When I thought I understood the hereafter in my evangelical days, I used to talk about the mansions we will all have in heaven, and looked forward to laying down this mortal burden and enjoying my “just reward” after fighting the good fight.
“Mansions!” all us Christians would insist. “We are all gonna have MANSIONS!”
In seems a strange form of idolatry now in hindsight. Entitlement, even. After all, it’s our birthright! In the end, it’s ego wanting what ego feels justified in wanting.
The way we all carried on about the specs for our abode in Heaven, missing the point and slipping into a prosperity gospel mindset.
So, God? You can give my heavenly “mansion” to someone else who struggled with homelessness while Earthside. Transfer the deed, and let it be so. Basking in the undiluted consciousness of the Universe is enough for me.
Perhaps God, you can see fit to let my address be YOU. Peace, not riches, in communion with the holiness we only get to see glimpses of here.
Although I surely won’t mind if you place me near water – perhaps a sea or a stream. I want to be cozy forever and ever, amen – safe finally and well. Whole and free in my little heavenly abode.
And I will invite all of my friends to my little UN-mansion; and that will be enough. A true just reward, eternally.
In my Father’s house, there are said to be many rooms, but I just need room enough for love.
It gives me the ick to feature his picture but dammit, we have to wake up already
By: JANA GREENE
I’m trying not to stoke the fires of political controversy, but what in the heckin’ mark of the beast even IS this madness? HOW is he still in the running? For that matter, how do we have a current president with significant dementia? These are our best and brightest? Trump is hawking his own version of the BIBLE (yours for just $59.99!) Pshaw, the fact that this man has ZERO fruits is the actual Spirit to distract him from his mission? Let’s just pretend that’s not an issue. The fervent nationalism in the name of Trump is a cult. I know because I’ve participated in cults, and his following? It’s a cult, and Trump is the leader. He has so much audacity. The MOST audacity! The greatest audacity the world has ever seen! Why, just the other day, God called Trump and said “You’re the greatest! All the other presidents were garbage! Run again, oh Messianic One, it’s the only way!” I hear tell that we are supposed to know Jesus followers by their “fruit.” For those keeping score, that proof is shown in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Show me a single one that he embodies. I’ll wait. Oof. The Emporer’s new clothes are a crappy fit, and I’m not playing along by pretending I don’t see what I see anymore.
I know life isn’t like a Haribo commercial gummy bear commercial, where we all sit around the board table and infantilize ourselves in a quest to satisfy an inner child. But dang. Maybe we should. We should at least talk kindly to ourselves! Namaste, friend. The child in me recognizes the child in you. ❤
By: JANA GREENE
I spend time with a little girl every day.
Even the days I am very busy.
Even on the days she is a bit of a pest.
She is enthusiastic, sometimes whiny,
always craving affection and being a little clingy.
She is healing from trauma, you see.
Sometimes I don’t even know what to do with her.
I acknowledged her from time to time, sure.
But I ignored her whenever possible.
But she was mostly a nuisance,
and I used to not know what to say to her.
You see,
for the longest time,
I didn’t have custody of her at all,
which is crazy because she’s ME.
Of course I had physical custody,
but the goal was just to make sure she didn’t hurt herself,
didn’t starve,
wasn’t cold or hungry.
But mental, emotional, and spiritual custody?
She was on her own.
Now we are pals I’m happy to say.
I’m not saying she doesn’t get on my last nerve,
but she’s learning that she doesn’t have to be small,
Waiting in an awfully long line with my grown-up daughter, I was making chitchat with the elderly woman in front of us. She was buying some sandwich bags, a package of pencils, and some medicine, which she was carrying in her hands.
This sweet older woman just buying the basics, she had the sweetest energy. At one point, she turned and said, “Honey, will you keep my place? I need a piece of candy.”
Okay, FIRST of all…if you call me “honey,” I will oblige to almost anything. It’s my kryptonite – terms of endearment. I think it’s because my grandmother called everyone honey and I miss that. I said I would, and she walked over to the next register – where there was candy – and returned to her spot empty-handed.
“Can you believe a candy bar is $2?” she said. I told her, no I couldn’t believe it. That it was highway robbery – because it is. The line moved, but in inches. Target was a madhouse.
I can try to describe this woman for you, but words won’t do her justice. She was so tiny and dressed in her Sunday best on a Friday afternoon just because she’s classy like that. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis, but you could imagine all the babies she has held in them, all the friends she has comforted with them, all the times they’ve been folded in prayer. I was drawn to her warmth – this stranger in Target.
My spirit got elbowed in the ribs. Buy her the candy bar, it said.
I told her I would be honored to get her the candy bar, that she deserves that candy bar. I could tell by the way she clutched her items that she was there only for the necessities. I know because I’ve been there. The last thing I wanted to do was insult her in any way.
“Oh no,” she said. “That’s okay! It’s too expensive.”
“Friend, I think you need some chocolate” I said. “Actually, I’d like to buy your items. Please let me bless you. Would you like the Hershey bar with almonds?”
