Death to Perfection

Whenever I come up with a new idea for a project, I take about a day to dream about it, and then the next day, I do it.

I hear so many brilliant, creative people say that they’re going to write their screenplay, or their novel, to start their business “someday.” But someday is today.

I used to think like that too. I used to believe that I wasn’t quite capable yet of whatever it was that I wanted to accomplish, because I wanted it to be perfect. But my great grandmother wrote me a little poem once that said, “Count that day lost, when the low-descending sun views from thy hand, no worthy action done.”

That verse changed my life. Every day should contain at least one worthy action, and that probably looks different for everyone—but for me, I often think of it when it comes to my work and writing. Every day, I want to move at least one step forward in whatever it is I’m working on.

Perfection is what holds us back. Perfection kills creativity. Perfection puts to death the ability to ever take a step forward.

So I killed perfection. If you read my first drafts, they’re raw. If you took a look at some of my murder mysteries, they’re kind of rough. My visual novel contains mistakes, glitches, and errors that an advanced programmer would never make.

But I made something.

As long as you begin, and as long as you finish what you started, you can always refine it later. Just don’t stop working on it because it isn’t perfect or because it doesn’t match what is in your head. Nothing in this world will ever be perfect.

Let me say that again for the people in the back:

NOTHING IN THIS WORLD WILL EVER BE PERFECT.

So stop trying to make it perfect.  If you aim for perfection, you are destined to fail. If you aim to do your best, and make the best product that you’re capable of at that moment, you’re going to succeed.

If you just go ahead and begin, you’re already leaps and bounds ahead of those who say they’re going to make their dreams come true “someday.”

Swallowing my Stress: The Last Year and a Half

“You don’t seem to understand,” I told our mortgage broker. “If we don’t get this house this week, we won’t have anywhere to live…”

The young man smiled beguiling at me and spoke in a “there-there” fashion. “I promise you, it’ll all be worth it in the end.”

“No,” I assured him. “It will not. It’s actually been making me sick…”

Looking back a year and a half ago, I remember when it all started. The stress from buying the house was immense. I’ve always internalized my stress and tried to just swallow it down, deep inside of me, hoping that if it wasn’t visible to the rest of the world, then I’d have a fighting chance of beating it. But this time, it was difficult…

Our beautiful 1932, historic house was a dream come true. The first time I saw it; I just drove by and noticed the gorgeous sunroom that jutted off to the side. I knew what I would do with that room. It would be my study. It would be my writing room. It would be my inspiration. My novel would be written there. Then, our realtor took us to look at it and it was as beautiful on the inside as I had imagined. Original hardwood floors, pre-war glass windows, and “diamond door knobs” as my father called the clear glass knobs with original locks that can only be opened with skeleton keys.

We were in love. But then we decided to buy it, and all hell broke loose.

I won’t go into all the problems that we had with an archaic system that assumes the man has the better credit, or the three times they pushed back our closing date, which almost led to homelessness. What I will mention, though, is the fact that the law firm we were working with as our mediator for all paper-signing, lost our earnest deposit check.

I do have to admit, though, that we did something we never should have—so this one may be kind of on us. We were asked to send our earnest deposit check by taking a photo of it and sending it to the law firm. We had done that before with another house that we almost bought, and we were assured multiple times that this is how it’s usually done in the industry. It seemed… normal, especially in this digital day and age.

We don’t know exactly what happened, but I woke up one Saturday morning and looked at our bank account, and it was wiped clean. Nothing was left. The money we had been saving for the new house was just…gone. Further inspection revealed a check we had never written… yet from the photo that the bank provided, I recognized it as the check we used for our earnest deposit.

We went through all the usual channels in order to get the money back, and the bank was extremely helpful, but by the time it was put back in the account, the hacker had re-used the check by “whiting out” the old information and putting in different information… but this time, she used her real name. I did some significant online snooping and found someone by that name, who lived nearby, and for other reasons I won’t mention here, I was about 98% certain I had found the thief. We filed a case with the police and gave them all the information, but they never did anything about it. It wasn’t important enough for them to investigate—but it was important to us. In the span of about 4 days, our account had been wiped clean twice.

For anyone who has bought a house before, you know that the one thing they tell you not to do is close or open any new bank accounts. It looks like fraud. But, we had no choice but to close the hacked account. That started the real problem. We suddenly had to tell our mortgage people every single purchase we had made in the last 3 months, and every purchase we would continue to make. Every single thing had to be sent to them in a long running list. It was a hassle.

While the bank account debacle was definitely the worst part of our stress during that time, there were quite a few other things that did not go well. I won’t go into those right now, because they involve other people and it’s not my place to mention them, but it was around this time that I realized one night that I wasn’t able to swallow anymore.

Not food. Not liquids. And at some times, not even my own saliva. Something wasn’t right…

I went to a few doctors. I saw a therapist. But nothing seemed to help. I chalked it up to stress, but the stress of not being able to eat or drink stressed me out more than anything else.

