Bible Stories, Women of the Bible

Beauty In The Breaking

Mistakes are hard enough to make, but when those mistakes are followed by a stern reprimand, ouch. That’s when the embarrassment, the hurt, and sometimes even the anger begin to swirl. Over the course of my life, I’ve found myself on the receiving end of a reprimand more than I care to count. Admonishments that are especially shame-inducing are those that are carried out in front of others. I remember being reprimanded in my high school Spanish class when I was a Freshman. The teacher firmly scolded me in front of all of my peers, including the resident mean girls who sat smirking at my misery.

In the Bible, there is a story about Mary of Bethany, who is reprimanded by several men who find fault in her actions. The story says that Mary goes to the home of Simon, who is having a sort of dinner party for several others, including Jesus. While the men are eating, she takes this alabaster jar which is filled with expensive perfume oil, breaks it apart, and anoints the head of Jesus. Immediately the men begin to reprimand and scorn her in front of everyone, including Jesus! Can you imagine how shocking that must have been? 

If you can’t imagine it, let me try to further paint a picture for you, to show you just how important this action was—not just to her, but to Jesus, and to the events that would follow.

This was no ordinary dinner. It was taking place just two days before Jesus would be crucified. The house was no accident either, as it took place at the home of Simon who was a former leper, who because of this would have (at least at the time of his leprosy) been labeled as an outcast. The Mary in question is the sister of both Martha, and Lazarus (aka: the man who Jesus raised from the dead). Although Mary is the sister of the man whom Jesus has performed an amazing miracle on, and whom we can presume he felt affection for considering he wept over Lazarus’ body, she is known as ‘a sinful woman’ (Luke 7:37) Not only are the circumstances, timing, environment, and guestlist impressive to note, but the act of breaking apart the jar to anoint with perfume was spectacular as well. 

Anointing is another way that historically has meant that we are set apart as holy to God. Not only that, but the anointing of the head indicates an act of honoring, or of consecrating a body for burial. With this act, Mary of Bethany has set Jesus apart as holy, she’s honored Him, and she’s consecrated his body for his impending death and subsequent burial. And yet, she is publicly scorned for it. 


The reasons that the men give for their outburst is that instead of ‘wasting’ the perfume on Jesus, she could have instead ‘sold it for almost a year’s wages and given money to the poor’. (Mark 14:4-5) Their argument could be seen as valid, if you understand a few things. It was a highly expensive sort of perfume oil, taken from a plant called Nard. This plant only grows in the Himalayas, which is a hike from Israel (almost 3,000 miles from the former region of Bethany, which is now known as the West Bank). Not only is it indigenous to a country thousands of miles in distance, but the plant also grows at an altitude of at least 9000 feet. It’s not a small trip to the corner store, to obtain more, you know?

So when our girl Mary breaks the alabaster container, and pours out this costly and precious oil, to coat Jesus in a scent that is described as a deep forest smell, the men at the party can’t believe what they’re seeing. They’re upset! That oil cost almost a year’s worth of wages! What in the world were you thinking, Mary?

And what does Jesus do while they’re reprimanding her and telling her just how expensive that container of perfume was? He shuts them down, and tells them bluntly to “Leave her alone,” that what Mary has done is to prepare Him for burial. He goes even further, and tells them that she will be remembered for what she’s done. 

“Leave her alone,” said Jesus. “Why are you bothering her? She has done a beautiful thing to me. 7 The poor you will always have with you, and you can help them any time you want. But you will not always have me. 8 She did what she could. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial. 9 Truly I tell you, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her.” Mark 14:6-9

And here we are today, learning about the beauty in the breaking of that container. The expensive and extravagant perfume was not wasted. In the breaking, Mary was honoring Jesus. In the breaking, she was shown incredible mercy by the Savior. In the breaking, Mary has not been forgotten. In the breaking, she played an important role in what would happen to Jesus just two days after she’d anointed Him.

