untitled

It is some random day of which I can't remember the likes of from last week.

That's when it happened. But I didn't notice it until the wee beginnings of this week. You see, I'd stubbed my toe and of course I knew of it. But in stubbing my toe I apparently inadvertently succeeded in detaching half my toenail from its proper habitat. My skin. And as I don't have insurance to see a doctor (I guess I'd need to see a Podiatrist), I decided to let nature take its course and optimism take my heart.

It would reattach itself.

The hardness of my toenail would be miraculously drawn by the yearning of my skin for its past coexistence as two being one. The hardness of my toenail would equally and endearingly beckon for my skin to meet it halfway as well. They would one-day link skin to toenail again. Both could feel the surety of it in the very abyss of their cells. The two would work together simultaneously, lessening each other’s own burden of the feat AND proving the intense depth of the liaison by the latter. Yes, everything would be just fine. Two would become one again.

(Especially since I prayed about it)

:)

And sure enough, I awoke the next day to find my toenail and the skin on my toe had rekindled their liaison. Wow. Amazing. I got down on my knees and thanked God for sparing me a bulky doctor’s bill. If it had not healed, I’d have eventually given in to going to see a doc, insurance or no insurance. And so, I allowed a great big bubbly feeling of genuine happiness to overtake me, casually tossing aside the previous coping mechanism of forced optimism upon which I'd relied so heavily on my yesterday. I tweedle-dee-dummed my way on to work, happy as a one would be if he/she woke to find their once blind eyes could see, and sporting a pair of old worn out flip flops.

But behold, the problem with miracles is that we all too often become so filled with the aura of happiness that we forget from whence we came. We forget that miracles, although supernatural, are not beyond fragmentation. And so, as the work day wore on I carelessly sported my little flip flopped laiden miracle. Happily. I carelessly bumped my toes turning corners. I carlessly kept balance when walking up and down stairs. I carelessly allowed the kids to step on my feet. And I carelessly brought up a cloud of dust from a congregation of gravel and dirt onto my flip flops while at the local park. Happily. Needless to say, by my work day's end my little miracle had become undone. And with the same sort of sadness that comes when one knows he/she fluked the big game when the shot was clearly wide open, I whipped out my laptop and started researching ways to patch up the effects of a shot gone bad. After an hour and a half of research I finally found out I could just go ahead and pull my dangling toenail off. It would grow back within a few months. And so I gently ended the liason with the slight tug of my fingers and a small whimper of complaint from the skin on my toe in the form of a dot of blood.

That night, as I lay in bed awaiting the unconsciousness of sleep to visit me, I wondered just how many times in my life I've ever undone the acts of God's graciousness to me and pondered the ignorance of delayed satisfaction I force upon myself by my own inadequacies. And you know, I have to say there's probably way more times than I could ever recall. I thank God for his mercy. I thank God for even Thinking to bless little old me.

if we'd all just Jump In...

Let me first start off by saying if you don’t believe there is a God you’re dead wrong (oh, so you’re gonna stop reading now?). And if you believe that he exists but just choose not to serve him because life feels much easier if you just go with the flow of it, you’re even more dead wrong (you made it this far—keep going). And if you believe there is a supreme entity and haven’t acted on that belief because “How can I choose to serve a God when there are a million of them out there. How do I know which one?” you’re insulting the Mighty One and you too are dead wrong. The truth of the One is evident in everything. Really I’d like to call you a fool though. But I won’t because that’s not my style. And anyways, I probably should refer to myself as a fool—considering the likes of me.  

I think it serves me right to call myself that because, you see, God’s had to prove himself to me only too many times...

It wasn’t long after my mere conception that I was introduced to him, I guess you could say. And in the comfy confines of my mother’s tummy I heard the Word probably most every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday that the doors of Bethlehem Church of God Holiness on M.L.K. street were open.

So me and God go way back.


I first knew he was “for real” real around the age of—oh, I don’t know. It was during my middle school years or perhaps right before them, I think. And well, one Sunday morning I was all ready, dressed for church and lingering about outside the premises of my home in the cutie pie of a blue dress my mother had picked out for me to wear.
Now no one else was ready so I just HAD to find something else to do besides sit neatly waiting doing nothing in the house. So there I was standing outside on our front porch, my mothers car key in hand, when a little whisper of inquiry suddenly tickled inside my heart upon taking in all that was before me.

