2017, the Christmas that would be ushering in the endings of old things and beginnings of new ones, that my heart sounded like these songs.

To those of you who come read here, I hope you have the Merriest Christmas.  Hold your dear ones close today and wherever this day finds you, I hope you feel wrapped in the hope and love that this season brings.

With Love,
Jenn


Something about December - Christina Perri

White Christmas - Kenny G

Christmas Lights - Coldplay

Jingle Bells in minor

O Come, O Come Emmanuel - Steven Curtis Chapman

Welcome Christmas - Glee Cast (from: How the Grinch Stole Christmas)

Heirlooms - Amy Grant

Grown up Christmas List - Kelly Clarkson

A Christmas Alleluia - Chris Tomlin

All is Well - Michael W. Smith & Carrie Underwood

Wintersong - Sarah McLachlan

Love is Christmas - Sara Bareilles

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - Sam Smith

A Hallowed Heart

It was raining without clouds.  It seemed fitting somehow to drive through blue skies on the way to the cemetery, rain still managing to find us.  Gray road stretched out before me, I kept wondering how tragedies and heartaches that happened over a lifetime ago could feel this new.  I have lived with loss and know the darkness of death, but grief still takes me by surprise.

My boys were in the back seat in ties and black Sunday shoes.  This was their first time time to go to a cemetery and they wanted to dress nice.  When my Uncle died two years ago, they went to the funeral, but the family chose to wait until now to bury his ashes.  He was going to be laid to rest next to my mom and brother.  My feelings were so overwhelming I could feel them aching in my throat and surging through my legs that made me want to run.  It felt like something was trying to come out of my body and I quickly recognized the trauma tied to those physical sensations.  I closed my eyes and took breath after breath, long and deep, until I felt my core settle inside of me.

We arrived at the place.  Sacred earth housing the bones of loved ones and memories never made, I got out of the truck, holding my son's hand in my own.  Feelings began to swirl inside of me.  My brother's ten year life, how betrayal and alcohol destroyed my mother, stealing her spark and light and heartbeat.  I was feeling forgotten and missed, much like my mother's headstone in that sticker burred country cemetery.  I showed my boys where they were buried.  I could feel bellowing sobs forming in my gut as I saw Tommy touch my brother's grave, his eight year old fingers tracing the letters "The Greatest Blessing," that was etched into gray granite.  I put my hand on my mother's stone. "Child of God, Beloved Mother of AJ," it read.  I didn't remember that was what it said and the words sat heavy with me.  She was my mother too, yet those words felt true.  She was more his mother than mine and the ambivalence I feel about her was as tangible as the crunchy dead grass beneath my feet.

We laughed and cried and prayed together as my Uncle's ashes were put into the ground.  I think we all felt the finality of something, ever aware of a unique hole his absence has created inside of each one of us.  His wasn't the only hole inside of me.  I thought about AJ and my mom, Aaron - my first love, the death of dreams and the unmet longings I carry on the outside and inside of me.  It looks like a double-chin and a large belly, and feels like a watercolor mess of tragedy and indescribable joy, splattered and swirled together with darkness and light.

My face was wet with tears as we walked back through the cemetery, the living among the dead.  You can't walk on hallowed ground and not feel the gravity of death and how it has changed you.  My heart like a headstone, chiseled and marked with all of the pain, all the joy and the broken, beautiful pieces of my story that make up who I am.

The clouds were gray and pregnant with rain.  Eyes and sky both crying as my husband reached for my hand.

Going Green and Halloween

Watching the excitement in my boys build up the closer it gets to Halloween, is one of the moments in parenthood that I enjoy the most.  Early in October, costumes were selected and planned for and every day all month long, I was asked the same question: "How many days until Halloween?  I want it to be Halloween now!"  While some of that was looking forward to a bucket of Skittles and chocolate bars, they were just as excited to dress up.  Since they were babies, that has been my favorite part - watching their personalities embrace their favorite superheroes and movie characters.

This year, we had a very cool Spiderman (with web wings - and you should know that is the most important part of the costume according to Jacob).

