This is a blog about a girl & More Important Things

Recess is Over!

2010-05-19T18:07:00.000-07:00

Sorry. I haven't been here in a while. But I guess that's something you already know if, perhaps, you've been following me.

(but most-likely I'm talking to more air than people here)

As of this past Sunday I've been affected by two awesome people to begin again. And so, here I am--but with nothing to say. Okay, okay, actually there's lots to be said. Lots. A year is a long time for nothing to occur. lol. It's just, well, I really don't have the time right now....I've got work to do, as in work work. =(

Now don't frown. I'll be back! Recess for me is over. =)

So, hugs until the next post?

The Untamed Pen of Lydia Phee (a short fictional diary)

2009-06-28T05:40:00.000-07:00

ENTRY ONE

Mother doesn’t love me. I call her Mother because that is all she is to me.

When I was 8 I remember her hitting me with her eyes closed after I mistakenly dropped my dinner fork on the floor because of the trembling in my body. I was trembling because I was scared. Of what, I do not know. It was just me and Mother and she had done nothing of notice to frighten me.

I was always just scared.

When she hit me with her eyes closed like that I knew it was because I was too ugly for her eyes to grace upon the skin her hand was hitting. I knew it was because I was only beautiful on the inside. One after another I received the slaps from Mother’s calloused hand. In the other she gripped my hair tight to the scalp, steadying me, my head at a forced tilt to the side. My scalp burned with her grip. My face stung from her slaps. My eyes watered. But I did not cry. I could not.

I wasn’t beautiful.

And now, here I am, Dear Diary. I am seventeen. I am tall. I am neither fat nor too skinny. I have hair that is past the shoulder blades. I have almond shaped eyes surrounded by long lashes. I dress nicely. Guys are attracted to me.

John Hansen, Mike Milton, and Jason Jones all like me.

But Mother still does not.

ENTRY TWO

I am hurt. I did not know that hurt could exist this way. It is as though my emotions have been removed from my heart. I can feel nothing now. But I know that I should. And that is why the pain is so great. Because I don’t feel anything and I know that I should, even if only to recover.

Diary, you will soon become my closest friend. And so I want to tell you badly just what this hurt is I am feeling. But I am still warming up to you. I must trust that you can keep my secrets.

I won’t say much. Just that someone new came over today. He is not tall like she likes. And he is dark. His eyes are the glow of honey. They are the soothing nature of a warm day in early spring and the mischief of a child that didn’t get caught. Probably she only likes him because he is dark. And because of his eyes. They always have the eyes in common.

I don’t think she knows how to pick a man who has eyes like my father. Brendon had soft eyes. And that was all. When I was a little girl I would find the softest feather fallen and stroke it with my fingers, knowing I was feeling the same softness that was in my father’s eyes. Once he came out on our porch steps to see me doing this. ”Why?” he’d asked. His voice had been genuinely curious. The softness in his eyes took the shape of squints like half-sized almonds. ”Because,” I’d said. ”I’m touching your eyes.” And with that he smiled big with a tilt of his head and amusement in the eyes that never betrayed their softness. With that, he pursed his lips emphatically and pulled my ear as he left for work that Saturday morning. He knew how much I loved him.

I could never love another being as much as I loved my father. Especially not the new guy. Ever. His eyes are deceitful. They look one way and say another.

The new guys frame is stocky. He was once muscular. I can tell. His belly protrudes over the belt of his pants. His chin is slightly double. His face is round and pudgy. But he is still strong. I know.

And I’m wondering if this is why Mother can still like him. Because he is strong. Because he is beautiful on the outside. I’m wondering, if Mother could have known it would happen would she have let him come over. Somehow, I think that she would. She is destructive herself. I am learning that destruction likes destruction. Perhaps he only did what she inwardly didn’t mind. Perhaps.

Right now I am in my room and they are eating a dinner that Mother slaved all day to prepare for his arrival. They are eating in silence-as if it did not just happen. I can hear her forcing away that it did with each clearing of her throat. It is a frequent habit of hers, when she doesn’t want to see, when she doesn’t want to admit. I can hear the mischief in his eyes in the way he carelessly chews his food and gulps down homemade iced tea.

In his mind he didn’t get caught.

ENTRY THREE

It is morning now.

But I don’t want to get out of this bed. The softness of the pillows surrounding me is comforting.

I love my pillows, though there is nothing special about them. They are just pillows. And if they all were replaced tomorrow with different ones, it would not matter. I just like pillows. That is why I have more pillows than space to sleep on my bed. How I would like to temporarily drown in them if I could! I would like to become weighed down by a sea of fluffy pillows, my body being tossed sporadically, forcefully, but with softness by its currents. I would like to feel that loss of control. I would like to feel the safety that would come with it.

ENTRY FOUR

There is no entry four. I just wanted you to know no matter what you're going, been through, or what's to come that "God is real." I just wanted you to know that "He's there. He always is. But you've got to challenge yourself to believe that he is to experience him...just talk to him!" And I just want to say "I'm sorry if you were beginning to like the fictional diary thing. Perhaps I'll finish it one day. ;) God just makes me love you so much I HAD to do what it took to get you to this point--to read all this!" And last, I just want to say, "If you're reading this and you don't believe in Jesus Christ as your Lord & Saviour, that this is no accident." Please come to God. Be held. Be healed. Be helped once and for ever. Email me at marsh_leah@yahoo.com if you want to try this mighty God that I'm speaking of...email me with the subject line "I read aboutagir1 at blogspot."

