Shooting the Breeze with my Spirit Guide

By: JANA GREENE

SPIRIT GUIDE: “Welcome to Earth! You’ve been waiting a long time for your turn at being human! God has said LO! Tis time to exist earthside, for thouest have a lot to learn!“

ME: “You speak in King James English?”

SPIRIT GUIDE: “No. I’m just showing off. Now, there’s a lot of things you need to know to make your crazy little existence a little smoother. Let’s go over some of them. Says here that you have chosen Extreme Dysfunction under the ‘Family of Origin’ tab.”

ME: “I most certainly did not.”

SG: “Oh, but you did. We all choose each other – it’s the impetus of the Free Will Starter Pack, which has a “Memory” feature to remind you of every bad decision you made in your alcoholism.”

ME: “I’M AN ALCOHOLIC?!”

SG: …

ME: “So, you’re saying I am bad at Free Will?”

SG: * clears throat. * “No. I’m saying you are a little too good at it. Let’s continue. Now, you have all of the factory settings for all five senses, pretty standard. They are adding new senses all the time, so be sure to download your updates….OPE! I’m just seeing the Sense of Gratitude on the punch list. NICE!”

ME: “K.”

SG: “Oh! Here’s super cool feature. It’s the Response to Unmet Needs option, which has been streamlined for convenience. It’s called SCREAMING. Really, you wouldn’t think a nice girl like you could scream like that…”

ME: “Can I put Response to Unmet Needs on mute?”

SG: “You can, but I wouldn’t’ recommend it. It will just set you up for a lifetime of dismissing your unmet needs, even as an adult.”

ME: “And that’s bad?”

SG: “Usually, because you will deny you have any needs at all, while insisting on overzealously meeting the needs of everyone else – human, animal, vegetable, mineral – until you are a shred of who you used to be.”

ME: “Damn”.

SG: “And when you grow up, there’s an add-on called ‘Free Therapy,’ that allows you to sit in your car alone and cry whilst shoveling fast food down your gullet and listening to your “Crying Playlist” on Spotify. Trust me, it’s a lot more fun than it sounds. Always remember though, legit therapy is always best.”

ME: “Wait. I have a crying song list. What the hell?”

SG: “Yes. It’s superb, a real tear-jerker. You’re a little obsessed with music. And have many niche interests, which means you will know every possible thing about the Donner Party, the six wives of King Henry the eighth, the world of cheeses, beatboxing, and Venus flytraps, etc. And all of that makes you good at Jeopardy but gives you no marketable skills.”

ME: “That doesn’t sound very useful.”

SG: “Oh, it’s not. Now, this here (points to article B7 in user manual) says here you requested the Deluxe Feels Package.“

ME: “Why would I do such a thing?”

SG: “Matter of fact *SG checks inventory* Looks like you ordered a surplus of Feels. Like this is an Army surplus store amount. You were supposed to curate a well-balanced box of assorted Feels, but instead, it looks like you dumped the whole drawer upside down. Geez.”

ME: “Is Moderation installed?”

SG: “Says here it’s missing entirely.”

ME: “Why do I do the things I do. Dear GOD.”

SG” “Yeah, he’s the one who signed off on that.”

ME: “Magnificent.”

SG: “Don’t worry. I see here that you also come equipped with a great – if not janky – faith, and a twisted sense of humor. And your Gratitude add-on is a real dandy. You might even be thankful that you chose this particular all-inclusive Earthside Package. Oh, and you’re going to be really sick most of the time on your earth mission. So, make peace with that.”

ME: “Say I approved that feature, and I’ll punch you square in the face.”

SG: *Pushes glasses up on nose, thoughtfully* “You’re thinking too small. You see, your illness won’t even be about you. It’s about what a disability enables you to do to help others. Isn’t that something?!”

ME: “That’s something, alright.”

SG: “I promise, you’re going to be okay. And your brand of weird will attract other weirdos, and your Band of Weirdos will help you use every crappy thing that happens on your journey to make others feel less alone.”

ME: “How will I find my weirdos? Are there T-shirts?”

SG: “Oh, you’ll know.”

ME: “While you’re here, can you grant me three wishes?”

SG: “Ma’am, that’s a Genie…”

ME: “Oh. Doesn’t hurt to ask!”

SG: “Like I said, I’m here to guide you through a crazy little existence. I’ll be here watching over you. Me and God. It’s an adventure! Now go out and exercise that free will. Do beautiful things with it. Scream when necessary. Laugh every chance you get. Feel every single feeling without judging yourself. Go get ’em, Kiddo!”

ME: “Rah rah sis boom bah.”