What I would have given in that high school Spanish class, for a Savior to come to my defense. What I would have given to have been that spectacular to the Savior of the world, even though I’d been publicly admonished and according to the world’s view was guilty of sin. 

The beauty in the breaking is something that we can all learn from. In order to prepare for something greater, we need to break the container. Release what’s precious, give it over to the Savior…and if we should come against admonishment, allow the one who saves to save us. 

Change, Faith

You’re Doing What?

There is a term used to describe those who are in a role that they internally do not feel capable of, even if they are. It’s called Imposter Syndrome, and it’s more than just feelings of passing self-doubt. Imposter Syndrome is feeling like at any moment, you will be found out, and exposed as a fraud. Imagine that, a fraud! That is some extreme internal drama. 

This is how I feel about taking this blog in a new direction. (Which you can read the abridged version of, here.)

I feel a bit like a fraud. In truth, no matter which way I seem to go, I feel this way. 

Do I stay in the world that I’ve been attempting to exist in, and hide the fact that in my home we pray, we blast worship music, we read daily devotionals? On the other side of this, do I completely come out of my shell and tell the world that I do in fact, love Jesus, that I feel all blessings come from a supernatural source, and in doing so lose the respect of people who aren’t religious (some who are so turned off by the mere whiff of Christianity, that they immediately scoff)?

I mean. Yeah. That second part. That’s what I am choosing. 

This is not a decision I’ve come to lightly. I’ve been so wishy-washy with my faith in the past, that I’m surprised God hasn’t completely turned His back on me. I’ve lived such a worldly life, that I’ve been hesitant to make this change in my life public because, well, things like Google exist. My first page of Google results will show you that I’m not perfect, in my own words! The good thing about writing this blog, from my perspective anyway, is that it’s meant to show how imperfect we are, but that we are loved anyway. We make mistakes (daily!) and are loved anyway. We say regretful things, and are loved anyway. We do shameful things, and are loved anyway. You get my point?

The voice inside my head tells me that I am an imposter for doing this, for taking this blog in a direction that highlights my faith, because of who I’ve been in my past. That same voice tells me that every post will be scrutinized at a level that will cause discomfort. That I’ll be ostracised for speaking out in such a public way. That I’ll immediately have no friends (aside from the handful I know from church, such as the ladies from my bible study group whom I love dearly). That my coworkers will poke fun, and that even my job will be threatened. Future opportunities may be jeopardized, because who wants to hire a Christian blogger?

I also feel as if any argument that may come from this, I’ve already had…with myself.

I’m not a squeaky clean Christian. But, you know who else weren’t squeaky clean Christians? The Apostles. The Bible calls them “unschooled, ordinary men”, only qualified by the fact that they chose to be with Jesus. Already, I feel as if I’m at least on par with that. I’m choosing the same thing, to be with Jesus, and see where He leads.

In time, the feelings of inadequacy over going public with my faith may pass, I assume that they will. My inner critic may quiet down, or will at least get on board with what I’m doing, and become a constructive critic instead of telling me that I’m an imposter. Regardless, I’m still choosing to be with Jesus. Publically. Bravely. 

“I’ve commanded you to be brave and strong, haven’t I? Don’t be alarmed or terrified, because the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

Joshua 1:9 (CEB)

Divorce, Improv, Life

Improv & Eggs

I get asked the same question every time I tell someone that I’ve started taking improv classes, “What made you do that?”.

It’s a seemingly innocuous question, that I’m sure people are expecting a simple answer to. Most of the time, I do give the simple answer, “Just wanted to try something new.” But, that’s not the total truth of it. 

The truth is a bit more complex than that. First off, I wanted to break out of my introverted world in an attempt to gain more self-assuredness and confidence.

My life had become so comfortable that it bordered on boring, and I figured that it was time to find a hobby.

