The House That Never Had a Christmas

The House That Never Had a Christmas

By Abigail Shaffer

There was a little house

That was happy all spring long.

When the birds chirped cheerfully,

He was glad to sing along.

He always smiled in the summer,

When his yard was filled with play.

His little family laughed and sang

Through every long, hot day.

And then it was the autumn,

When all the leaves would fall,

That he would think to himself,

“I love this season most of all.”

But the next season was the hardest.

When winter came, he was sad,

Because he knew Christmas was coming

And he’d be left alone by the kids, Mom, and Dad.

You see, he had never seen a Christmas.

Not a single one.

Every time his family returned,

Christmas would be done.

He’d never seen a Christmas tree,

He’d never seen a sparkly light.

He’d never watched a Christmas movie,

Or heard “Oh Holy Night.”

He wanted to be a part of the joy

That was this special time.

He wasn’t decorated like other houses,

And he felt so left behind.

“But maybe this once,” He thought, with hope,

“There will be decorations there.

Perhaps it’ll be the first time

They light a yule log here.”

He hoped and he hoped

And he wished on a star

And when he went to sleep

He prayed very hard.

The very next morning

He awoke on Christmas Eve,

Feeling rather nervous

Because it was the day his family would leave.

But what did he see that morning

That filled his heart with joy?

His family decorating a Christmas tree,

Every man, woman, girl, and boy!

Then it was the big day!

The house was filled with cheer.

The kids opened their stockings

And to the house it was very clear.

Christmas is a time of family.

And to him it had been the reason

That he had wanted to share it with the family he loved,

For Christmas is the very best season.

For the Friend I Lost, and the Friend Who Carries On Without Her

You can see it in her face.

It isn’t lines or age.

It’s time and pain.

There has been so much hurt.

So much loss.

It wasn’t even my mom, who is gone,

But sometimes I feel like it was.

I’m afraid to express my own pain,

Because it isn’t fair to her,

Since she lost more than the rest of us.

But she wears her pain

Like water wears the glow of the morning sun.

It’s made her better,

Stronger,

More beautiful.

She makes me want to be like her—

And that’s the same way her mother always made me feel.

Hoverboards and Hope

Marty McFly traveled to a bright future full of hoverboards, pretty colors, and cool inventions. Even though his future wasn’t exactly what he was hoping for, it was still bright and hopeful as a whole. It’s indicative of older futuristic movies—the likes of which you really don’t see anymore.

But now the future is here and we all have computers in our pockets and cool inventions that make our lives easier, even though I don’t ride to work every day on a hoverboard (get on that, NASA). However, our media doesn’t reflect that. More recently, our movies and TV shows are generally about apocalypse, end times, zombie attacks, and mass death. It’s dark. It’s depressing. It’s hard to find the hope. People are cast off like dandelion seeds, and human life is disposable.

Last Christmas, one of my best friends made me a painting with a quote from the BBC show, Doctor Who, which said, “Nine hundred years of time and space and I never met anyone who was unimportant.”

It spoke to me. Everyone is important.

And recently I was watching an episode of the same show, when the Doctor was in a usual, desperate situation where he finds himself on a strange planet, with a bus full of people he was trying to save. He began to ask them where they were headed when they got on the bus. Some were headed to dinner, others to see friends and family, some just wanted to go home and watch TV. The Doctor told them, “That planet out there … that planet is nothing—you hear me? Nothing compared to all those things waiting for you: food, and home, and people. Hold on to that.”

This morning I was talking on the phone with my boyfriend as I got ready for work. He had been reading the Bible in the morning and he said he had been thinking about “the little people” in the Bible who are just part of a group and never get mentioned—the ones who marched around Jericho, or who wandered in the desert. He was talking about how we as people are always told that we can do great things, that we should strive to reach our potential…but what about these nameless people who were essentially the cogs of something bigger…but never had their names mentioned or made a big difference on their own.

I’ve been thinking about that this morning, and it makes me think of those Doctor Who quotes. There isn’t anyone who isn’t important. Every person makes a difference, even if it’s small. Even if it just means your life is composed of going to your boring day job and coming home to your loved ones at night.

We are all part of a bigger picture, and together we make a difference—even when we don’t think that we are. When we are living our lives, doing what God intended for us to do, we’re doing the greatest thing we can, even if we aren’t curing cancer or saving someone’s life.

Life happens in the little things. Life is made in the tiny decisions. Our lives matter, even in the great scheme of things and the vast cosmos that we know so little about. We matter. I matter.

YOU matter.

RANT.

Hello. My name is Abigail and today I’m having a meltdown.

I feel like I’m being pulled in so many different directions. There is so much to do and never enough time to do it.

The boyfriend is moving into town this weekend…which also is when Hurricane Joaquin is moving in. What a coincidence.