I looked at the bright green banana tree in our front yard with its giant, umbrella-like leaves. It was beautiful. No bananas had ever come to fruition from it but I could gaze at it for days, the green was so pure and that healthy. I looked up at the brilliant baby blue of the sky and the fat, silvery-white clouds suspended in it and hanging so low I fancied I could actually touch one if I wanted. The sky was absolutely gorgeous. And the sun—the sun sat just behind the clouds so as to produce a soothing warmth of relief unlike the sweltering heat of the day before it. My ears perked up in attention as I began listening to the calls of nature. The rhythmic chirps of birds I didn’t know the names for and the Wood Pecker’s persistent peck aligned beautifully with the ruffling sounds made by squirrels chasing about in a nearby tree. And morning banter amongst the neighborhood dogs added to the symphony.

I was in my own little wonderland that had been suspended from the elements of nature. This was not unusual, as I had come to visit this state of mind quite often that summer, without notice it sometimes seemed, until the admiration would suddenly softly fade, pushing me back into my existence.

And so, it was the taking in of all this beauty that lit the fire in my mind to have the sort of inquiry that I did. I said aloud, “God, this earth is too beautiful not to have had a creator. You’ve GOT to be real. But, oh, what if you aren’t! Are you???” I then jumped down to the walkway of our house from the porch, purposed towards my mothers van to wait for the others and still holding on to the newness of the previous. Is God really real? How can I know?? I WANT to know! I know! I’ll test him—ask him for a sign, that’s it! And as I sat in the passenger’s seat of the van with the door ajar I suddenly knew what the test would be. Far to the other end of the yard—perhaps the distance was about 25 meters—a Bumble Bee buzzed violently around the banana tree’s giant leaves. “God,” I said, “If you’re really real, then why don’t you just let that ol’ bumble come right on over here and try to sting me!”

Now listen good. I kid you NOT, that hateful bee purposed towards me just as purposeful as did the giant fish God sent to swallow Jonah! The words I had so cleverly spoken just a moment before hadn’t any more time to become a lingering in the air than a dead weight dropped to the ground. I hurriedly lifted my legs inside and slammed the car door watching from safety’s arms as the bee buzzed frantically around the passenger’s side mirror. He’s a big ol’ mean sucker of a Bumble Bee, I observed from the newly close range between us. I sat gratefully inside the car watching its malevolence for the next minute or so as my chest heaved from the scare upon which I’d just escaped. I’d never been stung by a bee before and certainly the truth it nearly just happened was a sting in itself.

“I’m sorry God,” I said remorsefully. “I shouldn’t have tested you.” And then as if on command, the menacing bee flew away.

“Well,” I thought, as I sat back in the seat relieved, “It looks like I made a BIGGG mistake.”


Now listen. This wasn’t the first time I tested God. I’ve got plenty more stories to tell but I’m afraid if I do, this particular blog entry here will gain an insert into the Guiness Book of World Records as “Longest Blog Entry Ever.” And I’m not trying to become a Lyndsey Lohan here. She’s a great actress and everything, but Hollywood’s not sucking ME in only to spit me right back out! All you Lyndsey Lohan’s out there can have the fab life. When the timings right, you’ll get your stories. :)

Now, as I was saying somewhere near the beginning of this blog entry, “…God’s had to prove himself to me only too many times...” and the above story is THE very first encounter I can remember having with God where he was made real to me. And you know, it’s because of the times in my life like these that I call myself a fool in the present.

You see, I doubt God. All the time. I get upset with him when he doesn’t answer my prayer because it lacks similitude with his will. I think to him, why couldn’t you just do this or why couldn’t you just do that. I say to him, “You see how much I’m suffering. Why can’t you just heal me??” And then I stop serving him because I feel betrayed by him. He tricked me into loving him! I loved him and I believed but he didn’t help me! I even wrote a poem about all this a few months ago:

It’s called IF THE BLISS IS REAL.

I refuse to drown myself OUTSIDE of misery.
I refuse to jump into a bliss-filled world, HAPPILY.

Drowning myself outside of misery WOULD BE JUMPING IN
And I don’t wanna be happy temporarily within.

Now, If the bliss is real I’ll jump in.
I’LL JUMP IN!
But only if the bliss is real.

YOU dig?


How often do I forget that some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers. I heard that on 104.7fm, The Fish, while I was driving one night. I never forgot the words.

And how often do I forget to contrast God’s unanswered prayers with the miracles he HAS done for me. I’d rather ponder that God’s existence is a falsehood because I can’t have my way rather than chalk up the reality HE knows what’s best for me, and then move on to continuing along the narrow path he wants me to take. And THAT is what makes me a fool.

As I’ve stated before, “Yeah, I think it serves me right to call myself that.”