Also, I made the decision to end my marriage last year. My ex isn’t a bad guy, we just weren’t existing on the same wavelength as far as goals and overall responsibilities were concerned. (This is an entirely different topic that I may cover in the future, but for now, let’s get back to improv.) I was a year into the separation, had just filed for divorce, and I guess I was feeling a bit like a cliche. You know, newly single, trying to “rediscover myself”, blah, blah. A scene from the Julia Roberts/Richard Gere movie, Runaway Bride kept popping up in my mind. 

Richard Gere plays a reporter named Ike who throughout the movie interviews Maggie’s (Julia Roberts) exes, to gather information as to why she always runs away at the altar. One question he constantly asks is “How did she like her eggs?”, to which each of the jilted men would reply with a type of egg, ‘scrambled’, ‘poached’, ‘egg whites only’, with the added response of ‘just like me’. The point being that Maggie had lost her own identity along the way, down to knowing what her own preference of eggs was. She had to separate from the crutch of a relationship, to discover that she likes Eggs Benedict. 

Improv for me fell into the egg-preference category. It was something that I’d always been interested in trying, but never did because it didn’t fit in with the person I was trying to be for someone else.

It took a year of being by myself, without dating a single person, to realize that I had the power in me to Google and subsequently sign up for a six-week improv course. While driving to the first class, I almost turned around and went home…several times. My head was playing games with me, repeating my ex’s voice on a loop stating a sarcastic, “Who told you that you should be a comedian?” over and over again. This was a phrase he would often say to me if I made a joke, or tried to be funny. I know he didn’t mean for the words to hurt, but they did. 

To my utter relief, the instructor told us that we should not focus on being funny, that we should instead focus on releasing whatever words or actions we needed to. That small phrase made a huge impact on me. Over the next 2 hours, I immersed myself in the improv experience. I walked around the performance space pretending to be a zombie, said whatever popped into my head during scene work, stumbled over my words, giggled at my own awkwardness, and it was all fine. All of it. No one got hurt, a few laughs were had, and I’d made the first step out of my comfort zone. I met some very cool people, all of whom were there for their own reasons, all of whom were fantastic. On the drive home, I felt something that I hadn’t in a very long time, elation and pride in myself. 

Six weeks later, I held a certificate in my hand stating that I had completed Level I, and was ready to continue on to Level II…which I have. If I keep going, I’ll have the chance to do something I literally NEVER thought I’d do—perform in front of an audience. 

It’s been great to release what I’ve held inside of me for so long, through improv. Do I look like a weirdo sometimes? Yeah. Am I sometimes funny while doing it? Occasionally. Am I finding out who I am? You betcha.

Turns out, I like my eggs baked in a muffin tin with bacon (or smoked salmon), tomato, red onion, and cheese. Isn’t that funny?

CCT Improv I
Death, Shhh. The Universe is Speaking

The Soul Connection

It seems as if the Universe has messages for me all of the time. Last weekend, my daughter and I were driving back together from one of our activities, and as she so often does, she brought up what was on her mind. I figured she was about to say something, as she had been staring out of the passenger side window, not really focusing on anything in particular in regard to the view, but focusing internally instead.

“Mom, what happens to you when you die?”

I glanced quickly at her, and smiled. She loves to surprise you with the ‘car questions’, I thought. ‘Car questions’ had become a thing that I’d coined years ago, after noticing a pattern with Sasha and the types of questions she liked to save specifically for the car. Now, it very well may have been that she reserved this line of questioning for the times when she and I were alone for extended periods of time, where the only interruptions would be the flow of traffic or what was on the radio. This perfect scenario just happened to be in the car.

”Well, I’m not entirely sure, but I think your soul gets released from your body, and is sent to either Heaven, or maybe to another body. Really depends on what you believe, I suppose.”

She appeared thoughtful.

“Ok, but what about your body?”

”It either gets buried, or sometimes people like to be cremated.”

After describing what cremation was, which led to a shocked “What the heck” sort of response, she asked; “So, what about someone’s soul?”