SG: “That’s the Spirit!“

October 4, 2024 0

Quicksand, Lava, Dodgeball, and Modern Politics

By: JANA GREENE

I hate all the ugliness; we are seeing regarding politics right now. Is it just me, or does it seem like a whole preschool is running the world? Presidential candidates that can’t wait their turn to talk? Grown men calling names. It reminds me of the childhood games we used to play.

For instance, we Gen-ex’ers were warned about quicksand an inordinate amount, considering not one of us have ever seen quicksand in the wild.

What to do if you get stuck in quicksand was peer-reviewed, 3rd grade cannon. Because somebody’s uncle’s cousin got stuck in it for real for real and knew just what to do. All you need is a mule and a rope, and the ability to NOT panic (which disqualifies me immediately,) and who doesn’t have those lying around? Living in this political climate is fighting quicksand. We are all trying to stay still, so as not to upset the sucky mud. But got damn, it sure feels like we are going under. After getting the equivalent of a Batchelor’s Degree on the subject, one could rest easy, knowing as long as your mule was surefooted, you would be okay, except for the fact that…

THE FLOOR IS LAVA. I had one particular friend in second grade who claimed to have seen a real volcano in Baltimore (Land of Volcanos) and wanted to teach us how to escape certain vaporization using her mother’s white sofa. My friend (who said don’t worry, her mom wouldn’t mind) gave a quick and formal lecture before throwing every single cushion on the floor so that it would resemble the rock face of the volcano. To escape the liquid fire, we must all be so careful not to fall on the floor, er, lava. We were training in earnest before my friend’s mother came in, notices five barefoot little girls jumping across her good furniture, and did her best impression of Pele, Hawaiian Goddess of Fire. We sacrificed ourselves to the goddess by wading into the lava to fix her sacred volcano. But that brings us to the most dangerous, politic-resembling childhood game of all:

Dodgeball, baby. The premise of dodgeball, for you who were born after the 70’s, early 80’s, was to bodily injure your opponent by throwing a hard, red rubber ball at your thigh until it makes a BOINK! noise that reverberates thorough a tri-county area and knocks you clean off your feet. This is actually the closest I’ve ever come to being an athlete. Nobody in my whole school knew who I was, UNTIL dodgeball, and then I was a favorite literal target. Politicians are pretty much playing Dystopian Earth Dodgeball, which is when you don’t even need a physical ball to win. BOINK! from sea to shining sea, until nobody is standing, and everyone hates each other.

So, in conclusion, my opinion is that we are all in quicksand, and it’s sucking us down – lowest common denominator-style. Bit by bit, second by second, until we are at the end of the rope, up to our eyeballs in utter bullshit, unable to have a voice. And if ever the floor has ever been lava, it’s now. As far as the eye can see, Pele is still spewing. We teeter and totter on our little rocks, afraid falling in would amount to our demise, all while The Man makes it impossible to stand. To my spirit, the last several years has felt like I’m in a State Championship Dodgeball Tournament. Chaos. Lines being formed – not to include us, but to destroy us, one BOINK at a time. My “dodging” game is a mess, but the balls keep coming. THEY JUST KEEP COMING.

God bless us all, what a mess. People with the mental and emotional maturation of children are begging for our votes. Children teaching children, again, just like 3rd Grade.

We can do better. And we must.

September 24, 2024 0

Writing the Quirky-Worky (Prolific) Way

By: JANA GREENE

You guys could be reading any of a million things right now. Instead, you are here – voluntarily reading a blog. But blogs fell out of fashion at least ten years ago. Nobody reads blogs anymore, I’m told. So go on, GIT! (I’m just kidding, I love my readers and am extremely grateful for each of you.)

I am not commercially successful as a writer, by any stretch. But I love to play in a wide sky of words, reaching up and plucking the right ones out of the ethers, matching them with other words just waiting to be paired.

I’ll never forget that years ago, an acquaintance called me a “prolific writer.” Lawd, I was so flattering. Prolific! That sounds even better than “she writes real good.” Only it doesn’t mean “she writes real good.” It means I write a lot – some might say too much. It means my OCD manifests on pages and keystrokes. The dictionary says it means “an artist or author who produces many works.” And I produce many. Since the age of sixteen, I have used the written word to try to pound out my destiny, not realizing that I was really just pounding out my feelings. Any time I feel a certain way, I’ve written. And the truth is that I sometimes don’t know how I feel until I process my feelings through writing.

And the #1 reason writers write is to give the mindf*ckery a ticket out of our brains. Sometimes it takes the ticket and we feel resolution. Other times, it takes a seat and laughs at our efforts to rid ourselves of….well, ourselves. And it carries in another heavy box of anxieties, and dumps it at our feet, all while keeping eye contact. Bastard.