And a Tony Stark! 

Ya'll.  I pitched the idea to Tommy months ago about being Tony Stark for Halloween and to my utter glee, he was totally down for it.  I made a light up arc reactor out of a tap on LED light, drawn with the symbol and covered in some light blue fabric to give it a bit of a blue color.  I found the really real glasses online that he wore in Civil War because I couldn't help myself.  The day they came in the mail, Tommy was with me when I went to check the mailbox, and he let out crazy happy screams.  Watching his joy and excitement about them was the best thing ever.  I darkened his hair and drew on Tony's facial hair which was his favorite part. His costume literally made my night.

And did I dress up as?  Well, I had originally planned on being Disgust from the movie Inside Out.  Unfortunately, the green dress I ordered didn't come in until the day after Halloween so I had to improvise.  

 I'm Hulk's girly twin sister.  Obviously.

When I finished my costume, I came out of my room to show the boys and they squealed with excitement.  Jacob lit up and said, "Oh mama!"  He ran to me and hugged me and said "I love you so much!"  He stared at me in wonder and asked how I made myself green and laughed when I put on his Hulk hands.  In that moment, I could see in his eyes how much he loved seeing me dress up with him, entering his world of play and pretend and imagination.  He beamed with pride at me all night, "Look at my mom!" he would say to everyone.

We made a few stops to see all of the Grandparent's.  The boys filled their buckets with all of the candy and knocked on a few doors.  Each time, Jacob would show the person at the door his web wings and Tommy held his Ironman glove out.  I tucked away another year's worth of silly and fun memories in my heart, praying I would always remember the fun we had together.  Of Jacob's running and posing as he would use his web shooters. And of Tommy's swagger in the way he walked and carried himself all night long.

I'm not certain how it's November already. 2017 feels like the year that went by in a blur.  Time seems to be going my faster, my boys growing tall and confident right in front of my eyes.  I find myself in that place in motherhood wanting time to slow down a little bit.  The years I have with them like this are going just as fast as every other mom told me it would.  Tommy will be a grown man in ten years.  Jacob starts Kindergarten next fall.  A couple of gray strands here and there show up on my head of hair reminding me that I'm growing and aging right along with them.  It can't be stopped but it can certainly be lived fully. 

Tommy and Jacob, how I love you so.  You are my deepest joy and my greatest pride and being your mama is the best thing I've ever done.  I will cherish these memories, this childhood you got to live with me, forever and always.

Golden Girl

My love affair with clothes and jewelry began as a little girl.  As soon as I was tall enough to reach my mother’s jewelry box on her bathroom counter, I would put all of her rings on my tiny fingers and pretend I was some luxuriously rich woman dripping with gold and diamonds who called everyone “Dahling.”  I would parade around in her fancy high heels and use the foyer of our house as my personal runway, loving the clip-clop sound the heels made on the tile floor. 

As I got older, I developed my own sense of style.  There were certainly the necessary faux pas that came with being a middle-school girl, as I believed black lip liner was a good idea and knee high socks with every outfit was a trendy choice.  To my mother's dismay, my favorite pair of earrings in the 6th grade were these lime green parrots I found at a mall jewelry store that specialized in gaudy plastic accessories.  With my backpack purse, fluffed-up bangs and parrots dangling from my ears, I was quite something to behold in 1993.  

Can we all just go back and give our 12 year-old selves a hug?  Bless our hearts.   

Over time, my love for both colorful and classic looks evolved as did my collection of shoes and scarves and my own jewelry box full of accessories.  Admittedly, I am somewhat of a jewelry-addict, which is a trait I obviously inherited from my mother.  Though if I’m honest, my jewelry box is not only a box, but a large frame to house my 60+ pairs of earrings and all of the necklaces I own. Accessories are like the sprinkles on top of a perfectly frosted cupcake; they complete and pull together every outfit.  Living in south Texas, one has to be creative in dressing for fall as the cool weather comes and goes and our afternoons get quite warm.  I have found that layering, finding lightweight cardigans and scarves, and things like ankle pants with flats or sandals are both functional and stylish for the season here.