”The cool thing is, that no matter what happens to your body, your soul lives on. Just because your body is dead, it doesn’t mean that you really die forever. You can have a body that doesn’t work quite right, or become very old, or sick, but your soul is that part of you that doesn’t need to rely on the body in order to live. At least, that’s how I hope it all works.”

”So, my Dad’s soul is still alive?”

I reached over and grasped her hand in mine. “I think so. I hope so.”

”That’s cool.”

This conversation was so poignant, and became even more so less than 24 hours later when we received word that a close friend of our family’s had passed away around the same time that we were having our chat in the car. When I told Sasha what had happened, I reminded her of our talk, and how our loved one’s soul was not lost, even though her body was.

“She’s still around, just like your Dad is still around,” I told her in between tearful hugs, “Just think of the happy memories, and it’s like they’re right here.”

The conversation about the soul combined with the sudden loss of a friend got me thinking about why death is so hard to cope with, if in fact I hold fast to the belief that there has only been a loss of the body, but not of the essence of the person that occupied it.

Here’s what I managed to process.

When someone you love dies unexpectedly, it feels like a practical joke. Your brain hasn’t had time to process the loss, and so instead of going through the motions, there is a period of time where your feelings are in a state of limbo. Kind of numb, in disbelief, feeling as if at any moment, the person you lost will appear in the doorway or call you on the phone, laughing at the awesome prank they’ve pulled.

Tears come easily during this stage, the fat thick type, where your eyes just allow the floods to roll in but you feel stupid for crying them because surely this isn’t real.

Once the loss sinks in, then the anger comes on like a speeding train. Hard and heavy and solid in its intensity. Pinpointing what you’re angry at is difficult and varied. Angry at them for dying, angry at the illness that pulled them away, angry at God for allowing this to happen, angry that you will now have to live a life without them in it.

Grief begins to feel like a family member who has over-stayed their welcome during the holidays—always present and never giving you any time to relax and just be. Hours and hours of just feeling a discomfort that never settles.

And then, one day, you realize that it’s been hours since you thought about them. You’ll laugh for the first time at someone’s joke, and catch yourself because you allowed yourself to feel joy. The weight lifts the tiniest bit.

The old homage, “time heals all wounds” begins to make more sense. And while you may not be healed, and may not ever heal, the time will pass. Time does go on, minutes become hours, days become weeks, months become years. Before long, you’ll be casually doing some innocuous task like grocery shopping, and you’ll realize that today is the anniversary of the death. The anniversary is always hard, it just is. That date becomes synonymous with loss, and every year it will give you a sinking feeling in your gut. You won’t be healed, but your relationship with the grief will evolve.

The death of Sasha’s Dad has been a hard one to cope with. In many ways, I don’t think I’ll ever be through with the task of mentally and emotionally processing it. Admitting this is difficult for me, as I have a tendency to want to wrap things up quickly and neatly.

This December, will mark 11 years since my late husband died. I’m not angry with him anymore. In fact, time has allowed me to take a look at his death through another perspective. I realize now that he was not himself in those last few months, that the depths of his depression had altered his reality. I continue to mourn his loss, and regret not seeing the depression for what it was—an illness that ruled his life and dictated his choices.

It pierces my heart to know that our daughter is growing up without him. I wish I’d done more while he was alive to help him, but I didn’t. That is a regret that I’ll have for a lifetime. The best thing that I can do to honor his memory is to ensure that our daughter is being raised in a loving and caring environment. I am fiercely protective of her, and I know that’s what he would have wanted the most. To know that I was being the best mother I could, to our child. In this, I have not failed him. In her eyes, he still lives on. The passing of time only intensifies this fact.

Aside from the gift of a beautiful child, he left me with many gorgeous memories. The trips we took to Japan, Canada, and the beach in California. The Persian culture that he introduced me to, and which has given me a love of Iranian food, and literature.