The boyfriend needs me to pick up a router for the new apartment, on my lunch break.

The boyfriend’s roommate needs the router BEFORE my lunch break.

GUYS. I ONLY HAVE ONE LUNCH BREAK.

Work has been fulfilling, but very busy. I don’t have time to be orchestrating all of this.

I am so happy that the boyfriend is moving closer, but I don’t handle change well.

All of a sudden we go from seeing each other once every two months or so, to seeing each other every day.

I’m psyched about this, but just about every weekend this month, we’re going to be going on a trip together to go pick up furniture for him, go to a wedding of one of his friends, and a trip with some of my friends…

It’s all great stuff…but I’m losing my mind. I need a grace period to see how he and I work together in person. I’ve only really seen him 5 times…for a total of MAYBE two weeks if it was all smooshed together.

I NEED TIME TO GET USED TO IT ALL FIRST.

Oh! And the bathrooms at the house need to be cleaned. Usually I just do it, but I need help this month. Thankfully my roommates are great and step up when I ask, but I hate having to ask for help.

Oh! And WE ALL USE THE BATHROOMS!!

IF ONE MORE PERSON SAYS THAT SINGLE PEOPLE HAVE NOTHING TO DO I AM GOING TO HURT SOMEBODY!

OH! And here, proof a bazillion things that were due LAST WEEK but we’re only getting them to you NOW.

END RANT. *Takes bow* Thank you.

The Story of the Stable Sable and the Bumper Hullabaloo

Pick-N-Pull

Betsy looked like the Terminator.

My poor car (the aforementioned Betsy) has needed bumpers for months. The back one was smashed when someone backed into me, and the front one shattered when I skidded on some ice in an 8mph crash earlier this winter.

The Sable just like mine!

Taking the bumper off

My friend Nick and my roommate, Ann, decided to help me with the bumper situation, so we all went to Pick-N-Pull—which is basically a glorified junk yard. It was a magnificent thing. Hundreds of cars stood all in rows, grouped by manufacturer. After walking around for a while through what we weren’t aware was the GM section, we finally discovered the Fords. That was when I found it.

My car: a white, ’95 Mercury Sable with a pristine front bumper. The clouds opened up, and sun shone down on it in a halo of heavenly light. Angels sang the Hallelujah Chorus. It was beautiful.

Carrying the front bumper

Ladies and gents, I’ve never been under a car before, but there I was, right next to Nick, under the car, wrench in hand, trying to loosen the bolts so that we could take that bumper for Betsy. We took a lot of pictures. This might never happen again. Do you have any idea of how filthy you can get when laying on gravel? Also, I learned that I can sweat from places I didn’t even know had sweat glands.

By the end of the morning, we had two bumpers (took the other one from a green ’94 Taurus) and a spare tire, all for $160!! SUCCESS!!!

As the three of us joyfully lugged the bumpers, spare tire, and two full tool boxes back to the car…it was then that we realized…we had no idea how we were going to get all of this (and ourselves) home. None of us had a truck, so we had driven over in my little Sable.

We began the world’s biggest game of Tetris.

Finally, we managed to get both bumpers in the car, as well as all of us…even if one of the bumpers hung out the window a bit…

Ann + Nick in the back of the car with the bumpers

Everything was going so well…we thought. I had high hopes that my car was FINALLY going to be okay. I had just gotten a new battery in the car the day before (because the car had a bad habit of dying and needing to be jumped), and now Betsy was going to be pretty and in one piece. Yes. Things were looking up.

Then it happened. We dropped the bumpers off at Nick’s house, and were headed out to get some lunch when the car died. Again. Just like she had been doing for months, before I put the new battery in. *Insert expletives here* The bad thing was that she died as I was waiting at a stop sign. There was a truck behind me…and I couldn’t get her started.

Nick befuddled as to what's wrong

Instantly, Nick threw the car into neutral, yelled “step on the brake!” and jumped out of the car. Before I knew it, he was pushing the car, and the truck behind us was backing up. My roommate also jumped out to help him, and even in my frightened state, I did manage to turn the wheel and maneuver the car into a safe place out of the way.

Nick and Ann kept their cool pretty well as Nick looked under the hood, trying to figure out what was wrong. I laid against the side of the car and cried out to God. “Why, God!? WHY?!?!” Car still did not start.

Pushing the car...

More pushing ensued. Nick seemed to be enjoying it immensely. Ann sang Air Force running songs. I felt guilty that I wasn’t pushing. About half way back to Nick’s house (thankfully, we never left the neighborhood), I told them to stop so that I could try to start the car again. She started. SUCCESS! But…the blinkers and flashers wouldn’t work. NOT SUCCESS.