I had no idea how people could process their emotions without writing about them, because they tell you how to process them, if you listen. Recently, I stumbled across the journals I kept in high school and in my early 20’s. It made me say BLESS HER HEART (her being the me of my youth.) Pages upon pages of hand-wringing over the state of my dysfunctional family, and how I somehow felt responsible. Which in hindsight was silly. I was a kid, a child. And there are reams and reams of crying out to God (I can now imagine him now whispering, enough already!) to forgive me of my sins. To counteract my wretchedness. To save my sinning heart.

Now, I was a responsible teenager. I had to be. What in tarnation did I beg forgiveness for? I was chaste and virginal, read my Bible daily, felt guilty about how much time I thought about boys, and maybe if I prayed hard enough, I could be more like Jesus, and my world would right itself. The onus was on me to become holy, and I thought I’d never attain holiness, though I tried through weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Only here’s the truth, which would have made me scream “HERETIC!” The onus is not on us. I was already holy. I didn’t have to audition for a part in God’s family. I didn’t have to freak out because I noticed the guy in front of me in algebra had a cute butt and I would ask God (as a bonus) to make him have to sharpen his pencil at the front of the class so I could see it in motion. Now I imagine God chuckling about that. At the time, I imagined him shaking his great head, face in hands, then stroking his beard, agonizing “This kid. This heathen kid. She’s in for a long journey.” (And he would be right about that.)

In the coming days, perhaps I will share some excerpts from one of the literal volumes I wrote in my youth. As an exercise in healing. In an act of offering up to God my words from a different vantage point. God and I can read it and weep, together. Because holy cow. I showed myself exactly ZERO grace in all those years. And that’s too bad. I want to remedy that.

I have a friend who burned her old journals, and I have thought about it. They do have nice fabric covers, as was befitting a journal set in 1984-1990. Fabric covered books were it-on-a-stick in the 80’s. I’m sure they would burn clean. I’m just not ready to obliterate the words of my younger self. Because just as I am teaching her things today, she has a lot to teach me too. I need to read what she had to say so that I can comfort her trauma and validate her fear. She was so afraid.

So, I’ll keep on writing prolifically, if not well. Maybe share some tidbits from those journals – the beggings, the uncertainty, the desperation. In sharing my unpretty feelings, maybe someone else in the throes of uncertainty and desperation see that they too can come out the other side.

The written page (or screen) is a processing plant, and I – in my hard hat – labor at a keyboard, to try to determine how I feel about any given joy or trauma. So oftentimes when I am weary, the words tuck me in for the night. After I’ve written, I can almost hear a prompt to rest now, you’ve done all that you can do. You’ve written about it, and so now it’s been acknowledged.

Because everyone likes to be acknowledged, and if need be, written about prolifically.

Blessed be.

September 18, 2024 0

But Think of the EXPOSURE! (Starting a new blog; giving The Hustle the boot)

By: JANA GREENE

This isn’t the funniest season of my life, that’s for sure. So my writing hasn’t been the comedy-filled yukk-fest I’d hoped it would be. It’s been absolute clown shoes for a while now, but not in a mirth-making way.

When I decided to start this blog, instead of totally rehabbing my old blog, I did it for reasons that might seem obscure to some. The truth is that I wanted to write more humor; humor about everyday life that perhaps the 2014 version of myself might find in poor taste. I’m kind of into poor taste right now, to be honest.

I wanted to write about being a follower of Christ from here, not from there. I have been “there” most of my entire life, but in this new place, there is curiosity. Questioning. Observing. Laughing. And most of all the thing I’d tried to write about for twenty years but didn’t fully grasp: Grace.

Especially grace toward myself, can I get an AMEN?

“Wouldn’t it be easier to switch up thebeggarsbakery.com, where you have nearly 2,000 followers?” said my husband, who is right-brained and makes actual sense. It can be frustrating to explain total nonsense to a sensical person, because they have logic on their side, and all I have is a handful of glitter and some unrealistic expectations.

“I have new things to say,” said I.

“I know. You’ve just worked so hard to gain your following.”

“And I won’t ‘build my career?” I say. We laugh, because I am not career-driven. I have no competitive nature, absolutely no “drive” or “hustle.” No calling higher than sharing my mind and welcoming the sharings of others’. It’s a crappy career path, but a fulfilling endeavor.

When I was a kid, longing to be a proper writer, I believed I would make a living by writing, which is totes hilar, as my kids used to say. My 10th grade Journalism teacher, Ms. Flowers, wrote in my yearbook, “See you on the Johnny Carson Show one day!”

What an amazing compliment! I hugged the words of that prophesy close to my chest, choking the life into it. I carried it everywhere I went and still do.