Have a beautiful day.

The Meeting Room PART 3

2009-06-16T12:02:00.000-07:00

It was better than anything I’d ever experienced in my life. I don’t know How else to describe it. And nothing. NO thing, no being, no other entity, NO nothing can touch what happened to me.

As I fell involuntarily to the Floor I worshiped Him in the feelings of my heart and with the words that came from my heart instead of the opposite way around as was the usual case. I could still hear the song for Him playing in the background. I agreed to its lyrics…“Yes, You ARE the one true God, You are sooooo Holy. Thank you so much for this. Nooo other God…! You are the one true God….!” I said all this to Him with my thoughts because I could no longer speak. I was unable to move my body!

And then, suddenly, I felt Him loving me. I mean, I’d felt Him Loving me the instant the hand touched the back of my head. But this was different. I suddenly felt Him loving me very deeply, very intimately. It was as if God was making love to me, but not in a sexual way. It was an incredibly heightened intimacy of the soul. I felt myself slipping deeper and deeper into a secret place where it was just Him and I. Things seemed to darken until I was in the deepest darkness. But as the darkness moved towards me (literally) a big, soft light unlike the light of the sun or any artificial light I’ve ever seen penetrated it. Then suddenly, I could not hear! The voices of the others around me became muted. And that’s when I heard it, felt it.

“I love you so much” He said. His voice was very quiet. Inaudible it seemed. It was as if He spoke to me through some means other than my ears. Like maybe He’d reorganized my body structure or something and said “Okay. NOW you will hear instead through your feet.” But there’s no mistaking it. I Heard Him tell me He loves me.

And it was the most awesome thing that ever happened to me.

I mean, I didn’t expect that I’d ever be able to allow Him to fill me that day. I really didn’t. And that was awesome in itself. But I didn’t know He would speak to me too. That was the icing on the cake!

As I lay there, I felt myself smiling inside. The funny thing is—like I said—I could not move. But I knew that if anyone just happened to glance at my face they’d know I was experiencing a piece of heaven.

Not long after He told me He loved me, I could hear again and I began to feel that I was able to move. But oh, was I drained! And my eyes didn’t seem to want to open. Slowly I propped my chin on my forearm and opened my mouth weakly to speak. “Thank you so much God” I said. “I didn’t know you were sooo real. I didn’t know. Never. Never can I doubt your existence or your Power again.” But I soon could no longer hold my head up and laid it on the cool, hard floor again, eyes still closed. And that’s when the light returned! But it was brighter than before! Much brighter. It got closer and closer and I yearned to hear God tell me He loved me again. But He didn’t and the light faded away. “Wait! Comeback!” I said to Him with my thoughts. “Tell me you love me again…Please.”

And it did! The light returned! But as quickly as it came it faded back again and my eyes opened as if a hand that could not be felt but whose existence was known had opened them. It was as if my eyelids were remote controlled. Simultaneously, one of the women helping out at the retreat came to help me up. “It’s almost time for the last meeting before the bus ride home” she said in semi-broken English. “Oh okay” I said, standing up and feeling suddenly full of energy. I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt light. I felt giddy. I walked with a bounce and with ease back to my room as if cloud hopping, unaffected by the pull of gravity.

“You certainly are amazing God” I thought. Then suddenly I realized that it was He who had opened my eyes! I was amazed at how perfectly He’d timed things so that right when I was told it was time to go I was also regaining complete consciousness. Our last meeting was going to start in the next few minutes and He wanted me to be around for it!

On the bus ride home I heard one of the members from my church playing audibly, but very softly, the song me and some of the others had just been worshiping to in the meeting room. “Holyyy, holyyy…” the song was saying again. Whoever it was kept playing it over and over. It had been playing for nearly 20 minutes! I looked to see who it was. It must be my prayer leader, I thought. I looked ahead to the seat in front of me. But it wasn’t her. Her iPhone wasn’t even out and she was fast asleep. I looked behind me to her brother who had headphones in his ears. Maybe he was listening to the song loud enough for it to come through his headphones. But it wasn’t him either!!! I looked over to one of the other prayer leaders who was also our driver. Was it him?? The music hadn’t seemed to be coming from the radio/cd player, but maybe that was it!

It wasn’t.

I looked around the small, 18 seater bus once more, examining each individual. Absolutely NO ONE was playing that song! It was then that I realized the song was playing just for me. I didn’t tell anybody what was happening to me. It was just for me and God to experience. We were finishing what we began in the meeting room.

Later that night, as I drifted off to sleep I was aware of His presence still. I could not feel myself. My body was light as if my substance were made of air itself. I felt the continual pins-and-needles buzz of happiness and peace flowing from my head to my feet. In the background was still playing that song of ours. “Holyyyy, holyyyy…”

Yes, God, I thought. You certainly are.

*This was my experience at The Encounter, a weekend retreat experience that has forever changed the course of my life with God. Every word is true. Every experience can be yours. For more information on how you can participate to have an encounter with God like never before please email me at marsh_leah@yahoo.com with the subject line as "Encounter with God."