But time doesn’t stop for you to recover. I still had to go to work. I still had to go through the house-buying process. I still had to live my life. I just had to live it in starvation and thirst.

As time ticked by, I started to be able to eat again a little, but by that time, I had lost 25 lbs. I told everyone that it was because I was dieting. That was somewhat true, because I had been dieting before the swallowing issue started, so some of the weight-loss was intentional. But the last 10 or 15 lbs were not.

Eventually, food became easier, but liquids did not. If I took a sip bigger than half a teaspoon’s worth, I’d choke just trying to put it in the back of my throat. It just wouldn’t go down. I’d have to fight with my own throat in order to power any liquids down. Thicker liquids were better, and sometimes I could eat an apple and feel somewhat refreshed. But for about a year and a half, I was dehydrated. I craved water like nothing else. To this day, when I see someone tip up a glass to take a drink, I watch them intently, wishing that I could do the same.

Finally, I got fed up and went back to my doctor. He ran me through a round of tests: a scope down my nose into my stomach and the dreaded Barium swallow. I’ll never forget that one. I could barely finish that test, but once I was finally done, a very terrified-looking nurse in training took me aside and whispered, “I have the exact same problem,” and then hurried frightfully away. I felt for her. I don’t know why, but there is something about swallowing issues that feel—embarrassing, as if it should be something that you should just be able to force yourself to do.

For 6 months the doctor had me on a regiment of allergy and acid reflux medications. And to be honest, it actually has kind of helped. I began to eat fully again, and as weird as this is going to sound, I was able to drink water from a water fountain. There is something about taking in water that way that is easier than using a cup or a bottle. I still wasn’t able to drink properly, but at least I could go to a water fountain (or stick my head under a running sink) and quench my thirst for the first time in about 18 months.

At the last appointment with my doctor, he told me that I suffer from sever acid reflux due to extreme stress—the stress that began with buying the house, was intensified by the major house repairs we had to do (that’s another story, though), and any other stress that I encounter.

I still have bad days, where if work has been particularly stressful, or I fight with a family member or someone, suddenly I find myself unable to eat. But generally after a few days (and a few pounds dropped), I’m able to eat again.

What I really miss is being able to just drink properly from a cup. Every little sip of a liquid is a fight. I have to take 3 swallows just to ingest a small mouthful of water. The doctor says that the damage that the acid reflux left in my esophagus will take time to be repaired, so it’s hard to say when—if ever, I’ll be able to drink normally again. The best I can do now is try to rest, relax, and not get so worked up about life.

Easier said than done, of course, but for me, I’ve already decided on what my New Year’s resolution will be. I’m going to take life a little slower. I’m going to stay home more. I’m going to spend time with my husband. I’m going to welcome my loved ones into my home—but I’m probably not going to be running around as much as I did in 2018.

I just need to heal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find a water fountain…

Candy in My Pocket

I once read an article about the woman who played Anakin’s mother in the Star Wars movies. She said that being a part of the films was like carrying around a piece of candy in her pocket. On the hard days, she can take it out and enjoy it. To her, just the memory that she had been a part of something like Star Wars, was enough to lift her out of whatever depressing situation that came her way.

My “imaginary friend” has always been that way for me. He’s the bit of “candy” in my pocket. Even now as a grown woman, he’s still there. He was the playmate of a friendless little girl, and the man who formed my idea of what manhood should be. I don’t understand him. He’s just always been one of those miracles you just accept. But he’s always been a bit of comfort on a rainy day.

It’s rained a lot lately. Figuratively.

Most of you know by now, but our toilet decided to give up the ghost on December 26^th, leaking into the kitchen. Since then, our house has been in medias res. Christmas presents are where we left them… There is still a (presumably rotting) ham left in the fridge where we forgot to eat it… And the house has started to smell like 1932 again. It’s weird how old houses will revert to that dusty, bookish smell when they’re left vacant.

We’ve been living in a hotel room since then, and I’m just homesick. I want to go home. Of course, we do go to the house… but it’s not the same. If you have to use the bathroom, you have to drive down to Kroger…or you know…do it bucket-style. I’m not that good at roughing it.

Brentton and I have both been under a lot of stress since the plumbing issue. People keep asking us when we’ll be back in the house, and the truth is, we don’t know. All the red tape, all the insurance problems, all the times I’ve spent trying to trick our blockhead insurance adjuster into picking up our calls has just led us feeling lifeless and sad.

Just sad. There’s no other word for it.

Even work, one of my most favorite things has left me feeling useless. I adore my job and where I work, but somehow the lethargy of my outside life has seeped into my work life. I just feel unneeded some days. As displaced as I feel at home, it’s beginning to feel that way in other areas of my life too.

But then, God.