Now I know that reference is lost on several generations, but if you are Gen X, that is prime adulation. That’s the pièce de résistance of success. Only the most amazing writers were interviewed by Johnny Carson. Stephen King! Danielle Steel! JUDY BLUME!

As compliment like that from a Journalism teacher? That’s like saying, ‘You’ll win the writing Olympics, Kid!’

Spoiler alert: I did not win the Writing Olympics, because that’s not a thing.

When in my 20’s, I wrote for a small, local paper, crafting community news pieces for 5 cents per word. Do you know how many 5-cent words you must write to put your kid through dance class as a single mom? Or even spring for a few Happy Meals? Many. SO many words.

I then wrote community news for the newspaper in my little city. I was paid the stately sum of $12.50 an hour. This – the pinnacle of my earning – ensured that I made exactly enough every month to contribute one-third of the mortgage payment each month.”

But hold up, y’all. Because THEN, a major magazine (it was 2016, magazines were still a thing; stay with me here) happened across a Beggar’s Bakery blog post I’d written about addiction, and asked if they could pick it up for their issue next month?”

HOLY SHITBALLS, BATMAN! Yes of COURSE you can! Send over the contract! Hurry up before you change your mind, In Recovery Magazine!

The contract was for zero dollars, ya’ll.

But think of the exposure! That’s what they told me. The EXPOSURE!

Now, exposure means you’ll be compensated for your talent, just not today. It means, we see you, Boo….but maybe the next publisher will see you and pay you! But probably not, to be honest, you’ll be a pauper if you try to survive on writing. The odds aren’t really in your favor. But thanks for the free work!

I self-published a couple of little books after that, which ended up costing me hundreds of dollars and making me none. I poured my soul into the first book, my little evangelical soul. I gave countless copies away.

I spoke on recovery in front of large groups of people, which I hated. I know they said the Lord wants me to “stretch” and “grow,” and that public speaking was another way to share the gospel, but I did it with bile rising in my throat and a hankering for a Xanax to get through speaking on recovery.

I now know that God “growing” me by torture is not his bag. But when giving my testimony, I could never wing it. I carefully wrote out every word and read it with all the passion of a kid reading a term paper about state capitals. Not because I wasn’t passionate about it, but because I’m better at bleeding my words than reading my words. Please look away, people. The vulnerability is making me so naked up here.

But see, I’m a prolific writer, if not a successful one. Doesn’t that sound impressive? PROLIFIC. But “prolific” really just means that I write A LOT. Obsessive-compulsively, some might say. Stephen King is a prolific writer. But so is the guy off his meds driven to write a hundred-page manifesto because he is on a mission. “Driven” can mean lots of things!

To me, it means that if I don’t find a home for my thoughts outside of my brain, they’ll stage a coup, and I will be prolifically in a fetal position forever and ever, amen. Since I could hold a crayon, the page has done nicely. It rolls out like a red carpet, welcomes my words, and rehomes the scary ones.

So anyway, thanks for reading my work. Because it affords me connection – with you guys and with myself – and with whatever sanity I have left. Life got heavier with the diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia in June. I haven’t really yukk-yukked it up in my blog posts lately. But don’t worry, I majored in Writing for Free, but I minored in Gallows Humor. So, I’ll get there.

In a way, pain and cancer and struggle and anxiety are all surmountable, because a kind teacher told my 16-year-old self that she’d be on Johnny Carson one day. Ms. Flowers would want me to write honest and raw. Prolifically. Imagine that. Kind words have power.

In conclusion, life has been humbling. Would you agree? Humbling and not at all what the travel guide promised. But still full of surprises, blessings, and BS.

I hope your dreams land you at the pinnacle of your happiness, hustle be damned. There are more ways than one to “make a living.”

Blessed be friends.

August 29, 2024 0

A Depression Nap Makes All Things New (and other things you might have forgotten)

By: JANA GREENE

Whoever needs to hear this today…

There is no consequence to not tweezing your brows even though you can see two errant hairs close up when you look in a magnified mirror.

Your family will not fall apart if you have leftovers three days in a row.

If you wash whites and colors together, nobody has to know. Nobody. Will. Know.

A three-hour trash TV marathon is good therapy.

A nice, well-timed depression nap can make all things new.

Your kids can eat an all-beige diet for all their preschool years and be fine (Flintstone Chewable’s cover a multitude of nutritional sins.)

Listening to really good, really loud music is CHURCH.

Staring off into space for extended periods of time is not a waste of it.

Holding hands is not just for children.

Don’t forget to lollygag and dilly-dally on the regular.

Store-bought is fine, if you can’t make your own serotonin and dopamine.

Paper plates are a mom’s best friend.

Animals are kind of superior to (a lot of) humans.