The power of God is amazing. When we experience it, it makes him more Real to us. It makes us BELIEVE more. Our faith Increases. Think about it...

And this is why my life will never be the same again. Now, I can't convince you of any of this. You must experience for yourself. It is up to you to take the climb to see exactly what I mean. Email me about The Encounter.

Some things you can do if you want to read more true stories of God's power in my life to influence your own (but I pray that you will come to experience him in this way for yourself!):

-Add me as a friend on Facebook.

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=504809058&ref=profile

(Subscribe to my notes after you add me as a friend on Facebook--or you can simply come back here! But usually I publish first to Facebook.)

*If you need prayer, it doesn't matter if you don't know me. I'll do it. Send your prayer request to my yahoo or Facebook inbox.

Above all, remember this....

God loves you. Dearly. And you're reading this because he's calling you. Come.

The Meeting Room PART 2

2009-06-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

What if I couldn’t perform?

I had already tried twice before dinner.

But I knew it was worth it to at least try, it was worth it to miss taking a shower, worth it to leave my hair unwashed and unstyled in the curly puff that it had become--even if nothing happened. I began brushing my teeth and washed my face to pass a little more time. Could it Really happen? Would this be my time??? How many people were there? Ohh, it would be sooo hard for me if there were too many people! Why couldn’t I ever focus? Why do I even care how many people there are???

Soon, I left my rectangular shaped living quarters, passing slowly through the dining room to go into the meeting room. Would I let Him down yet again? Could I let go enough to allow Him to have full control? Oh, how I wanted to allow Him to Love me too. But I was scared. What if I embarrassed myself? How did the other girls manage to give Him so much freedom over Their bodies? Was it Really that Good? Yes, it must be. I want it. Now. I Have to try. I want IN.

I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, took a deep breath and walked in nonchalantly. But the other girls didn’t seem to notice me. They were enchanted by Him, busy being loved by Him, feeling Him, breathing Him in, exhaling everything else out. They were talking to Him too. But I couldn’t understand them. It was a foreign language that they were speaking. Not in their native language of Portuguese for which I can immediately recognize upon hearing and minimally understand. It was a language of Love. A heavenly language.

I sat down in a chair close to the center isle of the meeting room and bowed my head to my knees. That’s when she came to me. Her face was even more flushed than before. “Leah. What are you doing?” she asked, as if I was doing something strange and foreign, such as trying to drink water from a bowl instead of a cup. But her words were not judging. They were simply the question that they were. “I’m praying,” I said, with shame in my voice. I felt like a child. Not because of her. But because I didn’t know the first thing about what I was doing. She told me to stand up. “We’re going to baptize you,” she said. She said it the way a mother tells her child he/she Has to do something she already knows he/she Really wants to do anyway but is scared to say that he/she wants it. She said it the way a good friend says “Here, you take the orange one” because the friend knows you prefer it without even having to ask. And I immediately loved her all over again like the sister that she is to me, a love continually renewed by acts such as this since the day she became my spiritual leader. I knew she knew I was scared. I knew she knew how hard I had tried earlier and that I was unsuccessful. But she also knew I Still wanted it. And I was amazed by her faith, that I, after nearly 6 months of having been trying, could let go enough to experience the baptism of the Fire of God, could let go enough to be Filled with Him, could let go enough to say “Here, you take the wheel God.”

I was amazed by my own Faith that I had the nerve to even try again this third time. I felt ashamed before God for not trusting Him enough to let go of myself. But at the same time, just as Jacob refused to stop wrestling with the angel of God until he received a blessing, I’d made up my mind that I would not give up my struggle to trust Him enough to receive His filling. This was the basic theme for why me and the other girls had come to Camp Peniel in the first place. Peniel means “to see God face to face.” We’d come to have an Encounter with God like never before, to have our names changed just as Jacob (which means “Deceiver”) did by wrestling with an angel of God (the angel of God changed Jacob’s name to Israel, meaning “Prince of God”). Truly, I wanted an Encounter with God that would change my life from the spiritual murmur that it was. I was tired of backsliding. I wanted to feel His love so deep that I’d never again Think of betraying Him once I got home. I wanted a new name.

No sooner did I stand up from the chair, she was gone again. But I knew she would get back to me. I knew she was waiting for the Holy Spirit to direct her, to tell her When to come to me. I walked awkwardly to the right side of the room and stood with my eyes closed. I thought, “Okay, just keep it real Leah. Just keep it real with God! And stop thinking of what you hear the others doing around you. Give your attention to God.” And I did. There was a song playing for Him in the background. “Holyyyyy, holyyyyy…” it said. I listened, then suddenly decided to sing to the Lord along with the song. I didn’t try to sound good. I was broken inside. I just wanted Him to know I loved Him. I just wanted to show Him I could worship Him with my heart and not just words. That I could focus on Him and stop being afraid. Soon I began to talk to Him. “Oh, Lord, my God,” I said. “I just want to learn to worship you. I just want to give myself to you. I’m so sorry I hold back. I know you deserve more than me…”

And then I began praying parts of the Lord’s Prayer. I don’t know why. I guess I’ve been understanding the depth of it more and more lately and somehow knew I could pray it with sincerity in my heart to Him because of the newfound genuine understanding. But I didn’t even get to finish because suddenly, without any warning at all, I felt the open hand, the stretched fingers of another in the room cup the bottom of the back of my head where the head meets the neck. I knew this was not her own decision. It was The Holy Spirit of God. It was her Allowing God to use her. She had come upon me so suddenly, so accurately, so powerfully and calculatingly. My eyes were still closed. But I knew what was happening was of God. I could feel it.