It’s always “but then God.” He’s the hope that lifts me out of the moorland where I’ve landed in some sort of bog. He’s got strange ways of picking me up, too. I’ve always believed the “imaginary friend” was one of his ways of picking me up. As a child, this friend had been my beautiful boy. But one day, in one of those amazingly-realistic dreams, I was told to choose between something imaginary, and something real. I chose the real, and that was where Brentton came in.

After that, the dreams changed a bit. My “friend” became just that: a friendly, familiar face in my dreams…and that’s where he stays.

A few nights ago, my imaginary friend and I went to a concert together. Of course, it was a dream, but it didn’t feel like one. They are always the most logical, realistic dreams I have ever had. If I didn’t know better, I could swear that they’re some sort of alternate reality. And even though I’m not too much of a concert-goer, it just felt so logical to be hitching a ride together, my friend and me, to a concert in some bustling city. We fought for parking and came to the concert late. It all just felt so… real.

Of course, it can’t be. I always wake up, and tell Brentton all about my excursions. He’s the best listener. I’m thankful for the real parts of my life—the concrete. But at the same time, there is something to be said for the imaginary, the magical, the little parts of life that make you hope, that make you believe in things just outside what might be for the moment, the rainy bog of reality.

I don’t need the imaginary all the time… just sometimes, when I need to carry a little piece of candy in my pocket.

The Good Liars

The hard thing about liars… good liars… is that you never really see the lies coming. Granted, no one can really cover up a lie forever. I believe that the Achilles heel of lies is the fact that at some point, the truth will come out.

But the worst part is that it’s generally the people closest to you who can cut you to pieces in just a single moment of, “Well actually, I never told you…but…” Because, the people who we pass in our everyday lives, our coworkers, our acquaintances, they don’t have the power to hurt us like our loved ones do. Even if they did lie to us, we either wouldn’t care, or would never find out.   

For the people called, dare I say, pathological liars, one lie leads to another, and another, until you’ve found out that the person you’ve trusted for so long has been telling you falsehoods over a long period of time. It might have started out easily enough. Perhaps this friend or relation just wanted to protect you from something he/she thought would hurt you. But then, the lie got a bit deeper… Eventually it’s too deep for even the liar to carry around.

And that is when the world comes crashing down.

“Who are you?”

“How have I not known these things about you for so long?”

“How could you have willingly deceived me?”

Crash.

The delicate glass foundation that you thought was made of faith, is actually made of lies, and there it is broken right in front of you. It just lays there, shattered and unable to be mended…

At least, for now…

But how the hell do you come back after that? What do you do? Do you just leave that person, never to return? Do you just choose to keep trusting them, picking yourself back up with each new revelation as lies reveal themselves over time?

I have no idea. With the revelation of each new lie, I find it hard to be glad of the newfound honesty. I just feel bled dry, each time the Band Aid is peeled off slowly—hurt again and again and again by what should have been said so long ago.

I deserve the truth.

Weird Questions People Ask Newlyweds

Question Number 1:

When Brentton and I got engaged, the question I heard the most was, “When are you going to have kids?”

This was a funny question to me, because we had only just gotten engaged—not married. Most of the questions came from my deeply religious friends too, who are proponents of only having children after marriage, so I found it amusing that they asked so early.

Since then, it’s slacked off a bit, but I still get it from time to time. A couple of mornings ago at a meeting, a coworker asked me if I had started thinking about kids yet. I tried to briefly answer and then wave away the question, but she continued with: “You know how that happens, right?” with a little gleam in her eye. I replied with the answer I’ve been waiting to use: “Actually, can you explain to me how that happens?”

Luckily for me, she found it hilarious. The others at the table squirmed a little though.

I don’t really mind the question much anymore, because even though children aren’t on the radar for my husband and myself, I’m a strong believer that if God wants something to happen, it’ll happen. I mean, the Bible is filled with you’re-totally-going-to-have-a-surprise-baby stories.

But what bothers me about the child questions is that most of the time, it come from well-meaning, almost-strangers. What if my husband and I are not able to have children? They would have no way of knowing this, and their questions would be painful. I have friends who have had horrible trouble conceiving, and not being able to have a child is the most painful thing in the world to them. Questions like that just rub more salt in the wound.

The other side of the coin is that having children is a deeply-personal thing. Now, I know that we live in a very sexually-liberated time, but I’m still squeamish at being asked about my… *clears throat awkwardly* …reproductive intentions. I mean,, when people ask about children, they’re thinking of cute kids with curls and blue eyes. But often when I hear the question, it just sounds more like, “So…are you and your husband…you know, doing it?” Speaking of which…that brings me to the next question…

Question Number 2:

Possibly more awkward than question number one, is the straight up question of… “So…how was it?” usually accompanied by a wink and a nudge. For some reason, people are extremely interested in a new couple’s sex life. I don’t mind discussing things with my close girlfriends when I feel like venturing information, but it’s just awkward to be asked that. It puts you on the spot, and you aren’t just discussing something about yourself, but about your partner as well. The privacy of two people is involved.