Remember that “no” is a complete sentence.

Cut ties with people who make you feel less-than important. Or LESS THAN, period.

Buy the concert tickets. You’ll almost never be sorry.

Not a single soul on this planet is better than you. Straighten your crown. You deserve to be wearing it.

Straighten your sister’s crown too, and remind her she’s a queen.

Hit the meeting. (If you know, you know.)

Be sloppily thankful for blessings, and ardently prayerful for troubles.

Shave your legs. Or don’t. No one cares.

Tomorrow is a fine day to start what you put off starting today.

Write the words, paint the picture, sing loud and badly, laugh until you pee yourself a little. And then laugh again.

And remember you are hurtling through space in a big, blue marble through an infinite, ever-expanding universe, and you yourself are made out of stardust and moxie for the express purpose of learning to love and be loved.

So love already.

That’s the main thing.

Blessed be.

August 19, 2024 0

Faith Healers and Hope Dealers (CLL journey)

By: JANA GREENE

By his stripes you are healed!

If I had a dime for every time I have heard this scripture in the church -telling me I’m “already well,” I would be a kajilionaire. And the words are said with love and good intention, and belief that “healed” means bopping up out of a wheelchair INSTANTLY.

I can only say so much about the subject, because I have been both a victim and a perpetrator of “faith healing.” Again, with all the best intentions. But much damage was done to my spirit on the road to heal my body. And with my intentions, I had probably given someone false hope. You feel spiritually orphaned when you stay ill.

“You’re already healed, you just don’t know it!” they told me, when walking was torment and the joint pain excruciating. Oh, thought I. I must have some flaw that keeps me from receiving. And as I got sicker, I felt like a disappointment to all who were so fervently praying for me.

Perhaps it’s the “demon of infirmary, which is a little trickier to toss, but don’t despair, Beloved! “The Word is a weapon, and we will command the enemy to leave your flesh!” Only it felt like I myself was being “cast out,” because I wouldn’t get well. I took it personally, and it seemed like they did too.

Still sick? *sigh* “Well, have you thought maybe you have a secret SIN? Everybody has secrets, but Jesus loves you anyway HALLELUJIA? and he knows your heart. Confess unto him, and you will be well! (Why does everything revolve around SIN in the church? Frankly, a God who can heal you but just won’t is not the same God I was taught was love.

I was told at one service by the pastor, “The metal in your leg from the injury has TURNED TO BONE! Get an x-ray, and you’ll see!” Faith healing seems Biblical, so to it we cleave.

Now, I consider myself reasonably intelligent. I get by. But brethren, I believed it. Because, well… cult reasons, honestly. I had invested my whole life in this system in which any disability they can’t hibbity-jibbity out of me in reasonable amount of time (or at all!) was a defect of the strength of my belief. I am a rabid people pleaser (working on that) so disappointing the clergy was of utmost concern.

I love the late Carrie Fisher, herself no stranger to things like addiction, depression, illness and the like. My favorite quote from her is, “Instant gratification takes too long.”

INSTANT GRATIFICATION TAKES TOO LONG. And maybe that’s why our faith is so impatient, so spiritually entitled. We are taught that we don’t deserve to be healed really, but it’s our birthright, so God has to do it. (Spoiler alert: God doesn’t have to do squat but love us and teach us to love in return.

Here’s the corker though, I think – and it’s kind of a piss-off here Earthside: I think we will all be ultimately healed. But we’ve just taken the healings that Jesus did as miracles when he was Earthside and assumed that same healing is for every person.

But on the physical plane, that may not be so. These are meat-suits, and they are temporary and bockity as all Hell. Creaky, apt to damage, prone to wear and tear. Several features do not work. The Church told me I bought the warranty, but if so, the warranty company ghosted me (I tried not to type, “but not the HOLY GHOST,” because she hasn’t gone anywhere…)

I believe our pain pains God – which I still think is true. But that logically deduces that there will be pain. And I wonder how much being a sickly kid emersed in an environment that tells me I am inherently bad dinged up my psyche. To add to that, I lived in an echo chamber as an adult, where nobody would admit seeing the emperor had NO CLOTHES, because they all believed like I did.

Maybe I’ll get that physical healing this side of eternity. God, I hope so. Science is making huge strides! I will welcome it. Western medicine, Eastern medicine, prayer, meditation, and breathwork? I’m going to throw EVERYTHING I can at this illness. I don’t think God faults me for it, either. I will keep praying for healing. But I will also not make the physical my god. I begged a seemingly aloof god to make me well. What I got is an incredibly compassionate God who inhabits this body with me. And sometimes that has to be sufficient, like his grace.