The moment she touched me, my groin turn to jello. “God! It’s you! Thank you! Oh, Don’t leave me. I Will surrender. I Will” I told Him. She began to speak in that heavenly language again and I realized it was my Leader’s cousin who had touched me. But just as quickly as she had touched me and began speaking in tongues, I felt another come in front of me touching the left part of my chest with the palm of her hand. She, too, was speaking in tongues. My heart turned to jello as well and my body began to quiver involuntarily, wanting me to fall.

In the past, when this would happen, I would try to stand strong. I would resist letting God fill me with the Fire of His Holy Spirit. I was scared to look like all those other people in Church who jumped and shouted and spoke to God freely, laughing with happiness at whatever He was telling them or making them feel. But this time the moment I felt I was losing control I said to God “Take me, do what you will. I submit myself to you. Take me. I’m tired of struggling. I need you. I need you so bad. Let me feel how Big of a God you are.” With that, I felt someone’s hand on my forehead as well. Surges of something way more than the word Incredible flowed throughout my body. This actually had started the moment the back of my head was touched and increased as the other girls saw fit to place their hands on me too. And it felt, well—good. Really, really good.

I mean, I felt absolutely wonderful. The power of God inside of me felt better than Sex. Better than a drug. Better than anything I’d ever experienced in my life!

(to be continued...part 3)

The Meeting Room PART 1

2009-06-02T19:55:00.001-07:00

I always Knew it was real, that some people faked it, that some didn't. But that's all I ever had to go by. What I Knew in my heart. And while I still can only say that I know in my heart there are people who fake it, I now have the pleasure of being one of the one's that didn't. And I now Know it to be real.

For the past 14 days I have replayed over and over and Over the experience I waited so long for that finally did happen. But no matter what I do I can't seem to remake into reality this dream of mine that came true. It is surreal. It is mind-blowing. And what I felt, no matter how much I re-imagine it, cannot be properly reintroduced to me or anyone else by my futile words and visual memory. But the Effort is worth it. And so that's why I'm here. To Share.

"We're in the meeting room, does anyone want to come?" She'd just walked into our bunked-bed room, our living quarters for the past 2 and a half days. There were at least 8 of the bunk-beds within its painfully cramped rectangular shaped walls. However, a few of the other girls still managed to take advantage of the narrow space between the two parallel sections of beds stacked and lined on either wall of the rectangular room. They were standing, chatting. "No, it's okay" I heard one of them say. The rest of them conceded. I don't remember that any one of them actually asked what was going on in the meeting room.

But maybe I missed that.

I, myself, was standing at the sink preparing to refresh my tired skin and mouth. I had been pondering if it was worth my time to shower, as I was feeling quite lazy and wanted to rest up a bit before we hit the road again back to Atlanta. We had just come from the meeting room, then on to a tasty Brazilian dinner in the dining room less than 45 minutes ago it seemed. And I was tired out from my efforts to make happen what I just couldn't seem to do. But not for one second did I stop thinking about what I Could have accomplished there. Not for one second was I ready to have left the meeting room. And if I couldn't experience for myself what many of the others were, I was absolutely content to simply watch and be happy for those who did, amazed by the surreal nature of it all.

"So what are you guys doing in there?" I asked, toothbrush in hand. I immediately conceded to meet up with her and the others in the meeting room once she told me.

But she didn't have to.

I’d already noticed when she first walked into the room how her incredibly fair skin had developed the slightest tint of tan orange. I’d seen how her face was flushed. I’d seen how her long, waist length hair was unraveled and sprawling, in need of being reordered into the single hair tie for which the rest of her hair desperately struggled to stay inside. I’d seen the excitement in her eyes, heard it in the way she’d opened the door, noticed it in the way she’d come into the room unable to stand still, caught it for myself in the way her body involuntarily trembled every few seconds, in the way her speech was hard to come out, in the way she inadvertently made the “S” sound as if shivering from the cold.

It is what always happened whenever she got This Way. I’d seen it many times.

But I must admit, although I wanted to be a part of what was going on in the meeting room, I was horribly scared. What If I couldn’t perform???

(to be continued...part 2)

Hardened

2008-12-27T16:13:00.000-08:00

i imagine there is much work to be done concerning myself. actually, why am i even imagining. i already know the deal.

there is much, much work to be done.

when i became such as i am, i do not know. why i became such as i am, i May have the answer for that. but i'm not willing to explore that now.

for now just know that i'm hardened. i don't care about people the way i used too. i used to lose sleep over the problems of others. i used to strategically employ all the right words, sounds, action and emotion in general to solve them. i used to be able to feel what Billy, Sue & Bobby felt as if their soul had been transplanted to replace mine. i could really Love then.

and now?

well, i already told you.

out of thin air.