He encouraged me to complete my education, and to travel. Every time I hear the theme song of Friends, or hear Michael Jackson’s Thriller, two of his favorite American things (ok really, it was Jennifer Aniston that was his favorite, but you get my point), I can’t help but think of him. I can’t explain it, but I somehow know that he is around at times. It’s not a creepy thing to think about, in fact I’m glad that on some level, he understands that our daughter has grown into a smart and witty and gorgeous young lady. I hope that he has found peace—I think he has.

Time has softened the blow of his death to a moderate degree. I still think of him often, it’s hard not to considering that our daughter resembles him so much. The only difference is that now there is also understanding.

In the months preceding his death, we’d argued about things that had happened in the past, the things that we were going through in our present, and had fretted about the future. At some point, he stopped arguing with me about what would become; I now recognize that this was because he knew that there would be no point in arguing about a future that wouldn’t involve him.

I can’t help but tie in his passing when other people I love pass on. Call it a form of emotional PTSD, or muscle memory, or however you’d like to classify it. When loss occurs, the tie-in of memory can’t help but rear up like a coworker’s head over a cubicle (what former coworkers and I used to call ‘prairie-dogging’). And maybe just maybe this recollection is his soul whispering to me, “Remember me too!”

If this is true, just for his benefit I’d like to say that I do remember.

While time may not heal completely, it’s nice to know that the memories remain. I hope that one day, when I’m no longer here that others will remember me too.


Down Memory Lane

I’ve been thinking a lot about the past. This is difficult for me to admit on a certain level, because I’ve prided myself on being a person who takes life, and all those things that come with it, on a case by case (day by day) basis.

But the nature of what I do, writing memoir, and writing this blog, is to delve into the past. The more I write about it, the more I think about it. The more I think about it, the more the memories come flooding back…often at midnight when I’m just trying to get some sleep.

The past can be a kind reflection; that trip to New Zealand where I ate green-lipped mussels the size of my hand, or that time when I was rocking my precious baby girl to sleep after a feeding and the sunlight poured in and settled on her fuzzy little head causing her to resemble a cherub.

On the other side of this are the memories I’m not proud of. The lies I’ve told, the hurt I’ve caused, the embarrassing moments that I’d rather forget (like that time I tore my skirt on an old chair in front of my entire 9th grade Spanish class).

As much as I cringe at some of the choices I’ve made along the way, agonize over the things I’ve said, or feel as if I never, ever, ever want to talk about the embarrassing moments, I realize that everything has been a roadmap to becoming who I am (and will become).

I’ve learned from my mistakes—granted, sometimes that lesson had to be learned a few times for it to “really sink in”. What’s more, I look at my mistakes in a different way now. Each one has been a learning tool, and when I stop and think about the past, in several circumstances, it almost feels as if I’m examining the life of a girl I used to know. That reflection is priceless, and gives me peace of mind to know that those mistakes I made were just that—mistakes, made by a woman who was still learning.


And P.S., everyone makes mistakes. Everyone. Your boss, your parents, the ‘holier than thou’ mom at school who can’t understand why you aren’t “more involved”. Everyone.

Thinking about the past can also be great for inspiration. As a writer, I reflect on my past to fill in the blanks of a story, to glean ideas for blog posts (Hey!), and to use those memories to start a discussion that helps others find an emotional connection that they might need to start their own healing. WHEW. Yes. I use my reflections to write stories for people in need—so they can find an emotional outlet and begin to heal.

Speaking of; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard people tell me that they feel as if they can’t complain to me, because of what I’ve been through in life. First of all, thanks? Secondly, no! I enjoy hearing other people’s stories! Honestly, it’s hearing what others are going through that makes me feel like part of the fabric of humanity.

The sharing of experiences provides a great perspective on life. So, if my journey through the fires of parenthood gives you some perspective on what you’re going through, then cool. I can guarantee that there will be times when I look at what you’re going through and think about how blessed I am, and that’s fine. Sweet, sweet perspective.