Safety first

We then went to lunch, where I drowned my depression in two sausage links, two slices of bacon, two slices of ham, hash browns, scrambled eggs, and two pancakes…and ate every single bite of it. Nick and Ann were impressed with my eating skills. Nick tried to help me figure out if I could change my finances around a bit and somehow get a little more money out (optimistically for a new car), but he came to the same conclusion I did: Nope.

Painting the bumper

The following day, Nick and I worked on the green Taurus bumper. The paint had to be stripped before we could paint it white to match my car. I don’t even want to go into the pain and agony it was to strip all of that paint off. OH MY GOSH. NO. The first paint stripper we used was too gentle, that it only got some of it off. It was during a trip to Wal-Mart that we discovered the stripper that we knew needed to be in our lives: the one that was literally eating its way out of the can.

Putting the bumper on

We took the radioactive substance back to Nick’s house and used it on the bumper. It worked like a dream, but left the bumper covered in what can only be described as black “Flubber.” There was much scraping, sanding, and hosing it down. But eventually, we got it back to looking like a bumper.

Then I primed it. And painted it. Two coats. So much heat. So much sun. Not enough water. My head ached. It still aches today as I’m writing this.

When I was finished, I went to see what Nick was up to. And together, he and I put the new front bumper on the car. More time spent on the ground, under the car, loosening bolts. I was thankful to be there, though. It was cooler under the car. 

By the end of the day, the car had two new bumpers. I was hot, tired, and thanking God that Ann came over with cold Gatorade. The shower water turned gray when it hit my body, but it didn’t matter. We had gotten my car’s body fixed up, and she looks fantastic. It might have been the hardest work I’ve ever done outside of a ballet studio, but it was worth it. 

Finished bumper...and Nick's legs

New front bumper!

Because You Asked For It...

I remember reading a book called White Guilt in college. It’s been a long time since I’ve read it, but the basic views expressed in it were that many Americans try to overly make up for the racial sins of the past—sometimes to a fault. You had to read all of it, pay attention, and listen to what the author was really saying. There were quite a few students in the class, however, who hated the book because they said it made white people look bad, etc. I won’t go into all of that, because it’s not my main point. My main point is this: I later talked with the professor about it, and he expressed that those students had gotten so defensive about feeling attacked that they had missed the point of the book entirely, much to his disappointment.

This is what I feel has happened for Harper Lee’s new book, Go Set a Watchman. About a dozen people have asked me to express my thoughts on the novel, so here I go:

The controversy has been that Atticus is a racist in the new book. Everywhere I go lately, I hear much discord and disgust towards the book—all from people who haven’t read it. I’ve talked to many friends and even strangers about it, and so far, only one person had read it. It has only been out for a little over a week, yet so many individuals have shut their minds and will hear no more. Almost all of those people are getting their information second-hand. They haven’t paid attention long enough to understand what the author is actually trying to say.

Without giving any spoilers, this book isn’t actually about race as much as the hype makes it out to be. It’s not like To Kill a Mockingbird in that area. It’s about knocking down childhood idols and learning to think for ourselves. Scout, or as she’s called in this one, Jean Louise, actually is very similar to those who are currently criticizing the book. She sees something she doesn’t understand, but thinks that she does, and she quite literally freaks out—repeatedly. I’ve never seen such tantrums from a grown woman. She then shuts her mind and her eyes to any reason or explanation—just like the critics who refuse to read the book solely on the basis of what they’ve “heard” about it.

The novel does represent the two sides of the race battle, but I don’t think that’s exactly what Harper Lee was trying to express. In a lot of ways, this book is a late coming of age story. Scout is 26, but she’s still got a lot to learn. There were definitely moments where I related to her, where I understood her struggle to realize that her father is a flawed human being, that he’s old…that he won’t be around forever.

I related to her most, I think when her Uncle Jack (Atticus’ brother) said this to her:

“…now you, Miss, born with your own conscious, somewhere along the line fastened it like a barnacle onto your father’s. As you grew up, when you were grown, totally unknown to yourself, you confused your father with God. You never saw him as a man with a man’s heart, and a man’s failings—I’ll grant you it may have been hard to see, he makes so few mistakes, but he makes ‘em like all of us. You were an emotional cripple, leaning on him, getting the answers from him, assuming that your answers would always be his answers.”

                Maybe I’m a little bias towards this book because I, same age as Scout, have just realized that I too have done this. I lost my great grandmother last year, and it wasn’t until she passed that I realized that I had put her on a pedestal—that I had, as Uncle Jack says, “Confused” her with God. I refused to see her flaws and her failings. I idolized her. And when she died, it was more than just a normal human death to me. It was as if God had died.