Question Number 3:

The frequency with which I receive this one is actually astonishing. People ask me one of two versions of this question:

1: “Don’t you ever feed your husband?”

2: “You feed him too much!” 

First of all…I don’t spoon-feed this guy. He’s a grown man and he operates the fork on his own. We eat normal meals every day and he eats until he’s full … like you know … a normal human. He makes his own choices about what he eats or doesn’t eat. I’m not in charge of that. There are some days when he’s hungrier than others, and some days when he’s not hungry at all. But no matter who is doing the cooking, he has the ultimate choice of what goes in his body.

Bonus Question:

“What do you do with your time?”

I’m not even going to pretend on this one. In our household there is a lot of cuddling, piggy-back rides (he’s tall, so it’s an experience), and just sitting and talking together. People always talk about how the first year of marriage is about getting to know your spouse, and it is. If you’ve always lived separately before you were married, it’s great fun to go to bed together every night and wake up together too. It’s nice to have someone to share meals with, especially if the last several years, you always ate alone.

We pretty much just spend our time together, and it’s wonderful. The evenings and weekends fly by because we’re just enjoying our togetherness. It might not sound very productive, and it probably isn’t, but it’s an investment in another person and a relationship, so it’s always worthwhile. 

Falling on Deaf Ears

I’m a listener.

I like to listen. I’m good at listening. So many of my relationships are based upon that fact. I have many people who pour out their day to me, their thoughts, their troubles, etc. I love that. I love being a safe space. Everything they tell me is in confidence and it’ll stay that way. I want to always be that for them, especially for my close friends.

But I feel like listening is a two-way act of mutual respect. And sometimes, the other person needs to talk too. Unfortunately, there aren’t many other listeners out there. Granted, I have amazing friends and family who DO listen. But, many times in general day-to-day life, I end up being run over in conversations. Many times when I try to change the conversation or pour out something that’s important to me, it gets ignored. The person I’m talking to plows through with his or her own thoughts and concerns, and leaves my words in the dust.

I shouldn’t have to be at my rope’s end to feel like someone is listening. I should be able to talk about everyday things. I should be able to explain why the change at my job has affected my life, my thoughts on a good vacation spot, my ideas about an upcoming event.

Today I went to a book discussion and I found myself amazed when the professor leading the discussion made eye contact with me, took in what I said, and then replied. She wasn’t just waiting for me to finish so that she could go on with something she had been waiting to say. She genuinely wanted to know my thoughts and hear what I had to say too. I was surprised by how much this took me by surprise.

Everyone has a deep need for communication. I’ve met so many very outgoing people who complain that their friends don’t reach out enough to them. I understand that, but these are the same people who when are reached out to, only reply in emojis. For anyone who’s a bit old fashioned, like myself, this isn’t enough to make someone want to reach out.

I realized that this rare trait of genuine and complete communication was what made me fall in love with my husband. In my wedding vows to him, I told him that he was the first person I ever met who I thought really listened to me. So many other people may have heard me, but he listened.

Every message I sent to him, he replied back to, touching on every point I made. He’s the best, most unselfish communicator I’ve ever met, and that was what I fell in love with. I just wish that more people understood the give and take of a conversation. 

Sometimes "Normal" is a Compliment

It’s funny to think of the little things that cement a relationship.

For example, I knew that Brentton was going to be my husband when we were on our first in-person date. We were in Toys R Us (yes, I know) in the Lego section and I started to sing, “Darkness…” and he finished with “No parents.” And as silly as that Lego Movie reference sounds, it really turned the tide for me.

Brentton said that he knew I was the one for him when we were still long-distance dating. During one of our instant-message type conversations, I told him that I could handle him. In the moment, I actually felt kind of silly saying it…but I knew I had to say it. It was almost as if I was being told to say it. To me, it didn’t mean all that much, but to Brentton, who had been told by countless ex-girlfriends that they couldn’t “handle” his emotions or “handle” his personality, being told “I can handle you,” was something he had never heard before.

In the same way, Brentton gave me a completely different kind of compliment one day when he told me that he liked me because I was “so normal.” That sort of stopped me in my tracks for a moment. I had never been called “normal” before. If you had asked me before that moment if the word “normal” was complimentary, I would have shrugged and said no. But, for some reason, when it first met my ears, I loved it.

I realized that I had always been considered a bit of a class clown by my non-theatre friends, and by my family, “a drama queen,” as my brother likes to call me. So many people had pointed out my differences, but no one had ever identified with me enough to call me “normal.”

I guess after you’ve spent your life feeling different from everyone, it’s nice to find someone who is just as different as you are, who finds those differences to be well…normal.

