Can We Talk? A random, wild, uncontrolled conversation with myself. A needed release. Please ignore the grammar (and sorry for the long title).

As much as I like adventure and seeing, learning and experiencing new things, people, and places, moving is always so very lonely for me. I'm sure it is for most people, but this is about me. I know, Rick Warren, but humor me.
Nothing is familiar except those who move with you, and the dirty, trashed car in which you find your way around the new town. I find myself in that place now. LonelyVille - way out on the back acreage of LonelyVille; the part that hasn't been annexed by anyone; there's not even any modern utilities way out in these parts of LonelyVille. I've met hundreds of people, I am in the midst of them almost daily; and yet, I'm alone to whack down the weeds from the path I'm now traveling. I despise the whacking.
The kids have started school, establishing friends and new routines.
Hubs is off to a great start, no surprise - adventure suits him to a 't'. Nothing about moving bothers him - it revitalizes him even. If he was a superhero, he'd be "Adventure Man". Lame.
But me - total introvert. I've learned to be "on," at a moment's notice, but tbh, it's exhausting. Very.
And I find when the house is all quiet but for the ticking of the Cuckoo clock, the loneliness is deepened by the exhaustion of too many and too much "new".
At 43, I would be lying if I said I wasn't tired of "new;" and yet, this is the very life that I gave myself to so many years back when I stopped fighting and started accepting. It began before we ever began to think about moving from our home state. It actually began after Molly was born and I no longer could control my life. I was drowning, and I refused to ask for help. I was a stubborn jackass who thought I could be everything, and do everything, and know everything without knowing anything at all. So much ridiculous for one person, right?
And along came my Savior who saved me from my controlled, self-induced drowning, and said,"Just give it up; give it to Me. I'm here to help you. I won't harm you. Trust Me."
A Savior who saves us from so much more than just hell? Who woulda' thunk it, Legalism? I let Christ out of the ticket booth, and let him take control of my Ferris wheel-rollercoaster-funny-crazy life. Cause really, I'm just a clown with big trippy shoes, a honky nose, and a scary, smear-painted face that laughs and cries at the same time. He directs our circus daily. Ring Master and King of Kings. Pretty freaking awesome resume' He has.
I'm tired, but I feel better for writing all this down. I'm sure that it could very well land me in court-appointed Therapy if the wrong person reads it, or my kids use it against me one day. Hey, another adventure!
Seriously though, I'll pray for you. You pray for me. We'll get through this life with a little help from our friends, and the Ultimate Ring Master.

When Baby Leaves A Frog Takes Up Residence

Right now, this very second, there is a humongous frog sitting right past my uvula, bearing down on my esophagus and making it ache. My throat is trying to swell shut. There are salty tears sitting right at the very edge of my eyelids.

Today's the day - the day our oldest child, my first baby, is moving to college.

Well, there ya' go - now the tears are flowing, my nose is dripping, I'm sniffling and quietly sobbing.

Anna's moving away to USC today; and by moving away, I mean like 20 minutes down the road. Just downtown. I'm there all the time; nonetheless, it has hit me extremely, extremely hard. All week, I've been on the verge. Didn't know exactly why. I've subonsciously done a great job pushing her move to the back of my mind, amid all the activities of our other kids having started school on Monday; but, I've had a few moments...at weird, mundane times. It's been the mundane things that have thrown me down and beat the tears out of me...

• Multiplying snacks X 5 in my head at Walmart when it hit me, I only need to buy for 4
• Unloading the dishwasher and opening the cabinet to find all her coffee cups are gone
• A stupid lost sock of hers shows up out of nowhere
• All the books she's poured through year after year, now stacked neatly back on the family bookshelves
• The blanket she uses when we watch chick flicks, folded on the rack
• Empty hangers where her clothes hung
• First day of school pics - everyone's, not just mine
• She packed away in the attic, all her trophies, ribbons and alot of childhood memorabilia
• Scanning through our homeowner's insurance, making sure her personal property in her dorm room is covered

Gah. I can't even think right now to write my feelings and capture this moment.

About this time of morning (3am), approx. 18 years ago, sitting up in our bed counting the minutes between contractions for 2 hours, with my thoughts and fears to myself while Gerald slept unaware, I never would have dreamed that the labor pains bringing our first child into this world, were not nearly as painful as the labor was going to be when letting her go.

Roots and wings. There's no good way to stretch those roots when they're ready to fly. It's hell, people; and I suspect the pain takes a long time to wane.