2008-09-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

before 10 minutes ago i was dead broke.

$0 was in my account as far as I knew. but low and behold, there is a God...

who just so happened to put 25 dollars into my dry account.

now how about that. the bank itself saw fit to place 25 dollars into MY account. me. out of all the other people out there this could have happened to, it happened to me.

i'm telling you, dear readers, having faith in the unseen really does pay off.

into thin air i casted my faith. out of thin air God produced.

MAYBE THE AIR WASN'T SO THIN AFTER ALL.

have a glorious day.

you're too Shy.

2008-07-24T10:21:00.000-07:00

People often have the habit of interjecting random statements of "helpful" conclusiveness in my conversations with them.

"You're deeply sensitive to people."

"You know, you're too shy."

"You should go out more."

Nothing that I don't already know about me myself.

You see, in their eyes I'm searching for something. Something more than the bore my life presents to them in that moment. I guess me reliving mistakes and experiences of the past represent unfulfillment and a dormant (to MY senses) desire to conquer them through which I am lost as to where to begin. I beg to differ and am highly insulted each time this happens. It is yet another nail driven into my flesh to bleed out covert frustration at having been misunderstood.

Being that I am sensitive, deeply sensitive, so I've been told, I don't need such a thing to be told to me in the first place. I know myself well.

God, the Best Nephew in the World and Sleep Deprivation

2008-07-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

"Hey Mike-Mike," he says to my friend with familiarity in his voice. This is the other day when I hand over my cell phone so he can talk. He is two, not quite 3, but soon to turn it in the fall. "Little boy," I say, "how'd you know to call Mike that!??" For a moment he forgets that Mike-Mike is on the cell, that he is even holding the cell himself. I can tell this. He just smiles that smile he's been giving me lately, the one where he's not quite sure what he did that intrigued me so to show such amusement toward him, the one that bears the mark of pride at having caused it. It is a smile with his eyes and brows, a soft rhythmic dance between the two as big green-gray-brown eyes suddenly hit daydream mode and brows arch high. His eyes glisten brightly like tearful eyes minus the puffs. His tiny mouth housing tiny pink lips opens to form the perfect small "o." Somehow, all of this works to create that smile of his.

I don't know when the kid ever heard me call Mike, "Mike-Mike." Mike and I don't talk on the phone that often. He has never met mike or talked with him on the phone before until now. And he certainly hadn't been around previously to hear me affectionally calling my friend "Mike-Mike," as I happened to be all by my lonesome at the time. But the kid's amazing like that. Somewhere along the line, on another given day, he must've heard me using my term of affection for Mike and inadvertently stored it in that spongy brain of his. I hope he keeps amazing me like this. I like to feel tingly inside from the wonderment and witnessing the pride in his smile at having caused his Auntie Lee-Lee to feel it.

And it is because of these types of occurrences between my nephew and I that make me, right now, in this very moment want to rescue him from boredom. I know he's bored because children have active minds and his is especially active, certainly too active for what he is doing. He is sitting in his high chair having a late lunch that he has already finished eating. There are only crumbs and crumb coated fingers and television noise to keep him company (Every kid doesn't like to sit in front of the television all day. That's a myth. Elijah's mind is always on--even when he is watching it). I see all this as I'm sneaking back up the stairs to my room to hide from him. I see all this because he catches me in the act and looks at me with those intelligent eyes of his--even in moments of boredom his eyes are meaningful. "Hey Elijah" I say. "Hey" he says, then turns back around to continue doing nothing. He turns because he knows I don't want to be bothered. My heart half melts with shame. The story line is more so that I can't be bothered, shouldn't be bothered. When I see him like that I want to say, "Come on, let's go to the park" or "Hey, you want Auntie to take you to Jumpin' Joes?" I want to be the super hero auntie that I sometimes am, right then. But I am not that then. Then, and even now, I am sleepy and irritated and angry inside. I am not good for him. If my heart had melted fully, I could be.

So only moments ago, I was sitting on my bed drinking milk brought up with me from the kitchen and eating a chocolate swirl cake thingy retrieved from an early morning visit to the gas station. I was crying. Crying because my nephew needs discipline to his life so he won't end up like me (alotta promise without focus), a schedule to follow everyday where he's not just sitting around doing nothing. My sister loves him to death. I know this. But the poor kid's bum should be bruised and blistered the way she makes him just sit around all the time. But I know it's only because she's tired. It's her job to watch him while the rest of us work. And I was crying because I want to be bigger than who I am. Like this morning when I shot a bird at a truck driver who tried to run me off the road. I won't say what else that scenario entailed. Later, but not much later in the day, I was "greeted" (woken up) with a surprise visit from a friend who I have to say is one of the most complicated people I know. She has not been around to know that I've changed from the one I once was. She could not have imagined I would be unwilling to put up with her refusal to speak by mouth, forcing me to communicate by pen and paper so early in the morning, the way no one else will do for her and probably never will. I was crying because I'd just rededicated my life to God on Sunday, yet I allowed the residue of anger from the Saturday before it to arise on this morning and continue to this very moment, even. And I was crying because I could not decide which would be best, to write, to paint, to read or to run, to lie under a tree in the park under clouds or to go for a lone lunch at a cafe, to sleep in my car for my nap or try to finally get some rest in my room amongst the constant noise in the house causing me not to do so in the first place. Why couldn't I decide? So I cried some more, asking God, telling God, "I just want to sleep. I'm tired God. Why can't I just sleep?" Simultaneously, I could feel in my bowels the desire, the need to push past my lack of sleep and need of it, however, to spend time with my little nephew. Needless to say, I chose to write. Or rather it chose me. Like a puppet on strings I rose from my bed, grabbed my art-induced spray painted laptop with chocolate swirl cake fingers, and began to type.