Don’t you?

the Nanny Blues

I'm at work (it's only one pm) and already desiring to leave. Well, no, its not that I dislike my job or anything. Although, if I could have my way with the dealings of my life I'd definitely call it a quits on this nanny thing and surrender willingly to a rather pleasurable toxicity of mine I like to call Procrastination (Yeah, that was an incredibly long sentence. I know it. But get used to it because you're going to find I make quite a habit of the skill. I mean, I haven't any other way to take your breath away, no other way to wow you. I'm not that great of a writer. So I might as well make you take a couple more breaths extra than you would normally in a standard sentence to achieve the feat. And my, you'll come to find, I'm sure, that you can suddenly run that ten minute monster of a mile you could never even think on before because of the anticipated horror of it. I'm sure of it.).   

It's not that I hate my job. I get to play mommy four days a week and its beautiful. And we all know what a mommy is: a disciplinarian, teacher, doctor, counselor, nurturer and best-friend all rolled into one. Did I forget anything? At least that's what I feel mommies should be. For eight hours each work day--and sometimes more--I'm privileged the luxury of changing poopey diapers, wiping runny noses, inventing the most grueling time outs, soothing boo-boo's, meticulously cutting the ends off peanut butter sandwiches, reading the same story 5 times in a row, trading home-made Yo Mama jokes and converting into a seemingly indestructible human-sized play toy. And that's only the fourth of it! Now, why wouldn't I enjoy a job like this that attains the miracle of coagulating so many facets into one big rewarding ooey gooey??! It's great. I like the challenge. I like having to schedule, I like organizing, I like putting up PJ's and underpants, telling Bible stories, and getting splashed on at bath time. It’s because of this job that I know I'll make a great mom someday. But you know, I guess today just isn't MY DAY. Come to think of it, neither was yesterday.

And it's all because of the BIG P.

I feel like some pregnant woman's labor pains have been reincarnated through me. That's how badly I hurt. Women, I know some of you understand the depth I'm talking about here. Guys. Imagine a 6lb. bowling ball in the pit of your abdomen with an attraction for a rendezvous with your crotch. Imagine feeling suddenly and irreversibly qualmish with nausea, when only a millisecond before you were giddy inside from plans to feed ducks with the kids at a peaceful park off 10th street. Imagine ten years worth of experience in learning patience brought down to a miniscule penny's worth!

And so...

I feel like going home to a hot shower and then crawling into bed underneath a warming blanket after devouring a hot bowl of yummy homemade chicken noodle soup. I feel like drinking 3 cups of hot Echinacea tea. I feel like giving in to Midol. But the reality of my life says I'm way too tired to take a shower, that I'd just hop into bed right away anyway. That I don't even own a warming blanket. That I don't know how to make homemade chicken noodle soup, that if I did it certainly wouldn't be yummy--it being my first attempt and all. That three cups of tea is way too much caffeine. And that I promised myself last night I'd never take any type of medicine again, drug store or prescribed, because doctors don't know shat and researchers know it but don't give a fluck. But the most important reality is that I can't leave work to go home anyway. I need the money.

And I don't just feel bad for me, I feel bad for the kids. My patience is down to 1 cent so they don't have my heart today. They don't have my heart today, which means they won't give me theirs. And because they won't give me theirs, I'll probably become even more impatient. You see, if there's just one thing I could say I've learned from this whole "Mommy" thing, its that Perspective Matters Most. I used to use intimidation to get grade A performance out of the kids. I'd squint my eyes, harden my jaw--make the muscles in it pop a little, lower my voice to a demanding whisper, and tense my body tighter than an amateur up against Oscar de la Hoya on fight night. And then *Lynn happened, born March 15th 2006--the fourth child of the family I work for. My threats don't scare HER. My threats prompt defiance. My threats fuel side smiles of mischief, stubborn pouty lips, and uncooperative diaper changing sessions. My threats are just, well, threats to her. And so I quickly determined that if I was going to survive opposite of not allowing her the luxury of life past age two, I'd better get creative. Thus, I developed the Talk. Whenever *Lynn acted up I'd simply talk to her, explain to her why she was wrong and how it made me feel. It worked SOME. I needed something MORE. I then developed the Tap. When *Lynn acted up I'd pretend that I was going to go down hard on her little hand only to end up doing an over-exaggerated tap. I don't like popping much and neither did her parents at that time. It worked SOME. Of course, I needed something MORE. And so, then came the Time-out-chair. After bad behavior, I'd say to her firmly "You're going to time out because (fill in the blank)," buckle her in, place her in a corner and then leave her there until the tears started flowing. If you've been following my path, you get the drift. It worked SOME. That's when I decided to utilize the 3T's as a team instead of using them randomly and individually as I had before. The Talk became her warning bell, the Tap--her "You're getting warmer missy, better straighten up," and the Time-out-chair her "last straw." But *Lynn's one tough piece of meat. I can honestly say I wanted to quit my job at one point. She made me feel powerless and because I grew up a kid easily intimidated I've always been conscious of remaining in control.