Sometimes I think about the past to remind myself just how far I’ve come, and to remind myself that I still have a long way to go. That book I have been thinking about for years, but have yet to complete. The weight I want to lose. The promise of being more in touch with family and friends.

I’m making headway with these goals, and thinking about the past struggles and triumphs helps keep me going. This is especially true in the case of long-term goals, which have a way of becoming stagnant (boring). To help overcome this, I set smaller goals along the way, that are reflective of the larger goal. Such as:

Writing a book —> Taking writing classes that force me to have deadlines.

Lose weight—> Reduce carb-heavy foods and learn to love (healthy) salad dressing.

More in touch with family and friends—> Taking the time for a girls day out, and talking to my Mom more frequently.

I realize that thinking about the past might bring up a large elephant in the room for some. What about when these memory-dives involve past relationships? Well, I think that all of the above points apply. If you’re being real about the mistakes made (yours too, not just theirs), and you’re using the past to examine what went wrong, as well as what went right, then you’re fine. I’ve found that looking back can help me to move forward, I can admit that now. And, I’m using what mistakes I made in the past to course correct in my present. Finally, I can look back and give myself permission to forgive and let go. That doesn’t mean that I forget what has happened, quite the opposite. But, I can forgive, and that gives me more freedom than holding on to any past hurt that may exist.

If you are ready to examine your own past, here’s a writing exercise that I’ve used to bring up some past memories.

Look at the question below, and write about the first thing that comes to your mind. (If you feel so inclined, share with me in the comments! I’d love to see where your reflections have taken you.)

Think about a time in your life when you traveled outside of your comfort zone. It could be to another state or country, or it could be across the cafeteria to sit with a stranger. 


The Starting Point of Faith is Fear

I heard this quote in church on Easter Sunday. It was crowded, every seat filled at Elevation Church in Charlotte, North Carolina, with every kind of church goer; the ‘never misses a service’ the ‘only attends on Easter and Christmas’ and then me, along with my daughter, the ‘we try to make it every Sunday, but it’s more like every other Sunday, or every other, other Sunday’.

“The starting point of faith is fear.”

The pastor of Elevation is Steven Furtick. He’s not your typical church leader. He is handsome, young, and buff. He’s also passionate about what he preaches. This particular sermon was about finding the way to grace through our failures.

If I look back on all of the things that have ever worked out in my life, those things that I am proud of, those elements that make me who I am…the starting point of all of those times has been fear. Fear of failing, fear of changing, fear of the new, the different, the unknown, the fall. But at each one of these points, I pushed myself to go forward.

When I got pregnant with my daughter, I was afraid of being a mother. Actually, I was afraid of failing as a mother. I didn’t know if I could nourish a child in the way that it should be nourished; soul, body, and mind. Would I be a positive and guiding force in her life? Would I know what to do if she got sick? Would she grow to be a decent human being with me as her role model?

When I moved to Las Vegas after living most of my life in Southern California, to pursue a relationship, I was afraid. Afraid of leaping into love, afraid of trusting another person, afraid of giving up the safety of what I’d always known.

When that relationship ended, I was afraid of moving on and being a single mother again. I was afraid of finding a home that I could afford, and of taking care of not only my daughter’s school and extracurricular activities, but her medical needs too, while holding down a full-time job. No safety net, no relief if something went wrong.

When I found love again, this time with the man who would become my husband, I was incredibly frightened. Would this person break our hearts? Would he let us down? Would I be able to let go and let him love us? Would I be able to lean on him as an equal partner?

And when we moved, this time as a family, cross-country to North Carolina. I was afraid of starting all over again. Afraid of working for a huge corporation, in the financial industry, afraid of being a failure. It was frightening to think of how we would all make new friends, how I would find the right doctors for my daughter, how she would transition from a small private school to a large public one. How our careers would play out in this new city.

The point to all of this is, that every single time I’d been afraid—I was actually positioning myself to move forward. This forward momentum only worked because I had faith that it would work. I believed, every time, that what lay on the other side of fear was freedom. 