Fall is such a sweet time for family traditions. When a big cold front makes it to our neck of the woods, I pull together my coziest pieces.  Dark jeans, and a plaid blanket scarf to match a flowing sweater vest.  It's the perfect outfit when I take my boys down to the pumpkin patch and end the day around our fire pit eating s'mores and making hand puppets on the fence in our backyard.

Since it's one of the best times of the year to be outside, I often meet my girlfriends for coffee or a soup and sandwich lunch together.  On the pleasant fall days that get a little warmer, I might wear a dress with a cardigan, a draped scarf and boots. Mustard is one of my favorite fall colors and I love to pair this cardigan with navy or plum colored tops too.

I am always in the mood for new jewelry. As if by magic, there somehow seems to be room in my jewelry box for more, just as it was with my mother.  I live by the motto that one can never have too many shoes or accessories!  My friends over at AUrate, have some beautiful gold pieces that would be the perfect accents to my fall wardrobe.  AUrate has pieces that are both modern and timeless, classic and fresh, with a stunning simplicity in design.  Their unique style and handmade pieces, such as their gorgeous earrings, can dress up an outfit as well as accent casual looks just like mine.

Not only do they have the loveliest designs, but they are a wonderful company that cares about quality, care and giving back.  It is so inspiring to read about women who are changing the way business is run by emphasizing the things that matter the most.

There is still a little girl inside of me who loves all things golden and sparkly.  It's been a while since I've put a ring on every finger and the lime green parrot earrings were retired by the end of middle school.  My grown up self continues to love the sound of my fancy high heels on a tile floor.  And every time I pull together an outfit with the perfect accessories, I'm reminded of my mother and how I hoped to emulate her beauty.

With its golden trees and amber sunlight, autumn always takes me back to memories of my mother.  No matter the season, wearing a pair of dangling earrings or clutching my dainty gold chains, is like having a piece of her with me all the time. 

Setting Timers and Leaning In

Her text message came when I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor's office.  The phones were ringing and the floor was cold and I was was wondering why I had to fill out my personal information for the eighteenth time.  My body was writhing with anxiety and dread and I thought a time or three about walking out the door and not going through with this appointment.  All of those feelings and emotions were mounting when I saw the tiny envelope on my phone with her name on it.

I ran into so-and-so and found out we were all mutual friends and thought I'd check in say hello.  How is your new job? How are you?

My heart began to ache and I pushed back tears that were begging to be cried.  Wanting to be both honest and vague, I replied that I was in a hard season in many different places and that I was currently at the doctor and hopeful about getting some care.  Her reply was kind and gracious, because she had always been those things.  I know it seems like a lifetime since we've been close friends, but if you ever need anything I'm here.

"Jennifer?"  The nurse called my name and my phone went back into my purse.  It was time to get on the scale and take my blood pressure and I could feel shame enveloping me about the current state of my body and overall health.  In the midst of my appointment, my thoughts went back to my friend and her words.  Memories of our closeness and sweet friendship and how she had been such a steady  place of encouragement and truth for me flooded my mind.  The sorrowful memories of our church split, our disagreement and conflict, and our precious friendship that fell apart and faded away, was a tangible place of pain.  What felt like a lifetime to her, somehow felt like only yesterday to me.

Instead of deleting the messages, I saved them on my phone knowing I needed to sit with sadness and allow for more tears in this place that is still a source of deep loss and grief for me.  One quiet Sunday morning while I sipped coffee out of my favorite mug, hands holding on to comfort, I set a timer on my phone for ten minutes and opened up our text messages from that day.  Tears came easily and they weren't the quiet kind that softly roll down your cheeks.  They were wet and messy, accompanied by snot and sobs and a small pile of tissues.  It's been over two years and I wondered if it would ever stop hurting this badly. Would I ever stop missing her?  Would I ever stop regretting all of the words I wish I would have said back then about how much she had meant to me?

My phone timer went off and I breathed deeply.  I wiped my eyes and blew my nose again and deleted the text messages. 