To pretend that we are all entitled to be able-bodied and expect such does our fellow humans a great disservice. It’s just another method of setting others apart in the name of God. But there is no separation. Your pain is my pain, too.

I think in a way, I did get my healing. And it was different from what I was told to expect. It didn’t come with tossing my walking cane to the side and doing a jig. It didn’t come as relief for my chronic, unrelenting pain, to be honest. And that bummed me out for a long time and kept me from healing on the inside.

But I did heal on the inside – I am still healing every single day, from the ‘inside.’

We are not ghosted by our birthrights. We are made of stardust and God-spit, with whatever infirmary becomes our new normal is a surface just a ding in the paint. It’ll buff right out. Meanwhile, beloveds, take gentle, loving care of yourselves. Body, mind, and especially Spirit.

July 1, 2024 0

In the Weird Place (on my CLL Journey)

Photo by Chokniti Khongchum on Pexels.com

By: JANA GREENE

I have been feeling so yucky.

Pop-up fevers for no apparent reason? Check. Waking up at night drenched with sweat, when you are years beyond menopause (hysterectomy 2008) … Check. Crippling fatigue? Check. Covered in bruises? CHECK. Shortness of breath? Sometimes. Totally crappy immune function… bad luck or cancer?

Now these are all things that could have a different cause than my Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia. Having been diagnosed less than two weeks ago, it makes me wonder though. It explains SO MUCH. But I have had symptoms for a long time, and have multiple issues that make me medically fragile.

Could be a Mast Cell attack (a comorbidity of Ehlers Danlos Syndrome) causing the fevers. Drenching sweat could be a menopause relapse or something, but since my ovaries left the building in 2008 when I had my hysterectomy, I know it’s not. Fatigue and easy bruising could be my Postural Tachycardia Syndrome (or result from my own clumsiness.) Shortness of breath could be run-of-the-mill anxiety, which has constant since the diagnosis – sometimes holding my hand lightly like a lover basking in familiarity (oh HI, Anxiety! I know YOU); sometimes squeezing so tight, like an anaconda is strangling my nervous system

Here’s the thing – I’m in the weird place right now. I am carrying malignant cells in my blood, but I have no idea if the cells are sleeping and dormant for now or having a full-on rave going on in my body, techno music blaring, glowsticks swinging, chaos ruling.

I have an upcoming, invasive medical tests and scan. I don’t know whether the scan will show no spread yet (and thus be Stage 0 – which means no symptoms but cancer in the blood/marrow, the best case scenario – as it requires only “wait and watch” approach); or my body could light up like a Christmas tree and require treatment right now. I don’t know. And the not knowing is hard, no?

But God is providing so much grace to me and surrounding me with support. So, either way, I’m keeping the faith, and holding on to a hearty helping of dark humor. I have always found those two to be essential to getting through tough spots. I will find a damn way to laugh about things, y’all. Humor is to my comfort in a storm what a safe harbor is to a boat. And I know God walks with me through all of it, holding my hand just right.

Thank you for taking the time to read this and follow my journey. Everything is called a “journey” these days – probably because everything IS a journey – but this is one not too many people want to be a part of. I write to process and believe that going through something hard without sharing the experience is a waste of a terrible era. Others need to know sickness and calamity are part of life, just as much as promotions and clean bills of health. We have plenty of people pretending everything is FINE, when clearly *gestures wildly* it is not. Healthy people make being healthy SO EASY. Some of them just roll out of bed each day with zero pain. What’s THAT like?

God bless you, friends.

June 29, 2024 4

Fundie Me and Free Me – a Fireside Chat

By: JANA GREENE

A conversation between Fundamentalist Me and New Me:

FUNDIE ME: “Lord, if I ever stray from your will, please just take me home before I disappoint you.”

NEW ME: “Wow. That’s a little dramatic. You are asking God to let you die if you ever start asking questions of a spiritual nature? Isn’t that basically crossing all the “t”s and “i”s, so in case you ever DO stray you can get God on a technicality?”

“No. He’s a good, good father. I will walk each day by faith each day. Because Oh! how he loves me so...”

“He is. And he does love you so. But that prayer is literally the definition of ‘living by the letter of the law. I remember how much you love music. You’ll appreciate it even more in the future. Did you know, all music is worship, by virtue of being a creation of the Universe? Led Zepplin, Indigo Girls….”

“Deceived. Let’s change the subject. This country is going down the tubes! Jesus must be ready to return! Turn before you burn!”

“But ‘it is finished,’ I thought. “To me, that means that it’s a finished work.”

“Speaking of work, this nation was built on…”

“Yeah, in the future, you don’t support blind nationalism.”

“I know that’s not true, because God would have taken me home already if I stopped supporting the nationalist movement. I love my country!”