When you’re in these moments, they don’t always strike you as turning points, but later when you’ve had time to reflect, you realize that those are the moments that changed everything. Those are the moments where you’ll look back some day and realize it was your Donna Noble, “Turn Left” moment (a little nerdy reference for you Whovians out there).

They Don't Teach You Much in Marriage Class

They don’t teach you much in marriage class.

They poke and prod at your finances,

And ask if you’ve got all the right answers, I guess you’ll pass.

What they don’t tell you, could fill an entire book.

Like when it comes to sex,

If you’re inexperienced, will you even know where to look?

Okay, that was hyperbole,

But let’s be serious.

Everything changes, quickly.

It’s hard to explain why you’re busy all the time.

But you’ve made a new life for yourself and

You have another human to keep in mind.

Your apartment is tiny.

It’s not like the place you used to entertain.

Back then you didn’t even know the definition of tiny.

Your friends expect things to stay the same.

I guess you did too,

But it really is in vain.

Because things have changed.

It’s really for the better,

But your whole life is rearranged.

New place,

New man,

Cramped space.

But I need YOU as much as ever.

I’m still the girl who you’d call

To tell stories and whatever.

I still need you to ask me how I am at a long day’s end,

Because I still get lonely sometimes

And I really hope that you can remember an old friend.

My Ghost

My Ghost

By Abigail Shaffer

I am pursued

By the ghost

Of a man who never died.

His voice I hear

In my dreams—

He calls.

His face I’ve known

Since I was old enough

To draw.

Once I was told to choose

Between him,

And reality.

But I bet you will

Never guess

What I chose. 

Building Castles

Building Castles

By Abigail Shaffer

She despises him, because she once loved him so much.

She hates, because it’s the other half of love.

He’s spent his time arguing with a man in the sky,

Swearing loudly that he does not exist.

In the meantime, she’s been busy building her world,

Putting into practice the dreams they started together.

But it doesn’t matter to him. He’ll begin anew.

He takes another draft

of comfort and says he’ll try again tomorrow.

But it’s too late.

The years fly by and his time is half over.

What will become of a man who shakes his fists at the sky,

And hides away his talents from the wind?

It's 2017. How Does Sexism Still Exist?

How does sexism still exist? When as a woman, will I feel like I am completely of value to people?

A few months ago, before Brentton and I married, we were trying to find someone to give us pre-marital counseling (usually required by the person who officiates) and to marry us. We went to this one guy, and I just left with a sick feeling in my stomach. The man had not only pitted Brentton and I against each other with his questions, but he paid me almost zero attention the whole time. And once we told him we don’t have any plans for children right now, he shut down towards me completely, as if I was solely to be blamed for that decision.

Brentton and I walked out fighting, and we both realized that this man had done more harm than good. I don’t think a counselor is supposed to START fights. I know sometimes that information they dig up and be the source of some contention, but the way he did it was downright malicious.

Then, there was last night. We went to a financial planner who had been recommended to us. All week I had this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I thought about it. This, in the past, has ALWAYS meant, “GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” yet, I don’t think I’ve ever listened to it once. Lol I felt like it would be good to get the opinion of a professional, on our finances as we are starting out.

Well. This woman had no interest in me. At all. She shook hands with me when we walked in, and then turned to Brentton and said, in a long, drawing voice, “Hellllloooooooo!”

I’m a girl. I know flirting when I see it.

Anyway, we sat down with her for two hours and talked about jobs and money and 401Ks. And I mean, sometimes she looked in my direction and asked me what she had to, but for the most part, she just talked to Brentton. When she asked him about his job, she asked him dozens of questions. So many, that I thought we would never move on. When she got to me, she asked where I worked…and then it was back to Brentton. That was it.

She even asked us questions that I felt would be better directed towards a single person, than a married couple. She kept asking questions that not only pitted us against each other, but that made it sound like our financial life together was a contest. The questions were things like, “Which of you is better at saving.” I mean, no matter what, someone comes out as the “winner” here. In our relationship we are VERY similar in how we deal with money, it’s one of the best things about our partnership. Yet, here we were, feeling like we were in a contest against each other.

By the end of the night, I was so angry. I had been slighted before by men, and treaded like I was a second-rate human. I’ve even been treated as the little home-maker, housewife before…but I have never been so treated by another woman. How can a woman treat another woman so badly? Has feminism taught her nothing? Does she honestly believe men are superior to women, with her, being a woman herself?

Sure, she could just be an absolute (fill-in-the-blank), and was openly flirting with my husband right in front of me, but I got the definite feeling that there was more to it than that. She didn’t think my contribution to the family was worth it. She didn’t care about my benefits or my income, or how this would affect me. She just cared about the man sitting there. As the woman, I was an afterthought.

P.S. If all you took from this was that we don’t want children, then YOU are part of the problem. 

If You Lived in a Jane Austen Book

If you lived in a Jane Austen book:

You would probably have lots of sisters.

You would be proposed to by your cousin (apparently not too gross back then), although you are not his first choice.