Lately, I've purposed to make space to lean in to painful places and to give myself actual time to feel and cry.  Setting a timer is helpful because not only is there an ending to sitting with pain and sadness, but my body is learning that it can make it through those hard feelings without the need to self-harm or emotionally check out to life.  It might seem like a bizarre practice, but it is a necessary kindness for my heart.

How do you lean in to pain?

Fall : A South Texas How To

It's nearing the end of October and autumn is showing off in full splendor and glory.  Fire colored trees and fuschia sunsets and pumpkin spice lattes and baggy sweaters and scarves - what's not to love about this time of year? 

Well, if you happen to live in South Texas near My Neck of the Woods, USA, fall is a little different here.  Now, I'm a proud Texan and I couldn't imagine living anywhere else.  I mean, we have the best shaped state, and no other place knows how to properly make queso.  I've also heard that breakfast tacos aren't even a thing in other parts of the country and I don't know how this can be.  But, even this Texas girl gets a little blue this time of year because I would love just a little bit of cool weather and autumn beauty.

I put together a short list of how we do fall here for those of you who might be new to the area, like my Michigan friend Melissa who finds our South Texas autumns offensive.

1) Decorate
My house transforms this time of year into an autumn wonderland.  Silk fall leaves and pumpkins galore take the place of my everyday decorations.  Our living room becomes this warm and cozy space that wraps you up like a flannel blanket and gives you all the fall feels.  And if there any fall feels to be had, it's probably only going to happen inside of your house because outside still thinks it's swimming and barbecue season.  It's important to buy beautiful fall leaves at the store and take them to your house, because it's the ONLY place you will see them all season long. 

2) Go Shopping for new sweaters and scarves
 It's always nice to grab a few new pieces for the fall/winter wardrobe like cozy, jewel-toned sweaters and scarves in all the plaid patterns. So go shopping and then put them in your closet and then leave them there until January.  If you're lucky, January might be chilly enough for the sweater-scarf combo.  *Fashion tip* - if you must wear a scarf, find something lightweight and wear it with a sleeveless top, capri pants and sandals.  Also, shorts and flip flops with a lightweight long-sleeved top works too.

3) Visit the pumpkin patch
Oh yes, go.  Go pumpkin patching.  Let your kids get on a pony and go for a hayride and make homemade scarecrows and take all the cute pictures.  But, bring plenty of water and don't forget your sunscreen.

4)  Enjoy the cooler weather
Instructions:
Set alarm for 5:00am.
Go outside.  Take a light blanket.
Turn on the porch fan so the cool air has a chance to circulate.
Sit until 7:00am or until you no longer need the blanket.
The End.

5) Make chili and cornbread
This is the meal fall is made for, am I right?  When you get the first cool snap where the high for the day is 78 and you can open your windows and feel a slight breeze, you bust out that warm comfort food so fast and don't even think twice about it. (*Note - you also might sweat a little when eating it, but don't be alarmed.  We all do.)

6) Start a thankful list
'Tis the season for gratitude and it doesn't have to be November to remember what you're thankful for.  Start a journal.  Write the words on a pumpkin.  Fill a jar of sentiments.  For those of us who live here?  Things that always make the thankful list include things like - air conditioning, weekend swims at the neighborhood pool, iced versions of our favorite fall coffees at Starbucks and not encountering any rattlesnakes on a morning walk.

7)  Snuggle under blankets
This can be done two ways:

• Option A:  See #4 and follow instructions with your snuggle partner
• Option B:  Turn the AC down to 70, turn on all the fans and get your snuggle on from the comfort of your living room sofa

8)  Go apple picking
Drive to the store.  Make your apple selections.  And done.

9)  Bake all the yummy desserts
It doesn't feel like fall unless you've made pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, or pumpkin snickerdoodle cookies.  Bake a pumpkin something and it will certainly feel like autumn in your mouth! 

10) Take in some beautiful fall foliage
Open Pinterest.  Search "fall foliage" or "autumn landscapes."  And enjoy.  You're welcome.