And I think this was what Atticus was trying to break in Scout. She needed to see that he was a human man, flawed like the rest of us. And she needed to see that she had her own mind, and if her views didn’t line up with her father's, well…that was alright. She had to learn to make her own choices and stand for them.

And if you’re still hung up on the race relations, take a look at this: Scout looks up the word “bigot” in the story and reads aloud, “Noun. One obstinately or intolerably devoted to his own church, party, belief, or opinion.”

I won’t say anything more about the book, because as sainted LeVar Burton used to say on Reading Rainbow, “you don’t have to take my word for it.” Read it for yourself. Or not. Just be careful of how intolerant you are towards a novel you haven’t read. Or else, you might end up sounding a lot like that dictionary definition…

Ten Things I Learned While on Vacation

The woman standing on the right
had her bottoms on backwards.

1. Outdoor showers are wonderful. You get to be one with nature, under the sky…with birds flying over…and guys in cherry pickers next door, about to peep over the walls of the shower…


2. Victoria’s Secret is the god of bikinis.


3. Having your period while on a beach vacation can still be fun. And traumatizing. On second thought, I’m just going to go with traumatizing. Yeah…let's just leave it at that.


4. My new favorite beach game is, “Is That How You’re Really Supposed To Wear That Bathing Suit?” After a rousing round, we discovered a woman who had her bikini bottoms on backwards. More trauma followed.


5. There should be a reality show based upon how we vacation. It would be called Four Girls. One Bathroom. I’d watch the heck out of that.


6. The show Friends never, EVER gets old, and is strangely relatable now.


7. If you sit at the edge of the surf, you will get saggy, sand-filled bottoms. You will then look like a toddler with a drooping diaper, and it is impossible to politely remove the sand.


8. Due to lack of bathrooms and mirrors at our beach house, I brought a portable makeup mirror with me. We then learned that the mirror had two sides, the normal side, and the scary, magnified side. Um…anyone have wrinkle cream?


9. I live at a lake…in a beach town…and vacation in a different beach town. I just love the sand, and the sun, and the water.


10. I will never understand how anyone can live far from the ocean.

Bonus: We also wear matching shirts
(and lockets...but you can't see those).

I Just Find it Rude...

When did people stop asking to put you down as a reference? Growing up, my parents taught me the importance of a strong resume and references, but what they really emphasized was the importance of asking someone first. I grew up being taught that a reference is someone who has agreed to support you, to give a good report of you, your work ethic, your moral fiber, etc.

But this seems to have died.

This month alone, 4 people have put me down as a reference without asking me first. I am more than happy to brag like crazy about each and every one of them when the phone call comes. And they know that, so I guess I make a good reference. But, I hate getting that text message:

Friend: “Hey. What’s your address/email address?”

Me: “It is: __________________. Why?”

Friend: “ I’m using you as a reference.”

My face:

I want to know before I get that call, especially if it’s for a person I haven’t actually talked to in a long time. I don’t want to pick up and the conversation to go like this:

Caller: “Hi, I’m calling on behalf of ­­­Mr. _______, regarding his application. He listed you as a close friend.”

Me: “Who? Oh, yes. Ehem. Mr. ­­­_______... I didn’t know. I haven’t talked to him in a while…”

Me stumbling through my answer and being clueless doesn’t make you look very good…

I guess I mostly find it rude due to an experience several years back. Someone I know had listed me as a reference, but didn’t tell me. I was then barraged with a battery of phone calls from a government worker (it was for a government job). Not only could the person on the phone barely speak a clear sentence, but the questions were never-ending. I was more than happy to help the guy out, but a little warning that this was coming would have been nice.

So, moral of the story here is this: let’s go back to the lovely old-fashioned way of asking permission before putting someone down as a reference. I promise, if you do that first, I’ll gush about you…and I won’t tell them embarrassing stories about silly things you’ve done. 

Where Are the Leaders?

Where are the leaders?

I was born to follow.

Stand up to me.

Don’t let me always have my way.

You think you’re being kind to me,

But you aren’t.

I don’t want to set the standard.

I don’t want to make all the choices.

I just want you to take my hand

And lead me where you are going.

Yes, it would be nice to be included in some

Decisions.

But for the most part,

I just want a leader.

Someone I can trust.

Someone I can look up to.

Is that too much to ask? 

Guest Blogger: Laura A. Lord

Hello! Today I am lending my blog out to one of my best friends, the very talented author, Laura A. Lord! I'm so excited about her new book,Of Roots and Wreckage, and for you to hear a little bit about her and read one of her amazing poems. Enjoy!

https://youtu.be/nKG9HQGcbc0

In Of Roots and Wreckage, Laura A. Lord moves us with the imagery that has come to define her poetry. Whether looking into the brutal truths of where one calls home to moments of reveling in the joy and pain of an aging body – Lord is  to exploring in raw honesty the smallest of moments and describes with startling clarity the mysteries that move and break us.