I feel better I guess.

I just wish it didn't take all this.

When the Utterance Strikes

2008-05-06T03:34:00.000-07:00

I'm so tired of the constant utterance.

"Ding dong," they say. "Ding freaking donggggg, Leah. You're the one who's judgemental..." This is what people usually say in response when I tell them they're judging me.

Sometimes people say this with their voice. But mostly the utterances come from their body language.

And each time they say this type of thing something inside me churns. I hurt. I anger. I want to cause destruction as the natural disaster that I've become inside. Little nuggets of hail instantly formed from the hurt of it all begin quickly to mutate into astronomical sized hail "bits" in my brain as it races to undo the hurt by spewing a hail-sized effort of combative words towards my sudden enemy. Saliva then waters my tongue as if its somehow and highly strangely become the last giant possibility of habitation on an under-quenched planet for all creation's survival--the Great Hope. And this is all from my newfound inability to swallow due to the tedious action of trying not to show my offensiveness caused by the Sudden Enemy. You see, my jaws nearly become cemented shut and my trachea removed when I'm really angry (This just means I'm trying to remain expressionless and keep from swallowing as well so that the enemy cannot see my feelings). But the problem is my body is no longer the standard 98.5 degrees fahrenheit at this point. It has evolved into a temperature so hot that I have no need for the assistance of a thermometer to tell me that I'm running way more than a fever. My mouth is so hot, the lake of saliva in it can be likened to hot lava. My mouth is so hot, a thermometer would melt in it. My mouth is sooo hot, I have no choice but to let in air spewing out the Hail-sized Effort of Combative Words that have been waiting to be spewed whilst largely formed saliva-turned spittle leap toward my enemy in conjunction with my words. Its a horribly beautiful duo.

And here is why I anger so ferociously, here's why: I am one of the types who'll give her good coat--Yes. The one that happens to be thermodynamically unchallenged, that you'd wear on a really Cold day, the expensive kind--to the homeless skinny guy walking down the street without one. I don't say "These darn homeless people. Now if he had a job he wouldn't be out on the streets freezing," and then drive on by. Nooooooo. I give him my coat because he's cold. Better yet, I'm the type of person who'll give her Last good coat away, which by the way is only the Last Good coat because it Really is the Last One in the closet, then buy myself another one (even though I too am just a step away from homelessness as well) from Good Will. I'm one of the types to hold the hands of a bum and pray with him or her because they need it, despite the tales those hands could tell. I'm the type to sell my television for money because I have none to give you, then give you the proceeds so you can pay a bill. I do this because even though I'm poor, you're poorer than me. I'm the type that when I hear a man preach a sermon can in Truth know the hypocrisies in his life yet separate the worth of his sermon from the worth of his life. I can shake his hand and tell him "God really used you today," and mean it and go home and pray for him with sincerity concerning his personal life. I'm the type who doesn't care that you're male and flamboyantly homosexual and can't change your own tire when I'm female and can. I do it for you without even looking at you oddly just because you're a guy. I do it for you without even looking at you funny just because you're gay. God told me to love you and be humble in my position, giving Him the glory always. And this is an opportunity for me to show you the Testament of God in my life in that I don't treat you like I'm disgusted by you. You know I'm a God follower because I tell you with sincerity "God bless you" and have treated you with supreme kindness. So before I leave from helping you, you become attracted to God through my actions and begin to want some of what I've got for yourself. It is my genuine goal to help you with what helps me. I'm the Type who can love you and do right by you even when you fail me by cheating me, breaking pacts with me or the worst-- Judging me. And the above are All true events from my life. There's much more you'll never hear for the sake of the privacy of others and my own humility. Much more.

So when an apple is old and red or teeth marked and green and I say so because our conversation calls for such to be said, please don't say I'm being judgmental. And If it walks like a turtle but talks like a duck and I say so--because our conversation calls for such to be said--please don't say I'm being judgmental. The sky's blue during day, gray according to the weather, a spectrum of colors when the sun sets and very dark blue at night. And if I ever catch the sky one hundred and eighty degree-ing it in the middle of the day as a dark blue night, and our conversation calls for such, I'll speak the Truth as nice as I can that the sky's making a big fat lie--unless of course, it's that Last Day.