I’m sure that throughout my journey, there have been naysayers who have scoffed at me behind my back. I’m sure that at times, my journey hasn’t made sense from the outside looking in.

I’m also sure that it doesn’t matter what others think of my journey. It’s mine to take. If I fall, and I do fall sometimes, I know that I’ll get back up and keep going. My daughter shares this mentality. She’s smart and kind and compassionate. She’s a better version of the vision of who I dreamed she’d be. I think it has actually helped that she’s seen me fearful, seen me fall, and watched me move forward in faith. And that, isn’t a failure. It’s a bona-fide success.


Dark Eyes in a Dark Room

The migraines are new. This time they hung around for a week like a wet cough that refuses to run its course. Pounding, right in the middle of her forehead. The pain so intense that while I couldn’t feel them for myself, I could see the effects of them on her face, in her mannerisms, in the way that she just wanted to lie down in our guest room with the blackout curtains drawn and the lights out. She didn’t even want to look at her iPad, her technology she calls it, because the blue-light was just too much to bear. A week without it. Like a self-imposed punishment befitting a teenage girl. I would slink into the room every hour just to make sure she was all right.

I’ve gotten used to doing that, a mother’s habit. I slink in, make sure she’s still breathing, placing my hand on her forehead to make sure she’s not feverish, checking the water bottle on the bedside table. It’s the habits that help keep me sane when she’s not herself. Her eyes are so dark. Like someone has taken a permanent marker and drawn in crescents under each socket. It scares me to see them this way. Reminds me of horrible memories from years past, horrific flashbacks of swirling red lights and excruciatingly loud sirens. There was always that one car who would try to outrun the rapidly approaching ambulance, would burn right through a left turn, forcing the ambulance driver to slow down and forcing me to scream and throw my middle fingers up in the air at the utter jackassery of the self-absorbed driver who forced an emergency vehicle with a seizing child in the back to slow down just so they could make the light. Yeah. We’re all in a hurry, aren’t we? And I’m so sure that you’re on your way to something way more important than the emergency room.

She finally slept last night. A great sign. She thought that her dad visited her in the darkened guest room a couple of days ago. Said that she sensed his presence in the room. That scared me since she wasn’t talking about my husband, who she also calls dad. But since she was talking about her biological father, who died a week before Christmas 10 years ago. I don’t want her getting visits from dead relatives when she’s so sick, or ever. But especially when I’m so worried that the headaches could be indicative of something more serious than migraines. I actually walked out of the room and told ‘her dad’ that I was perfectly capable of dealing with my kid, and that he could politely and quietly go away now. NOW. GO. I got this…k, bye.

Today she woke up and felt better. On day 7, when we were preparing to call the doctor to have her admitted to the hospital. I’d asked for prayers, had prayed over her myself. I felt a calm wash over me and over the room, and today…she’s better. I’m better. 

It seems like such a small thing, a prayer. But, when fear is taking hold, and the only thing you have left is hope and an emergency plan, I figure that lifting up a prayer really doesn’t hurt. Hope is such a funny thing to me. It used to be just a word, a sort of tossed around phrase, like when people use the #blessed about their morning bagel. Hope, and for that matter, blessed, have taken on a new meaning for me. 

This morning, her eyes were brighter than they’d been in days. She smiled at me when I gave her a flurry of forehead kisses this morning. She knows she’s loved. I know I’m blessed. 

We’ll start this weekend with a quiet calm. No brain on fire, no sharpie’d undereye, and an episode or two of Gilmore Girls. 

“Mom, would you be upset if I eloped?” 

“I wouldn’t be thrilled. I mean, I’d want to be there to support you and share that moment with you.”

“What about if I got pregnant?”

“Oh, uhm. Nope. One crisis at a time, love.”


“Nothing. Just…nothing. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

#hope #blessed #passtheexcedrin