Want to win a free copy of Laura’s Of Roots and Wreckage? Enter Laura’s Goodread’s Giveaway Here!

Her newest collection, Of Roots and Wreckage, focuses heavily on where she grew up. Split into three sections, this collection explores the ideas of “roots” and hometowns, of people and change, of aging and death.

Here is a selection from Of Roots and Wreckage:

Sometimes Death Looks like Christmas Breakfast

He is preoccupied with my age.

Three times this week

he has tried on,

as if fitting a new shirt

and tie,

the emperor’s voice:

commanding,

in charge,

in control.

“You can’t get older.”

Yes, your majesty.

So the soft skin crinkles

at the corner of his eyes -

tracks of worry.

The railroad trance,

where imagination runs rampant

and he sees me

spread like a ragdoll,

draped - a cloth of human existence.

Like the scene from Gozilla

where the soldiers were scattered,

play things,

and he shoved in handfuls of popcorn

while asking

“Is that what dead looks like?”

Sometimes.

Sometimes it looks like Christmas breakfast -

where I am frying bacon

as eggs congeal on plates,

and I am aware she is not in her seat.

More aware of her absence, then,

than in the hours, days, before.

Yes, sometimes death looks like Christmas breakfast.

© Laura A. Lord 2015

Pre-order your copy now!

Laura A. Lord is the author of numerous collections of vignettes and poetry and one awesome children’s book about a T-Rex screwing up her entire day. It’s absolutely a true story.

Laura’s work has been featured in The Beacon, The Collegian, Whirl with Word, Tipsy Lit, Precipice, Scary Mommy, The Powder Room, The Reverie Journal, and Massacre Magazine.

You can find this author and poet in all these wonderful places!

Twitter

Facebook

Soundcloud

YouTube

Amazon

Goodreads

Google +

Pinterest

Independent Author Network

Dystenium

In the Middle of a Gray Rain

It’s weird to be approaching summer and not have a “summer break.” Even though I worked through the summer last year, this is the first year that it’s hit me that all my summers will be this way. Back when I was in school, I was so used to always working towards a goal. That goal was always finishing school and getting a good job. Well, I've done both of those things, and it’s a good life. But, I can’t shake this odd feeling of “what now?” Is this all there is to adulthood?

There are so many things that need money, and never enough money to go to the things needing it. The car repairs are vital, but expensive, and require me to take valuable time off from work—time that I’m trying desperately to save to spend with the long-distance boyfriend. There are relationships to be maintained, housework that needs to be done, payments that have to be made, doctors’ appointments that have to be attended. Everything in life is in a constant state of decay. I feel like I’m constantly trying to get rid of the ants in the kitchen, keep the car from suffering larger issues down the road, fill cavities before they become root canals.

Somewhere along the line, I became an adult before I really knew what that meant. Heck. I don’t know what it means now. All I know is that life got a lot harder, and somehow, at some point, I began to feel more alone than I ever have.

Maybe it was when I lost loved ones. Mom Mom and Carvey were the only grandparents who ever really showed any interest in me or put any time into me. Even as I got older, they didn't stop caring. I still can’t talk about either of them without turning into a big, weepy mess. And last night, I went to a rehearsal for my first play since losing Anita. It was hard, because it reminded me of her.

I hadn't realized how much I emotionally relied on them, especially Mom Mom, until they were gone. And my life just…changed. Unlike any time before in my life, I've become so fearful. I’m so afraid of everything. I’m afraid of illness, disease, traveling, pain, other people, and even myself. Suddenly, I’m not just afraid of dying—I’m afraid of living too. I’m afraid of loving, of losing, of the future.

I've never wanted to become this person. I want to live, but I feel so empty, so anxious.

I still enjoy my life. I still have fun every day. I've got the best family and friends in the world, and I’m madly in love with my boyfriend. It’s just that the loss of these loved ones left me shaky, standing on infirm ground. Somehow, my identity got wrapped up in my great grandparents, and without them, especially Mom Mom, I feel kind of lost, and terribly alone. In reality, I’m probably the least alone that I've ever been in my life…yet…there is that feeling—the feeling of standing alone, in the middle of a gray rain, not another soul in sight.

And I don’t know how to remedy that. 

The Time We Got Holes Punched Through Our Heads, and Other Adventures

I have kind of an unconventional idea about soul mates.

Like most people who believe in the concept, I used to think your soul mate was the person you marry. I still think that can be true, if you’re lucky enough. However, as I've gotten older, I've come to realize that it isn't always like that. In fact, I don’t think it’s always romantic.