I can't help it I'm analytical. And I can't help it I'm usually right in my analyzations. I can't help it I have a memory that retains information when I don't know it is so that I can remember what you said in '03 comparative to what you said in '08 as soon as you say what you do in '08. I can't help it that life is a giant puzzle to me and we all are mini puzzle pieces within it's puzzle pieces that further break down into puzzle pieces for which I somehow how an intrinsically logical understanding that I have yet to be able to communicate the depth of. The only one's who ever understand, despite my lack of communicative ability in this area, are those who are this way themselves. And I can't help it I'm slightly precognitive so sometimes you can say guess what I have in my pocket and I can tell you not knowing just HOW I can. But I Can help who I tell my findings to and and to what extent. So maybe I should just start doing that a little bit more. Judging others, in my opinion, means most likely a person isn't being given a fair shot because you Assume you know what they did, who they aren't, why they are, all that stuff. It means you either don't have first hand evidence or lack a good hound dog nose for putting logistics together. In many cases, I have both. And most of cases, I just have a pretty good darn nose.

One thing I've learned, most reasons people Think I'm judgmental is because of how I present information. I'm blunt, even in my niceness. And I'm not as good at being properly expressive in utterance as I am on paper. Written words are wonderful in that they have time to stew in your mind before being extracted. Oft times my oral words are Spewed, unintelligibly in my opinion, in that they don't propose to the human ear what really lies within me to be spoken. Hence, I come across as judgmental.

And I hate this with the same ferocity as two like-sided magnets. I hate this like how Hurricane Katrina hated on Louisiana. I hate this the same way the human body rejects poison. And it's quite unfortunate that, sometimes, in all its Rejecting of a poison the body does not always survive it. But this will not be me. I will not be like those who allow the opinions of others, the judgments of others to stagnate them as a person who can never learn to trust again or is afraid to open up her mouth. I will simply, as always, keep asking God to guide my tongue and improve my communication skills for the Glory of Him. I will learn not to take offense, because "My goodness" Jesus took no offense! I will learn to use the gifts God's given me with completion.

When the Utterance Strikes, it hurts. But that's okay, one day I'll learn to kill it for good--by giving it absolutely no reason to utter in the first place.

Kudos to the Villain in me.

2008-02-07T15:22:00.000-08:00

SUBJECT: the new number

"Hi. I pray you are doing well. I am writing to apologize for lying about having a new number and my usage of profane words. I lied because I no longer wish to have someone a part of my life who has repeatedly disrespected me concerning reliability and lack of manners. I wanted badly for us to remain friends always, but it seems you don't know how to be a good friend. No hard feelings so much my way in target of you anymore. I'm coming to realize sometimes one must allow another's pattern to set as it is sewn. I can no longer alter your disheveled treatment towards the meaning of friendship into the redundantly forlorn hope that you will one day change. May you be blessed in everything fruitful that you do. May you learn from what you lack. Peace."

THE ABOVE WAS SENT TO The Villain in an email on today, just minutes ago...

I'm Not Proud of Myself.

2008-01-30T16:41:00.000-08:00

(If you have not read "The Villain in Me..." this might not mean much to you. It's a follow-up)

The Villain texted me the other day.
His number registered as 404-917-6*** as he is now an unknown in my registry of numbers.
Here's what he had to say.

"Good morning
Hope all is well"

And here's how I responded.

"Who the ***k is
this? U got the
wrong d***
number dis early n
d mornin"

It was 7:21am. I'd only been home from work an hour.
I'm used to being up early.

...SOMETIMES WE THINK WE KNOW OURSELVES.
UNTIL WE ARE CONFRONTED.

Here's how The Villian responded.

"Wow...really???
This is N----"

I was delighted. The dumba** bought it.
(I'm not generally one to curse. But this is how I was thinking at the time of my temporary insanity.)

I respond back with
NOTHING.

The Villian finally realizes he's not as cerebral as he thought he was...
He finally gets it.

"I'm sure u
knew who this was....so whatever," he says.
(End of conversation)

I'D WANTED TO MAKE HIM THINK I'D CHANGED NUMBERS & THOUGHT SO little OF HIM I DIDN'T EVEN THINK TO LET HIM KNOW. (I thought this might hurt him more than just me not responding)

I WANTED TO STING HIS MILDEWED HEART WITH AN EARLY MORNING APPETIZER OF CRUDE LANGUAGE AND OBLIVION TO MY WHEREABOUTS.

I WANTED TO 409 HIM, SuperClean HIM, bleach HIM. SO HE COULD KNOW THAT I'D GONE THIS TIME. FOR GOOD.

before I'm Thirty...

2008-01-21T05:42:00.000-08:00

I will.

become an expert web designer.

learn graphic design.

take a photography class.

write a novel. aunonomously. based on my life.

become a certified PC repair technician.

learn Portuguese & travel to Brazil.

take an art class?

acquire a degree in furniture design?

AND

most importantly

Love God more than me.

P.S.
I'll also come back to read this periodically to remember to do all this--before I'm 30.

The Villain in me or the Lack There-of and Love-UNEDITED

2008-01-02T12:38:00.000-08:00

I can't honestly say I'll never talk to him again. I can only say untruthfully that I won't. Because, you see, out of all the villainy lurking within me that seldom shows--except for in times like this--the greatest of it is in opposition to myself.