That's all I can do for now. All I can say. All I can type.

DON'T LOOK TOO DEEPLY INTO MY THEOLOGY

Okay, so I'm no theologian and I don't want to be, at all, ever. This list is just a few things I started typing today and the list kept growing. It's just a 'show-n-tell', not a statement of belief. In a few years (or days), I'm sure it will change/morph and it's certainly not an exhaustive list; I could have went on and on and on.

I hope someone gets something positive, encouraging from this - a good memory, an 'aha' moment, an answer maybe?  I found myself remembering and reliving 'prayer events' in my life. Isn't that strange? Reliving prayer moments? Never heard of that before I just typed it. "Memories of Prayer," hmm. Do you have one?

Please, add to this list in the comments or take from it. It's just something I feel compelled to share; opinions/thoughts that I've learned/compiled over the last, few years when my praying started in earnest, on a more adult, 'I get it now' level. It's my (very) personal take on the power of prayer - power that can hurt, and certainly power that can heal.

I started typing the list after I had an exciting, exhilerating, encouraging brush with the power of prayer today - unexpected (I love unexpected prayer moments), all the way from the other side of the world (Ghana). It was an answer to prayer, though I had not asked a question. I guess it was more of an encouragement/"you can do it to"/"I know what you need - come on, I'm God" . Yep, that's what it was. I had a prayer/thought to myself earlier this week -  "Am I fully ready for this task that lay ahead?" I then took a deep breath, put on my big girl (swim) britches after deciding that even if I didn't dive in, I was surely getting pushed. You know that scenario, right? Ha.
So, God my Father saw fit to send me a personal note of encouragement; a little note in the lunchbox if you will. And all the way from Ghana. I'm sure there's a reason for that, as well.

Don't ever doubt that God uses you in tremendous ways, within your minute, daily tasks or the big tasks of being faithful in the way He leads you.

Enjoy and please, comment, I love feedback.

*Sidenote: Not all the points I've listed are as prayer should be, just as I've seen them be.



I fully believe in:

• Prayer
• The power of prayer
• The infinite power of the power
• The power we receive from prayer
• The power we release from prayer
• The power of prayer to the nth degree
• Traditional prayer
• Non-traditional prayer
• The harmonious work of the Holy Spirit as a messenger among the Believers and the Beloved, bringing us all within a circle of God's powerful, infinite Love, that strengthens with Faith and Trust; then circles around again (sounds sort of hippy-esque, ha.)

I fully believe that:

• The One to whom we pray, possesses every bit of the power of this world and beyond
• The power of prayer is mulitiplied innumerably by the masses and synthesized by the Holy Spirit
• Mass prayer can be just as ineffectual, as effectual
• Prayer is about being fully engaged, in the moment
• Prayer is personal
• Prayer should never be a forced act, or without heart and soul
• Prayer is more than just simple
• Prayer is a simple act
• Prayer is for simple-minded people
• Prayer is for intelligensia
• Everyone prays, admit or not
• Prayer is for everyone and anyone
• Prayer is not talking to God
• Prayer is conversing with God
• Prayer is a reward itself
• Prayer brings about things never imagined
• Prayer is good
• Prayer is ugly
• Prayer hurts
• Prayer heals
• Prayer feels good, refreshes, is quite tasty
• Prayer is proud
• Prayer is humble
• Prayer is quiet
• Prayer is loud
• Prayer is between you and God
• Prayer is not best in public
• Prayer can make you sick to your stomach
• Prayer is not an activity to be judged by mere mortals
• Prayer is not an opportunity to judge someone's spirituality
• Prayer should not be a formal task
• Prayer should not be a task
• Prayer should not be irreverent
• Prayer is not always serious
• Prayer should be comfortable
• Prayer is standing with hands raised
• Prayer is standing, head bowed, hands folded
• Prayer is groveling, gritting teeth, renting clothes, on your knees, "No, I refuse."
• Prayer is soaking in tears, eyes swollen, head fallen, releasing, trusting, "Yes."
• One should always remember the One to whom they're praying
• One should always remember the One to whom they're praying loves them
• One should always remember the One to whom they're praying should be respected
• One should always remember the One to whom they're praying should be feared
• Praying comes naturally
• Praying without ceasing is not a task
• Praying without ceasing is a continual conversation
• Praying without ceasing is opportunity
• Prayer is a responsibility to others
• Praying for Sally's lost dog, Tommy's bruised toe, and Johnny's turtle is an opportunity to talk with GOD. Hello.
• Being too haughty to pray for something you deem as "below you" is digging yourself a special place...somewhere; be careful and remember, you have no power except what is given to you by Christ. So step off

PUCKER UP

I don't dream much.