I believe that you can have more than one. Throughout your life, you might meet two or three people, even, who just get you. You know those people I am talking about. You probably have someone in your mind right now. It usually happens like this:

There you were, just meandering through life, minding your own business, when one day you meet this person who you find yourself laughing with and having long conversations about everything and nothing. You don’t really think much about it at first, except that this person really understand you like no one else ever has before. You can tell this person everything, and not only will they not judge you, but they get it. They just get it. And before you know it, you just know that their soul understands yours.

I've been lucky. I have met some of mine already. In fact, I believe that my boyfriend is one of mine. But the first one, the one who has been there with me for years, is Mel. She just gets me. From the first time I met her, and we laughed and talked together over boyfriends, crushes, homeschooling, Justin Timberlake, and made way too much noise in the library—and I just knew that I had never known anyone else like her. No one else will ever understand the bond we have, so I’m not even going to try to explain it.

Instead, I will just give you one recent example. Last month, Mel and I decided to commemorate our friendship in a very permanent way. With white knuckles as we held each other’s hands, we went to a tattoo parlor and had our ears pierced together, like the badasses that we are (upper ear cartilage, folks. Not for sissies.). Not only did we feel like the baddest rebels in the world (let us have our moment here), but it was also a pact. It’s a pact to always be best friends. It’s a sign of all we've gone through and made it through together. It’s a testimony to our sisterhood, our friendship, our bond.

There is no one else I’d get a hole punched through my head for.

Happy birthday, Mary Ellen. I love you!

She Doesn't LOOK Like a Ballerina...

A photographer friend of mine has been asking me to do a ballet photo shoot with him for a while. I was ecstatic when we both finally got the chance to work together. Any chance I get to wear my pointe shoes is a good day in my book!

I LOVED how the photos turned out. He did an excellent job with the lighting and all that photography stuff that I don’t understand. And even I was so extremely pleased with how I looked in them. I felt like the ballerina that I am. And I felt skinny and pretty.

Then it began.

“She doesn't look like a ballerina… Aren't ballerinas supposed to be thinner?”

 I guess that if you have a photo shoot done, you should brace yourself for critics. And, that’s something that I didn't do. In my mind, I’m not fat anymore, and I’m also not anorexic anymore. I didn't see anything wrong with the pictures, so I never expected anyone else to either.

I was never fully anorexic, but in my teens, right after I lost all my extra weight (which was a lot), I was quite thin—almost to an unhealthy level. I went through a time where I just didn't eat. Period. Talk to my friends who were practically trying to force-feed me at school during lunch time. Talk to my mom who begged me to “just take a couple of bites.”

I got out of that. I've reached a safe and healthy weight and I’m happy with it. I even love the way I look in a Victoria’s bikini. But since the photos were done, people keep making the same comments about my size.  

And it hurts.

No seriously, it hurts. I try to keep smiling and laugh it off, pretending that it doesn't bother me, but it bothers the hell out of me. It’s as if they’re saying, “What is she doing? She’s clearly not built like a ballerina. Why should she even try? She doesn't belong there.” I mean, I know I’m curvy. I've always been large-chested, but my measurements are proportionate. I have a narrow waist. But even so, I’m not stick-straight. I’m sooooo many sizes larger than your ballerina A-cup.

  
                And it makes me feel like that fat kid again. It makes me want to throw away the bagel that I was going to have for breakfast, and the slice of pizza that I was going to have for lunch. It makes me want to starve myself all over again.

And I know that I can’t really blame it on what people say, because that isn't supposed to matter to me, right? I’m in charge of how I react to things. And I agree with that. But even I have to admit…even though I'm generally very confident about my physical appearance, this is a weak spot for me. I don’t even weigh myself anymore because that has the ability to push me over the edge back into drastic weight loss and insecurity. It’s a delicate balance.

And even more than all of this, the last “she doesn't look like a ballerina” comment came from the family member of someone I really love. And to make matters worse, I was compared to a friend who is “ballerina-size,” and I think that hurts all the more.

I guess that it kind of made me stop and think, because even though the person who related these comments to me wasn't the one who made them, and he defended me, I couldn't help but wonder, is this how he thinks this of me too? Is this how I am viewed by everyone? Is the “she’s not skinny enough” opinion the general impression of people who see me?

I don’t know. But does anyone want these bagels? I don’t want them to go to waste...

"Some Positive Effect."

 “It means a lot to know that I had some positive effect,” he said, regarding a student who informed him of the impact he had on her life as her teacher.

“Some positive effect.”

If only he knew how much of a positive effect he had on so many young lives at that tiny little college. I had seen it, the entire campus knew it. Hundreds, if not thousands of students’ lives had changed from his teachings, both inside and outside of the classroom.

But somehow, he couldn't fully see the impact he had made. I wish that for people like this instructor, that there was a way for them to see just how far their impact reached, be able to view at once, all the lives they've changed for the better.