I wish I could be a villain in the way The Villain was one to me. I wish I could make him hurt and not even care that I did (this blog will mostlikely be the extent of my revenge). I'd lure him into my lair with an irresistable force so powerful that even you, dear reader, would not dare to read my words in description of it for fear of your own intoxicated plight. And at the height of The Villain's oblivion via my irresistable weapon of allure, at the height of his deepest intrigue with me, I'd de-magnitize "our aura" faster than what encompasses the rules of gravity. I WISH I could do all this, but the Heart of me can't. My Heart is a flow that won't stop loving. And THAT is the greatest of the villainies within me.

When I was a child, I was angry. I could hate. And I could do it genuinely. I will not elaborate much because if I did, you'd instinctively tense up tighter than King Kong in a size 12 girdle from the chilling reality of it all, and I care too much about my readers to allow you to undergo the affliction of restricted blood flow, teeth-chipping chattering teeth and clenched fists that leave nail-imprinted palms. Besides, this metaphor's getting kind of scary. King Kong probably would bust out of that size twelve, know what I mean? But, ahmm, as I was saying, when I was a child I was angry. About alot of things. And I spent a great deal of time cultivating Hate so that I could do it better and better each time. I wanted so bad to feel so much evil inside so that I could become numb to hurting people. But then, one day the most eventful, life changing things happened. One, I saw one whom I'd oppressed act as an oppressor to a lesser. And Two, I actually BECAME the oppressed by my formerly oppressed.

(perhaps I'll elaborate on these for you one day. but for now...)

Actually seeing my hate in action by another, and in the same EXACT manner as I'd use it is what First woke me up. It was literally like watching a secretly recorded video of myself doing an action I'd deny with sincerity had I not seen it with my own eyes! I knew I was hateful, but not THAT hateful. I'd have never given myself that great of credit. And seeing my hate in action taught me that I wasn't as hateful as I tried to indicate I was. After feeling a sadness of regret for the one I saw oppressed, I realized, somewhere deep within that I wasn't a monster afterall. I discovered that I could love.

For the time when I BECAME the oppressed, I can honestly say I WAS. SCARED. TO. DEATH. You see, this occurrance happened AFTER I witnessed the above mentioned, upon which I began to immediately willingly defragment the hard shell surrounding my heart. By then, even though, I still had a bit of a temper, I'd learned that love was stronger than anger. Love had pushed aside my quest of hatefulness like the flick of a switch that turns on the light in a dark and empty room. Now that the light was shining brightly amidst the unfilled room of my heart, the room could finally be filled with lovely things. See, my perspective had changed and so had my heart. So I couldn't be angry in retalliation to the extent I used to in the past, not even if my oppressor had showered hate on me with the ferocity of 50 strategically thrown daggers at it's enemy target. Witnessing my oppressor's extreme lack of self-control was empowering to me--simply because it made me feel like crap. Finally, I'd felt the way I made others feel. And it was awful. Just awful.

And all this, dear readers, is why my heart is a flow that won't stop loving. This is why the greatest of my villianies is towards myself.

If The Villian ever calls me again, or emails, or texts, I don't know if I can ignore him as others would, as he IS quite deserving of this minor act of revenge. And it's not because I'm in love with him that I most-likely won't ignore him. I stopped loving him the Summer of 2006 when I finally woke up and realized I could do much better for a mate. And it's not even because I want to keep him as my friend. I woke up and realized I could do much better for a friend the moment he'd villianized me for the Christmas Holidays, the same as he'd done just previously during Thanksgiving of which I was very forgiving. In fact, I believe it's safe to say The Villain is not even worthy to be my AQUAINTANCE, or perhaps we'll lessen him to that of a passersby, even more deservingly reasonable of course. I can honestly say I don't know if I can ignore him, for the simple existance of etiquette. Etiquette. Ah, in learning to love I've learned to love past subjectivity, past affliction from others. Hence, I'm very forgiving--and also very easily taken advantage of. Seemingly. But please, dear reader, don't test me. Grrrrrr. Taking advantage of me requires the subtlety of Snow's gentle landing and Water's forming and breaking of bonds, ambiguous to the naked eye. I'm quite the intrinsic when it comes to accurately percieving!

Yah. So, back to The yucky Villian.

He's not worth a 15th of a cent, if such a thing even exist as tangible, which I'm sure it doesn't. Why would it? A 15th of a cent is Worthless.

He's not worth the dung hanging half-endedly from the butt of a barren cow in a field of undernourished grass from which the cow eats and will soon die.

He wouldn't be worth it even, if he were a piece of meat and the last of it on earth, amongst millions of hungry faces and hands craddling empty bellies that roar with the same growlings as Lions. Not one hungry soul would dare to feast on The Villain for fear of taking on the worthless likeness of him.

But strangely, The Villain IS worth loving. Why? Because if he's not worth loving, then he's worth a relapse into the snare of anger waiting to consume me as it once did so long ago. And he's not worth that. He's not worth my disempowerment. Love is always stronger than hate, stronger than any negative force around. And I choose it as my weapon. Afterall, didn't you know? God=Love! And I want Him on my side. Not anything else...

Now if you'll kindly excuse me, I've got a few pictures to delete from my laptop, a few letters to dispose of, a couple of numbers to delete, cards to--oh, you know!

I love hard. But I'm nobody's fool but God's.

Peace. And please do have a magnificant day.

untitled

2007-09-14T11:25:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-09-14T03:59:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-13T13:45:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-09-12T14:27:00.000-07:00

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.