On certain nights I cherish because they are both rare and wonderful, before I fall into light, unconscious sleep, I first fall into memories.

Recently, I floated into childhood. I write this now and my eyes are brim with tears at the full, rich memories - those moments lost in childhood when all was joyful contentment and the world had yet to tinge the innocence.

Pucker. Go ahead. Do it. Pucker your lips and make that dry, popping sound puckered lips create.
Sounds of my childhood. From the lips of my Grandmother. 'Grandma Granny' we call her.

Walking quietly down a dirt road in late summer, Dad picks small, burnt orange, shriveled fruit from trees here and there. Sharing ensues and as each person tastes of this fruit that is mysterious to me, I listen and learn. Some taste, groan in displeasure, spit and everyone chuckles. I want in. Granny takes a taste of her piece of the juicy fruit, smiles, and offers it to me. I bite at the fruit, and the opportunity of the knowledge eluding me. Slightly sweet fruit, and a texture in which I don't particularly take delight.

I take a turn finding the right trees, spotting the fruit, and a lesson with a warning is given...pick only the ripe fruit; pick fruit that's not ready and you're sure to have a surprise awaiting you. Pucker.

I learn the word, 'Pucker'. Granny proceeds to define the term with action, puckering and making a dry, popping noise with her nicely lipsticked mouth, tinted an understated color. Somewhere between pink and nude. Soft granny lips that had kissed away tears and said goodbye countless times. Lips that I loved. Lips of coffee, and butterscotch candies, and sweet perfume.

I start tasting the fruit to find one sour so that I can experience 'pucker'. Not long...

My lips draw in, my brain creates a new path and I'm now in that inner circle. I came, I saw, I puckered. They chuckle.

Traveling down the road. Granny, Great Granny, Grandpa, Daddy, Sister, Brother, Mom and Me.
And I'm much the wiser for it.

Why that memory, on that night, God only knows, but the warmth has stuck with me all week.

  “I don't want to repeat my innocence. I want the pleasure of losing it again.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise

Bringing Home Baby

I remember it like it was yesterday...bringing home our firstborn and walking through the door of our home, the place of comfort and familiarity.
But everything felt different. Everything looked different. The atmosphere was odd and the world was a foreign place. I wanted my Mommy. I needed direction, instructions, reassurance. It was a lonely island of you-and him-and her...Anna Marie.

I was a parent and nothing, ever, would be the same.

Seventeen years later, here I am once again, standing in the doorway with my firstborn, not knowing what to do or what the hell I've gotten myself into.
This time though, I'm standing on the inside of the threshold, about to watch my firstborn walk out of our life, and into her own. I need reassurance. The atmosphere is odd and everything feels different.

Senior year is about to start and I'm already drowning in my own tears, surprised by how hard it's hit me. I've started making a mental checklist, making sure we've taught her absolutely everything she needs to know to survive out there. Then I laugh at the absurdity for a split second until the worry hits that spot in my stomach again, and I'm gasping for air. Warm tears cannot be dammed behind the eyelashes. This is not like me, I think. 'What is wrong with you?!?' An imaginary wind chills any confidence I have had in my parenting skills. All seems wrong and lost on this island. This freaking mother-island.

I replay in my head a memory that pops up from way back in my sub-conscious, of the day Gerald left for college...
Gerald's Mom standing at the kitchen sink, shoulders slumped and shaking, trying to stifle the sobs and peel potatoes for dinner. I watched her from behind not knowing what to do or say (I was a slight mess myself). Now I know what she knew. I feel what she felt. I can only imagine my Mom doing the same when I left a year later.

Is this part of the curse? That the labor pains never really end? You feel a longing in your womb, your breast, your every fiber for that little bundle of warmth that scared the living crap out of you; that pulled you out of narcissism and into sacrifice; that made you realize just how short life is; that makes you brave and a complete mess at the same time; that makes you long for that child even when they're right next to you still.

In my mind's eye, I see the famous Sistine Chapel painting of Adam reaching out to touch just the tip of God's finger. I focus on the hands, everything else a blur. I'm reaching for one small touch so I can hang on one more minute. I'm rooting for myself, 'Reeeach! you can do it!' And yet, I know I cannot, because she has wings, the wings I've groomed everyday for the past seventeen years.