It’s so easy to think that our jobs don’t mean much. We go about the daily grind, just performing the tasks we've always done. But somewhere, in these day-to-day exercises, words are spoken, conversations happen, choices are made, comfort is given, lives are forever altered. Most people don’t even realize it’s happened until well after.

It’s those small moments that we look back upon and say, “A wise man once told me…” and realize that it was then that we made a choice, or learned something vital. This is how we grow up and mature. And usually, we don’t realize it in time to thank the people who were responsible for those life lessons.

So, don’t ever think that you don’t mean anything. Don’t ever feel like your life is worth nothing. And please, don’t ever forget that you've changed lives. Because of you, someone didn't jump. Because of you, someone was able to stop the tears, make a decision, take another step.

Thanks, Professor. 

A Glance Across the Room

I have fallen in love with your words.

I clutched at them with grasping hands,

And hung on their every syllable,

Like honey about to drip from a spoon.

I then saw your face,

And felt your eyes looking into mine.

Your love penetrated my heart

And I knew that I had never really been loved before.

You spoke the words out loud,

And I heard them the first time from your very lips.

A little part of my soul cried,

For it had never been touched like this.

And now I wait for your arms to encircle me

As I count the days away until the distance between us

Is but a breath,

Or a glance across a room.

Choices, Choices...

There are so many things in this life that we have absolutely no control over. It can even be rather maddening when you realize just how few things you are actually in charge of. So, what can you control?

• The remote. It’s called a “remote control,” after all.
•  Who you vote off the island, Dancing with the Stars, the Amazing Race, etc. (Sadly, you have no control over The Bachelor, though.)
•  How you respond to situations.

Ahhh one of these things isn't like the other. That last one was serious. Good catch. You’re a smart one. *wink*

Personal responses are really all we can control. I've kind of been realizing this lately. I went through some situations recently that caused me to panic. It took me weeks to realize that I could actually control when I panicked and that I didn't have to if I didn't want to. I am in charge of my emotions, not the other way around.

In the same way, I’m in charge of my own happiness. We often say, “you make me so happy!” or “pizza makes me happy.” This is true. These things can lead to happiness, but at the end of the day, I am the only person who is able to decide when I am happy. So, I've been learning how to be happy for others, even when my first response might be a less-desirable emotion. I've been learning how to choose happiness for myself too.

Love is kind of the same thing. Contrary to fairy tale ending, follow-your-heart preaching, love is a choice. It’s not just the warm fuzzy feelings. Those are important too. But those don’t last. I've watched relationships close to me go through horrible changes and absolute destruction, only to hear the involved parties tell each other that they still loved each other, even if they didn't feel like they did.

At first, this was kind of shocking. I mean, no one wants to lose that romance. I still think it’s important to hang onto that and try to keep it alive. But even if it goes out, the most important thing is that the initial love is still there.

It’s a choice. It’s a choice to get up in the morning and pray for him. It’s a choice to take care of him when he’s sick. It’s a choice to want his well-being over yours. It’s a choice to rejoice with his success. It’s a choice to deny that base, sense of jealousy. It’s a choice to remain faithful. It’s a choice utter kind words that will build him up.

So today, I choose peace. I choose happiness. And most of all, I choose love. 

As If Those Moments Were Going to Go on Forever.

“Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and images of Mom Mom play through my brain. I see her shuffling through the house on those last days. She just went about her day, a little slower than before, but other than that, just the same. It was really cool to watch her live those moments, as if those moments were going to go on forever.”

As if those moments were going to go on forever.

Those words echoed over and over in my head. I was already crying on the phone as I talked to my mom. It hadn't been a particularly hard day, but I had awakened that morning and my first thought was to pray for Mom Mom. And then, I remembered. Any time Mom Mom is my first thought, and I have to remind myself that she’s gone, somewhere along in the day, I’ll end up in tears. 

I've been having a bit of a hard time lately. It’s been various things, but my boyfriend, my best friend, and my mom have been the best and strongest people in my life, because they've listened to all of my worries, my rants, my irrational fears, my spiritual troubles, and (as with this conversation) my tearful confessions.

But amidst all of my little problems, the spiritual battle that I've been facing lately, and my lack of faith and belief, I was reminded last night of something so important.

As if those moments were going to go on forever.

                Isn't that how we are supposed to live? I've been letting my worries and my own personal issues disrupt my life, at least mentally. I've been placing today’s concerns upon tomorrow, and worrying about the future. We were never meant to live that way. Here I am, 25, in perfect health, letting little things eat away at my peace. Yet, there was my great grandmother, well into her 90s, and on her very last days, she wasn't worried. She wasn't fretting about what would happen to her, what she would be doing tomorrow. No. She was shuffling back and forth from her bedroom and her living room, in her pajamas, waiting for the next PBS special to come on. She was giving me bridge toll, as if it was simply a normal visit and nothing had ever changed—as if nothing would ever change.