Grammy

My Grammy’s house always smells like Nivea cream and sugar cookies.  No matter which house my grandparents have called home over the years, their home is calm and bright, like a Christmas carol all year long.  Even now, the inviting aroma of her home takes me back to my childhood where she would teach me the arts of pie-crust curling and gift-wrapping and convincing me I needed to learn how to sew.  “You’ll have a husband someday and what are you going to do if he needs a button sewn on to his shirt?” she would ask me.  “I would buy him a new shirt,” I would reply.  I was quite resistant to sewing lessons.  Much to her dismay, I never did learn how to sew and she’s gasped a time or two realizing I’ve put my children’s Halloween costumes together with hot glue.

 

I spent a lot of time with my Grammy as a little girl.  She would read and color with me.  She let me try on my great-grandmother’s vintage jewelry that was kept in a wooden box with a silver latch and silk lining inside.  There were colorful gems arranged in gorgeously gaudy necklaces, beaded bracelets and sparkling broaches that made me feel like royalty.  On the best of days, she would take out her old book full of paperdolls from the 30’s and 40’s and let me play with them.  She would instruct me how to handle the old paper and to turn each page of the book she kept them in with care and gentleness. 

 

Making pies with her was my favorite.   We worked the shortening into the flour, getting it to the right consistency so it would roll out just right.  “Gold medal flour and ice-cold water are the keys to a perfect pie crust.”  She explained this every time.  I would watch mesmerized as she would crimp the edges ever so perfectly, so it curled all the way around.  She showed me dozens of times how to do it, but my fingers never seemed to get whatever magic she possessed in her own fingertips.  Store bought pie crusts were never acceptable, so I learned early on that if I were going to be like my Grammy, I would someday, have to master the art of her perfect pie crust.  I am proud to say that in my 30’s, I have finally arrived in the pie department.  Not only can I make a tasty and flaky homemade crust, but a beautifully curled one as well. 

 

Recently, I sat across from a friend who asked me a question I had never been asked before. 

 

“Jenn, where did you feel loved as a child?  Who loved you?  What did that feel like?”

 

I was taken aback.  Her question was kind and invited me to reminisce and remember pieces of my childhood where it was lovely to be a little girl.  Memories quickly bubbled to the surface of my dad and how he read me a Bible story every night and how I would dance on his feet in the kitchen.  Of my mom braiding my hair and making my favorite cake for my birthday.  My Uncle Goolie and I bouncing on old bean bag chairs together and giving me a ride on his shoulders while I would pull his hair directing him where to go.  And Grammy…..she was my very first best friend.

There have been few moments where I’ve reflected on what was good and delightful about my childhood.  Over the years it has felt like I was mostly invited to re-enter scenes of trauma and sort through pieces of my past in efforts to find some kind of healing.  My friend’s question led me to ponder something new and different about my heart and about Jesus.

 

She explained to me that, if there is any goodness at all in our childhood – that if we experience any enjoyment or delight or love, that it was Jesus loving us through those people.  Jesus uses our wounded and broken mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins alike to be little gifts of His grace, kindness, gentleness and love.  My family was no exception.  Embracing this has brought a kind of healing to my heart and story that I’ve long hoped for.  My childhood, while still full of some trauma and wounds that forever pierced my heart, was suddenly rich with sparkling and beautiful moments where I was tenderly and dearly loved by those that God hand-picked to be a part of my family.  

 

I could suddenly see my younger self dancing on the nail pierced feet of Jesus and standing over me as I attempted to crimp the edges of a pie.  I saw how He let me ride on His shoulders and laughing with me as we jumped on bean bag chairs together.  He was there in my Grammy and my Dad, my Uncle Goolie and my Auntie Laura.  My mom and cousins and all of the precious faces that make up my family.  Oh how He made His love known to me as a little girl.

 

If I asked you the same questions:  Where did you feel loved as a child?  Who loved you and what did that feel like? I’m almost certain you would share a story about a special someone, and it would sound an awful lot like Jesus.

 

I like to imagine that Jesus is much like my Grammy and her home.  Calm and bright like a Christmas carol all year long.  And smelling of Nivea cream and sugar cookies.