“Sweet girl, it won’t be the same country by the time you get here, trust me. Better in some ways and so much worse in others. You will care about social justice…”

“Gosh dang! NO.”

“And the death-wish-before-doubt prayer that God will take you right off this earth before he’d let you become liberal….er, um, I mean unholy fallen daughter of the Highest King. You’ll see how whack that is.”

“We are all born unholy. Did you just say ‘whack?’”

“We are all already holy. We are all redeemed. We are all saved. All means all.”

“WELL, I NEVER!”

“Actually, you do. You will ‘never.’ And your heart will be full, because you have no other motive than love. You’ll go to Pride rallies and pass out Free Mom Hugs…”

“No. There’s no way. You can love them without approving of their lifestyles.”

“… And the people there will sometimes dissolve into your arms and sob, because their own parents reject them just on the basis of their sexuality.”

“Well, they shouldn’t. BUT you’re playing fast and loose with ‘grace’ to ‘condone’ all that.”

“What’s to condone? As turns out, that’s not what loving unconditionally is supposed to look like; having ‘buts‘.”

“I mean, love the sinner, hate the sin. You keep saying ‘love.’ Love is discipline. So that’s not what God meant.”

“Isn’t it? Once I filtered the BS out that I feel like Jesus wouldn’t approve of, it made things so clear.”

“Did you just say ‘BS’?”

“Yes. And I say a lot of other potty words too. After repressed for so long. I now know that cussing is not what God meant about keeping our language and hearts pure. He meant don’t use your words – even scripture – as a weapon towards others. Using language for cruelty, exclusion…”

“You don’t say the ‘F word,’ Lord, please say ‘no.”

“Oh yes, you’re quite fond of that word. And the funny thing is, so are many of your ex-evangelical girlfriends who never swore because a Proverbs 31 woman wouldn’t say naughty words, and that was the standard for the godly faith of a woman.”

*Plugs ears* “LALALALALA…”

“Oh, you will learn that Eastern religions have a lot of truth. You’ll do yoga on occasion, and…”

“NOT YOGA!”

“Listen. It’s perfectly effin’ okay.”

“You went and said the ‘F’ word.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“God corrects…”

“Then let God correct, as he is far more persuasive and compassionate than we could ever be. Just love one another. He wasn’t just whistling Dixie when he said, ‘love is the greatest of these.”

“It can’t be that simple. You cannot go around willy-nilly approving of people the way they ARE, when they should…’

“Yeah, you’ll learn not to ‘should’ all over other people. And it IS that simple.”

“Well, that’s not ‘love.’ The BIBLE CLEARLY SAYS -“

“Yeah, about that…once you study Christ without 2,000 years of human dogma considered, you’ll learn the Bible ain’t too clear, period.”

“Lord, why am I still living? Oh the humanity!”

“Calm down, you’re going to love God more than ever when all is said and done. Not the concept of God you grew up with, though.”

“Well, I KNOW God, and…”

“You know the absent or spiteful god. God is incredible. So let him out of the box, sister girlfriend.”

“That’s scary. That’s gotta be the devil talking.”

“Yeah, that’s a whole other subject for another time. In the future, Fundie Jana, I’m going to love you, too. Because you strived so hard for a God to accept you, when your very existence proves that acceptance.”

“That’s New-Agey. Please repent. Before it’s too late.”

“I’m extending grace to you. The grace that you have deserved all along, but never claimed.”

“That’s prideful. We don’t ‘deserve’ anything.”

“And you’ll see the bigger picture and realize every single belief you practiced was necessary for you to be free in the end. And you will be free.”

“That doesn’t sound right.” *Wrings hands*

“You’re so afraid just to be. Please believe God is not trying to get you on a technicality.”

“But the ‘human heart is deceitful….”

“God wouldn’t have place a curious mind if you weren’t allowed to doubt and delve.”

“I’m so worried I’m going to lose the love of God if I open my mind.”

“Yes, that’s what kept you sick and stuck for a long time. Reconstructed You will be safe. You will be strong. It is truly for freedom that you have been set free. I love you just the way you are.”

June 26, 2024 5

Boxcar Children and Other Books That Shaped a 70’s Childhood

By: JANA GREENE

Things are pretty heavy in the world right now, so I thought I’d write some fluff.

Thanks for your readership!

By: JANA GREENE

Most of the favorite books I read in childhood featured children fleeing into the woods, being rejected by parents, taming wild beasts, and falling in love with poetry (not necessarily in that order.)