Either your mother, or your father would have a “complaint of the nerves” or a “delicate constitution” which will dictate everything in your life.

You should not trust the first handsome man you meet. Wait for the second.

If you’re over the age of about 27, you’re an “old maid,” and are obviously too old to find love. You must keep house for your widowed father now.

You will meet a dashing man in the militia, who you will think is the noblest man you will ever meet, however, he will undoubtedly turn out to be a complete scoundrel.

If a man is detestable to you early on, either because of his advanced age, or his sense of pride—hold out. He’s about to get really sexy.

Although your family might be considered middle class, or even poor, because your father is not a gentleman, you will still have servants and a house with a name that includes the word “manor” or “estate.”

Your younger sister will run off to live with an absolute scoundrel who used to be in love with you. He will ruin her reputation, soiling forever the good name of your entire family.

As the old adage goes, if he’s making fun of you, it’s because he likes you. In the same way, if he believes you are “not handsome enough to tempt” him, it’s because you’re TOTALLY handsome enough to tempt him.

Escaping Alice's Wonderland

This time of year, in the cold of winter, the cobblestone streets of downtown Annapolis might make you think you’ve stepped into a Charles Dickens’ story. There is something about the charm of the old town that whisks you into another world.

Another such world is Mission Escape, located at 40 West St. Annapolis (missionescaperooms.com/annapolis). As an avid escape room fan, I was ecstatic to be offered the opportunity to test out their newest room. I was even more thrilled when I found out that the room I would be trying to escape from was modeled after one of my favorite childhood classics: Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carrol.

As an avid reader and writer, I appreciate the literary themes in the lobby, which includes many subtle nods to different classic novels. The walls are covered in old books, there is a hall of mirrors, a gorgeous copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland sits on a side table, and gracing the hallway is a hilarious cutout of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

The Alice in Wonderland room is like stepping into the story itself. At first, when you enter, you are awed by the beauty of it. Green grass, shrubbery, and crawling ivy are everywhere. The large, gorgeous roses are reminiscent of the Queen’s croquet lawn from the book, giving the whole room the feeling of being outdoors. And of course, the whole place is utterly filled with pieces from the book, from paper machete characters up on the walls, to the Cheshire Cat’s hookah, and many other elements that would be too much of a spoiler to tell.

As for the gameplay, I can describe it in one word: challenging. The entire room is based upon observation. If you take a moment to walk through the room and just look at everything first, it will help you understand how all the clues fit together as you go along. All of the clues require critical thinking, but everything you need to succeed is right there at your fingertips. However, if you need a little extra help, they offer unlimited hints. At the push of a button, you can talk to someone who will give you just a little nudge in the right direction.

What if Alice in Wonderland really isn’t your thing? Well then, you’re in luck, because they offer three other amazing rooms, with a wide variety of themes from the Military room, to the Black and White room, and then to the one I’m going to try next: the Edgar Allan Poe room.

So the big question is: Did we escape?

No. Sadly we did not. Thankfully, however, one of the employees stepped in after our time ran out and showed us that we were only one clue away from escaping. I’ve only ever done escape rooms with my husband, and I’m pretty sure that if we did them with more people, that we’d escape faster. The Alice in Wonderland room allows for up to 7 people, so feel free to bring some friends!

So over all, do I recommend the Alice room? I do, 100%. I think you’ll find it thrilling, challenging, and breathtakingly beautiful. Have fun!

My "First" Wedding

Dear friend,

Years ago, you told me I would be playing the bride in a murder mystery play that you had written, and you handed me a frothy, white dress to try on. You gave me a veil and a bouquet, and I wore a big, sparkly ring on my finger.

One of my good friends played the groom, and my wedding party was made up of my theatre friends. The tables were decked out every night with purple flowers, beautiful tablecloths and glasses. There were party favors at every plate. The food was delicious, and one of the greatest delights of my life was eating wedding cake every night for three weekends in a row.

There were little dinner mints, those folded paper wedding bells, and everything a girl could ask for at her wedding. It was perfect. I bought you an orchid corsage to wear on the last night. A small way to thank you, I know. But it was all I could think to do at the time.

Now, my own real-life wedding is fast approaching. My heart is sad when I think that you, and others who have passed on, won’t be able to physically be there with me. But I swear, you live on in my heart every day.

As I’ve been planning,  I remember how you made my “first wedding” so memorable, and I find myself not needing all the frills this time. I don’t know if you knew this, because you were doing it all for the sake of the show, but you gave me my big white wedding.  Thank you. And I know that this time around, you’ll still be there somewhere.

I’ll save a place for you.

Abigail 

Not Everyone Likes Pizza

This is an example of the type of wedding
we will not be having.

The older I get, the more I realize I don’t know. For example, I didn’t know that a wedding would bring out the worst in so many people—including myself. I told myself that brides get stressed during wedding planning because they were planning those creampuff weddings with brocade chairs and overdone centerpiece. Surely, our little pizza party affair would be no stress at all.