Was it denial? Not at all. She knew she was dying. She just didn't care. She still had life, so she was living it.

I cried. I cried so hard last night. Big, gasping sobs. I am inspired by how Mom Mom lived. But it doesn't mean that I don’t miss her every single day.

“How long does it take to stop hurting?” I asked my mom.

“Sometimes it takes a long time,” she replied. “I tried to prepare you,” she said, her voice trailing off.

I nodded, but she couldn't see it. “I know,” I said. “I just didn't want to believe it.”

It’s been 6 months and I’m still learning how to deal. But I guess more importantly, I’m still learning how to live.

This Time, I Want to Do It Right

This time, I want to do it right.

I want to trust you so perfectly

That I’ll never doubt you.

I want to believe in you

More than I believe in myself.

I want to love you in such a way

That if nothing else, I can at least say

That I loved you as perfectly

As this imperfect person can.

I want to think about your needs

So much that I put them above my own.

I want to consider you

Before I consider myself.

I want you to be free.

I want you to dance and live

As you always have.

I just want to dance with you.

I want us to find God together,

Pray together,

Read together,

Love God more than we love each other.

This time I want to do it right.

The Mystical Stuff

This is a blurb from my current story:

“I don’t understand the mystical stuff,” he said pensively.

“I wasn't raised on fairy tales or fantasy. I don’t dabble in the mysterious or the haunting. I never believed in soul mates or that love is predestined. Yet, I can’t help this persistent feeling that no matter where you were in the world, and no matter where I was, even far away from you, that if anything happened to you, I’d know. Because you are so much more than just a girl. You are the smoke that curls and vanishes in the wind. You’re here with me now, but you could slip away at any second. You’re nothing like other people. You’re ethereal, a shadow of a human. You have the shape and form of a woman, yet, I fully believe that you are something else entirely. You are Victorian; you are haunting; you are beautiful. You are strong and fragile at the same time. I rest in your strength, yet I am hesitant to even hold your hand or stroke your face for fear that I might damage your perfect visage. If anything ever separated us, whether it was time or distance or death or another life entirely, I’d tear away at the fabric of time. I’d charge through the distance. I’d defeat death. I’d conquer life. Nothing could keep me from you. It’s a strange, strange magic, this power you have over me. But I've never felt or experienced anything like it in my life, and the more I have of it, the more I crave it. I dare say it will kill me in the end, but for today, I take it in like a sweet poison and I’ll never get enough."

Season of Darkness

Sometimes you just get tired. Sometimes you’re tired of being alone.

I've got lots of friends, wonderful family, and I am loved. I always feel loved. But there are days when you look around the house and you miss family. Friends come to visit, and then they leave. I never feel lonely until they leave. I have the world’s best roommates, but we each live our individual lives, and the house is empty a lot.

Winter is a season of darkness. As long as I can remember, my memories of winter are shaded in different hues of gray. I don’t know if I’m vitamin D deficient, or in need of one of those fancy sunlamps, but I've always thought of winter as being almost the equivalent of darkness. Even the sunny days feel dark somehow.

The car, my beloved Betsy, is a source of a lot of worry these days. I feel like every single time I go to start her, something else is wrong. Lately, it has been every single time: bumpers, cracked windshield, wiper motor…

Get it together, Betsy.

But seriously, friends ask why I don’t just buy a new car. They haven’t seen my bank account. They don’t know my loan repayments each month. I wish they would just stop suggesting it. It isn't going to happen. It actually kind of hurts my feelings.

And here’s the really stupid thing. Every time something bad happens to the car, it feels like I’m losing Mom Mom all over again. Betsy was a gift to me from my great grandmother. She’s gone now, and I guess that in my mind, I've sort of come to see the car as all I've got left from her. In a way, the car represents Mom Mom.

I cried like a baby when I skidded on ice and for the first time in my life, had a bit of a car accident a few weeks ago. I felt like I had let my great grandmother down. I know that you’re not supposed to put this much care and love into a car, a material possession, but I can’t help it. Mom Mom was the only grandparent I've had who was there with us kids for our entire lives, who cared enough to make time for us, to see us, to love us. I mean, I had 25 years with her. That’s a long time.

So, I haven’t let go. Instead, I've put all of my grief into this car, this hunk of metal and (from the way the front bumper shattered with only 8 mph impact) plastic.

I guess that I’ll slowly figure this all out. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not a declaration that my life sucks, because it doesn't. I’m just tired. I’m still grieving. And some days, I just come to the realization that I’m far from the people I love most, and I have to do this on my own.