In third grade, I wanted to be one of the Boxcar Children (written by Gertrude Chandler Warner.) The plot is thus: Four children orphaned by both parents go to live with their grandparents, who resent the absolute shite out of them for having the nerve to be parentless. So, the kids run away and end up living out of an abandoned train boxcar. Sometimes the adventure was begging for food, sounded kind of fun to my naive, privileged brain. They bathed in rivers, dodged rabid animals, stayed up as late as they wanted, and stole honey from beehives (wait…that’s Winnie the Pooh.) You get the picture. So obsessed with the Boxcar Children was I, I would go into the woods behind my elementary school and pretend to be orphaned and outdoorsey. I would build a “boxcar” out of sticks and boards and the random tarp in the woods that – now as an adult – makes me wonder if that tarp had been used in a crime of some sort. Oh well….it made a great roof for my boxcar.

For the best fleeing-into-the-woods pick, we have “My Side of the Mountain,” by Jean George. It is the story of 12-year-old boy who intensely dislikes living in his parents’ cramped New York CIty apartment with his eight brothers and sisters, and can you even blame him? He decides to run away to his great-grandfather’s abandoned farm in the Catskill Mountains to live in the wilderness. Five out of five stars, so good I may read it again at 55. This boy had the life. He acquired a freaking falcon just by gaining the bird’s trust, and catches a weasel and names him “The Baron” because of the “regal way he moves about.” I wanted a weasel named “The Baron.” Just a boy (who was my hero) who lives in the trees, catches fish and smokes the meat, and attains Snow White-level rapport with the animal kingdom. Bliss.

Next up, we have anything by Dr. Seuss. Just pick one. His books were silly for silliness’ sake and I loved it. Utter nonsense, just the way I like it. I went hard and heavy on the Dr. Sues with my children when they were little. I can still recite “One Fish Two Fish” verbatim, whether I want to or not.We were hoppin’ on Pop, hearing a Who, and hanging with the Sneetches. Classic. On one occasion one of them asked, “If Snitches get stitches, do Sneeches get leeches?” (I still don’t know, he never said.)

Then there was Shel Silverstein. Oh Shel. I wanted to grow up to marry the poet behind “Where the Sidewalk Ends.” I wanted to BE a poet and write about pertinent kid topics like he did. Classics such as “The Sharp-Toothed Snail” that bites your finger if you pick your nose, being eaten by a “Boa Constrictor” which takes you on ablow-by-blow account of being eaten by a snake, and “It’s Dark in Here,” about being inside of a lion. Quality prose.

And for those coming-of-age stories, Judy Blume was my go-to. To be a scandalous ten-year old, you must have read Judy. Boobs, periods, or practicing kissing boys were always mentioned, thus giving us the thrill of our training-bra lives. She captured universal growing-up angst better than anyone. Who can forget “We MUST, we MUST, we MUST INCREASE OUR BUST!” This is before any of us had started developing and realized that getting actual boobs and periods were really a tremendous bummer and horrible inconvenience, and none of us enjoyed having when we got them. Judy made it sound much more fun than it actually was. Still a little salty at her about this.

In 1977, “Bridge to Terabithia” by Katherine Patterson came out. There was an immediately a waiting list at the Quail Valley Elementary library, and it did not disappoint when it was finally in myhands. Picture it: Two best friends create an imaginary world called Terabithia, which they escape to in order to manage trauma. When tragedy strikes, they must rely on their friendship to work through grief. This was my introduction to fantasy worlds, and the realization that you can make your own (and you may as well, this place is bonkers.) Another fine example of children “fleeing to the woods.” It was also the book that introduced me to crying while reading. I really felt I kew these kids – who made their own world when this one hurt them. I filed that away in my little survivalist head and it grew into a more vivid imagination.

Which brings me to the series I read as a tween in 5th grade that I plucked right off of the elementary school library shelves, I sh*t you not. HOW? No banned books for us! I’m talking about “Flowers in the Attic” by V.C. Andrews. Now y’all aint gonna BELIEVE this, but here’s the plot: A grandmother locks a 12 year old girl and her 14-year-old brother in an attic. Dripping in wealth but low on compassion, the villainous grandmother decides it’s a good time to break it to the children that one of them is a product of incest. And that’s not even the worst thing. She calls the children the “Devil’s spawn” and is obsessed with the idea of incest, forbidding all contact between opposite sexes. The children are not allowed to make any noise, only in the attic are they free to play because their grandfather will kill them if he knows they are being hidden there. Yikes. (There was a waiting list for that series too. And yes, it’s a series.)

Who was monitoring our reading material? No one, that’s who. It was the 70’s.

I don’t have the attention span to read like I did when I was younger. Too much thinky-ness about “real” issues, but I sure would like to lose myself in a book again! In the meantime, I think I’m going to find some woods to flee to today, for old time’s sake.

June 5, 2024 0