Ha.

I laugh at myself now, looking back at myself 5 months earlier. People lose their minds when someone gets married. There are just so many emotions. Everyone wants to be invited; everyone wants to have their flavor of cake; and oddly enough, few people think pizza is a wedding food. Everyone is a critic. You quickly, out of self-defense of your own ideas, snap back, or close yourself off to those prying eyes.

And I’m not saying that’s wrong, exactly. I mean, even Jesus got a little snippy when it came to wedding plans. “Woman, why do you involve me?” Jesus replied (John 2:4), when his mother asked him to help out with the little wine situation they were having*.

This is a little more like it...

On top of that, I feel like nothing in my life is stable at the moment. I’m living out of my suitcase while my things are being moved to the place where B and I will live. My job is changing, so my comfort level there isn’t what it used to be, either. I feel like my solid rocks are gone, and I’ll soon be leaving the cozy little neighborhood that I’ve called home for 4 years now, to move to a city where you have to pass several strip clubs in order to even reach our apartment.

Last week I was so worked up that I couldn’t even eat or drink. Anything I put in my mouth, I choked on. Just drinking water was a huge accomplishment for me. Anytime anyone would question me or something I said, I’d get mad that they were so easily offended. Granted, there are a lot of people who are grievously easy to offend, but that doesn’t make it my problem. I somehow adopted an attitude of “if they don’t like it, then they can just leave.”

The problem wasn't always with what I said, even, but with the way I felt in my heart. Even if I was saying something nice, sometimes I was feeling bitter. I began to startle myself. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I want to be. And then came the most shocking revelation: this isn’t who Jesus is either.

This thought hit me repeatedly in the last week, in different circumstances: “I don’t think Jesus would like this.” “I don’t think this is in the Bible.” “What would God even say about my attitude right now?” “Geez…when was the last time I even really talked to Him.”

That last one was triggered when I was complaining to a friend who I love dearly, but sadly don’t get to talk to very much. She asked a question that frankly took me off guard: “have you had the chance to pray regularly?” I was embarrassed because I realized that I really hadn’t. She encouraged me, though, and said, “The great thing, though, is you can always just jump back in.”

The thing is, though, that I’ve gotten lazy in my spiritual life. I work at a very Christian business, so I’m surrounded every day by Bible verses, sermons, and the option to go to chapel. I’ve told myself that I’m getting a daily dose of verses simply because I have to look so many up as I edit articles. Yet, this isn’t enough. I’ve lost sight of who Jesus is. I don’t really know him. I don’t always know, as the 90’s kids would put it, “WWJD.”

So, I’m reading again. I’m praying. I took some quiet time this morning, and for the first time in months, I felt peace in my chest. Now, if I could just get enough sleep each night, I’d be doing really well…

But that’s a problem for a different time. Pass the coffee.

*It is important to note that Jesus was a rare wedding guest—the type who does NOT want to put his two cents in. He was probably like, “Maybe they WANT water at their wedding.” #notjudging

The Intercession of Strangers

Sometimes I feel far from God. Not that he’s walked away, but that I, in the business and non-stop pace of my life, have walked away from Him.

Its been especially bad lately. There is so much darkness in the world. I feel like now, more than ever, with the Internet, spewing out hatred and darkness, rape and murder, that we are more aware of evil than we were ten, twenty years ago. Our minds are filled with questions: “How could someone do such a thing? What kind of person does it take to… [fill in the blank]. What if I was the victim? What makes that person do such a thing? What makes him/her different from me?”

Some days, I wake up with a cloud of darkness hanging around my head. I go about my daily life, and the hatred and sins of the world haunt me, make me afraid of people, afraid of myself.

And even closer to me and my own life, so many friends of mine, who were strong believers, now have their own doubts, or have turned away from God entirely. It’s almost become a fad to hate God, and I feel so alone.

God, where are You?

Yet, I still don’t take the time on most days to seek Him out, to just take ten minutes and focus on Him. Instead, I open yet another news story, or scroll through more mindless social media, which once brought us all together, but is now, forcing us to see the evil in our fellow man more clearly than before.

Mistrust runs my day, and fear enters my nights.

I woke up this morning with this overhanging dread again, and a migraine to accompany it. “God, why don’t you speak to me?” I said in a prayer. He has spoken to me so many other times when my heart wept the most. I have audibly heard His voice, and I know the sound of it like a baby knows the sound of his mother’s voice, even when he first emerges from the womb.

I miss you, God.

When I finally chased away my blues and the headache and came to work, one of my coworkers came to me and told me an interesting story. She had met a woman last night, later in the evening, after everyone in our department had left for the day. The woman’s name was Cindy, and she asked my coworker what department she was in, because she was a newer employee, and often on her breaks during her late shift, she would wander through our department, praying.