Now it just so happened around this time that I came to the conclusion for like the umpteenth time over the course of my 24 years that I. NEEDED. GOD. I just kept reading the Gospels over and over and over again in my bible. I guess I got kinda stuck there for a minute because I wanted so much for my heart to be sharpened from the sadness there was. I've been sad for much of my life. I wanted to put myself into Jesus' time, feel his compassion, feel his sacrifice, learn his kind of love. And I remember, around this time, reading elsewhere in the bible that we should seek to give God glory in every little thing we do. After the Gospels, after learning I needed to give God the glory in everything--it was ON. I started feeling sorry for *Lynn when she was defiant because I knew it would one day beat her at her own game if she lived long enough. I started telling her "You know what, you really hurt me when you did that. But I think maybe you've hurt God more than me. I think he's sad right now *Lynn. And I think you should tell him you're sorry." I started telling her she should ask God to forgive her for doing badly. And of course she can't talk well. She's one but she's still a babe. So I pray for her with her. And you know what? The most amazing things started happening! She got better almost instantaneously. *Lynn smiles when we talk about God together. Her chubby little cheeks widen like a chipmunks jaws do when chock full of nuts from falls release. She loves clasping her hands to say grace while intermittently unclasping them to take in gobbles of food before grace is over. She thinks twice about committing her favorite tormentuous deeds after we pray to God about helping her not to bite or scratch or hit or pinch her four-year-old big sis. She says "please" and "thank you" now instead of the alternate of crying for 45 minutes because she doesn't want to. God's brings out the best of that kid. And you know, he brings out the best of me too. God's perspective is definitely what Perspective Matters Most. I'm learning its love that changes people. That's the perspective God wants us to embody. But sometimes, I feel like I can't do it, you know. Its times like TODAY that I feel like I can't. I don't just want to go home because I'm sick. I want to go home because I feel Love slipping and I don't want it to. The Big P has caused a shift in mood and a physical pain so debilitating I've become horribly impatient. Part of loving others means sacrificing impatience--realizing it's not about you, representing God PAST affliction. But I'm so pained today. So pained. It hurts to walk, it hurts to talk. Thus, our usual playtime and banter has become an evaporation, and discipline has been reduced from "God loves you. Please show love and be kind like him," to "I SAID STOP IT. DO IT ONE MORE TIME!" And of course this breeds defiance. I'm not loving the children right today and they know it. And as I said before:

"I feel bad for the kids. My patience is down to 1 cent so they don't have my heart today. They don't have my heart today, which means they won't give me theirs. And because they won't give me theirs, I'll probably become even more impatient."

Now what kind of way is this to represent God?

I've got the Nanny Blues and a bit more growing to do.

Congrats.

You've just made a friend. I'm Leah. How do you do? If you answered that I do apologize for the inconvenience of no reply (my Personalized Internetacized Automatic Genuine Response Generator seems to have malfunctioned a bit here).

Now, this is a blog about a girl. And that girl is me. If you're a bit confused because that little picture over there doesn't quite measure up to your standards for one pre-pubescent, then--"ahmmm"--please let me explain. You see, physically I am a woman, but you know, I've come to realize that one's physical truth doesn't always align with his/her mental truth. I've got SO much more growing to do than I've accomplished thus far in my twenty-four years of living. And so, this blog will be the documentation of my metamorphasis into a more cultivated me. A me that I can finally be proud of--minus the pride that statistically comes with being proud. A me that finally stands apart from the wide and crowded road (let's call it Secular Street) in heart--but certainly not above it. A me that loves selflessly--without the regret that is often felt because of those who taint it with frivolity.

Just a plain old better me in every way.

Now, I don't know just HOW it is exactly I'm going to do this. Perhaps I'll use a mixture of stories from my past and present, poetry and video. Maybe I'll even do a little picture art. I don't know. I like to get creative every now and then, so just be on the lookout for occassional splashes of unsuspecting flavor.

And folks, be prepared to become my blog buddies for perhaps a verrrrrrrrry long time. This cultivation thing could take a minute!

And listen, thanks for stopping by.

Do come again.

I'm out of here.