Then she said that she felt drawn to one office in particular. She led my coworker back to a door and placed her hands on it, saying that she most often feels God leading her to pray for the person who works behind the door.

It was my door. She’s been praying for me.

I know that God wanted me to know that. He wants me to know that even strangers who I’ve never met before pray over me—that my problems aren’t so big, or my worries so outlandish that God no longer cares.

I was reminded of verses in the Bible that talk about how the Holy Spirit intercedes for us, when we cannot or will not pray for ourselves. If the Holy Spirit prays for us, then maybe he calls others up to pray with Him. Thank you, God, for never forsaking me.

Thrift Store Score

There are few things more thrilling in life than finding a good deal. Over the years I’ve been a thrift and consignment store shopper, on the look-out for deals. I’ve found a few good things. A few years ago, I found a cute bracelet that I really liked. It was only $5,  so I bought it. Weeks later, the markings inside the bracelet revealed that it was sterling silver. It also included a jeweler’s marking. I looked that up, and found out that normally those bracelets go for about $120. I got it for $5. Win.

Since then, I’ve learned to keep a good eye out for good jewelry. I’ve been making jewelry and ravenously buying jewelry all of my life. My dad used to take me with him when he shopped for my mom, because I could spot a flawed gemstone immediately. One Christmas I actually stopped him from buying an emerald set, because one of the emeralds was cracked. The jeweler was less than thrilled.

Over the weekend, I was visiting family and friends in Maryland. As I usually do, I went to a consignment shop. While there, I took a glance at the jewelry counter and tried on various cheap, pearl rings with chipped paint. They were costume jewelry, so I decided against them. But then I saw a beautiful ring in the corner of the cabinet. It looked to be silver, with a diamond and two sapphires embedded in it. It was only $26, and fit me perfectly, so I decided to purchase it.

This morning I discovered some strange markings inside of it, and a small sapphire, which I hadn’t noticed before, embedded in the band.

How odd. Who puts a gem INSIDE the ring?

My ring, ya'll

Anyway, it took me awhile, but I tracked it down, and found out that it was a Zales engagement ring (clearly, that relationship didn’t go very well), and sells for $119.

SCORE. Let me remind you that I got it for $26.

I am by no means an expert at this, but I have a few hints on how to find a treasure among plastic fakes:

Look inside the jewelry for markings. Most commonly, you will find the 925 marking stamped inside the piece. That means it’s sterling silver, and, you can’t go wrong with silver. It’s a good metal that’ll last. It just tarnishes, so you have to clean it from time to time.

Also, look for markings like 10k, or 14k, basically any marking that includes a “k.” That tells you that the metal is gold, and the number tells you how many karats. Look for any other markings, and do a quick Google search if you can. Often if a piece is good, it’ll have a jeweler’s stamp inside of it.

Look for small, dull stones. Seriously, real jewelry often isn’t terribly flashy. The flashy, sparkly stuff is usually fake, used for bigger, cocktail-type pieces. Real gemstones (unless you’re talking about big, LARGE diamonds) are often darker in color (like real sapphires and rubies), and small, because good gems are expensive—so the smaller the piece, the more affordable it is. When I find a ring or earrings with small, dark stones, I know it’s usually a real sapphire (or ruby, or whatever).

Dead giveaways that something is fake:

•         Any sort of chipping or peeling of the metal.
•          Cloudy stones. Old fake diamonds, especially, used to cloud if you introduced them to water too often. Real stones might often be dark, but they’re seldom cloudy.
•         The metal reveals a copper-colored underside. That means whatever it was coated with (even if it was coated with silver) has rubbed off. That orange stuff on the underside is often what turns people’s fingers green.

Left Me, Left us, Left Him

No one is really going to understand,

And I don’t expect them to.

No one is really going to care,

And why should they?

But, I know why you left me.

Left us.

Left Him.

Didn’t you know that I would love you through this?

That I would be your friend no matter what you did?

No matter the choices you made?

But maybe you were smart. (You always have been.)

Maybe you knew that I loved you too much.

Maybe you were afraid that I would follow you.

And perhaps, in your heart of hearts, you still know the truth.

Maybe you were trying to protect me. (Just like you always did).

I don’t know. I guess I never will.

But I still love you.

I’m still here.

We’re still here.

He’s still here.

To an Imaginary Friend

Why do you haunt my dreams still?

I wake up and I know you've been with me all night. 

I thought imaginary friends were supposed to vanish at adulthood. 

Yet, here I am at 26, and you're still with me. 

Maybe I'm trying to resurrect the spirit of my childhood. 

If I am, I've been successful—

For every time I think of you, speak of you, and especially write of you,

There you are—in a word, a message, a picture. 

You don't fade with time as I once thought you would,

And I'm beginning to think that you are mine for life. 

Or perhaps, 

Just perhaps,

I am I yours?

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.