This petite little lady set down her things on the conveyer, as we finally moved up, and pulled me into the sweetest hug. I put the candy with her things and quietly paid for her few things.
I told her she has the most beautiful countenance I’ve ever seen, because it’s true. She told me God loves me, because that’s also true. I wanted to invite her to coffee, but the world is so weird right now, and I was already being weird as it was. (I low key still wish I’d asked, though. Perhaps our paths will cross again?)
“You’re gonna make an old lady dance in the Spirit right here in Target!” And ya’ll, as God is my witness, she cut a little rug right there in the store. So I did a little dance too, because nobody likes to dance alone. (I’m not sure my daughter knew what to do at that point, and the clerk checking us out was befuddled.)
“I love the Lord!” said my new friend.
“Me too!” said I, as we hugged again.
The sweet women’s purchase was around $25. There are many, many times in my life that $25 has been too much. There are many times a Hershey bar was a hardship, and chocolate would have blessed me. There were a handful of people who helped me in ways big and small, and I never forgot it. Because why the heck else are we plodding through on this planet, if not to lean into each other? Much like Target, it’s a madhouse.
Have you ever met a stranger who wasn’t really a stranger? A friend masquerading as someone you’ve never met? It happens to me all the time, and the serendipity is a balm to the soul.
Let’s please love one another, in ways big and small. Because things are weird and “off” in the world right now, and everyone is on edge. The necessities are highway robbery.
Our interactions with each other are church.
We might as well dance, friends. And eat the chocolate.
I do my best spiritual work from on the ground, apparently.
I can remember laying on my mat Kindergarten at naptimes at school, a skinny little girl laying curled in a ball, watching all my classmates fall asleep like falling asleep is just a normal thing people do or something.
From birth, my brain never shut up, and my home life was dysfunctional to the point of chaos. So, I would lay with my budding anxious neurosis on the vinal mat, unable to sleep; afraid to close my eyes (and afraid not to.) No sleep, only unease.
My teacher, Mrs. Carter would stand over me and holler in front of the whole class, “CLOSE YOUR EYES, JANA!” I can remember squeezing them together and doing a rudimentary version of praying. It was a crude and simple exchange with the God of my Vacation Bible School stories. Even as a child, I seemed to know instinctively that there is more help available from the Divine than we ask for or expect.
“I can’t calm my mind,” I would have said to the adults in my life, had I the language to ask for what I needed. But I didn’t. Little girls with big, grown-up worries don’t know how to self-soothe, because OF COURSE they don’t; and they surely don’t know how to articulate anxiety or ask for help calming their minds.
That’s where I remember doing my first earnest prayers – on the kindergarten mat – asking of Jesus who already lives in my heart to be seen and soothed, comforted and feel less alone.
Twenty-seven years later, I found myself on the bathroom floor of my house, battling an alcohol addiction, wishing to die. On January 3, 2001, I came to the end of myself on that floor. Wretching, sick, alone, and desperate. From flat on the tiled floor, my fist in the air, eyes tinged in red, and skin yellowing, yelling at God and no one in particular, I came to the end of myself.
It reminded me of the biblical story of Jacob “going to the mat” with God in an all-night WrestleMania event. “I’m not going to take this laying down!” Jacob was thinking. But he ended up exhausted and limping, which is how most of us end up in that mindset, if we are not careful.
I had prayed many, many times before for sobriety, but there was a different outcome on that day. A peace descended on me like a dove. In my sickness and desperation, I was met on the floor by a God undeterred from my anxiety. One minute at a time, and then one hour, then one day, week, month, year… that was 23 years ago. A lifetime ago.
“I CAN’T CALM MY MIND” I simply told him. And here’s the thing: I know the same Spirit who curled up with me on my kindergarten nap mat is the same Spirit who met me in the bathroom, me clinging to the toilet, him not at all afraid to get the hem of his garment dirty on my behalf.
I am now learning to meditate now, and it’s a challenge. My husband, who never seems to tire of my endless new “hobbies” took me to get a nice, double-padded yoga mat. I’ve been on quite the little awakening for several years now and am learning so much. I absolutely love incorporating the tools I’m learning into my faith life, which is not a conflict with the holiness of God at all, no matter what Debbie at the Pentecostal church says. (I plan to write at length about what I’m learning, if you’d like to journey with me.)
The first group meditation session I went to, I dutifully spread out my mat amongst the hippies and lovers and seekers at the group event, excited to learn this new coping mechanism. The atmosphere was thick with love and cleansing. Yet can you guess what the prevailing thought was upon getting situated?
I CAN’T CALM MY MIND.
“Okay,” I felt Spirit say, over the Native American flute music and swirling clouds of burning sage (that former evangelical ‘me’ would be scandalized by.) “I am in you and with you and around you.”
If you feel you are on the “floor” in some regard to your life, I just want to remind you that it’s a nice, stable surface from which to start. You are simply grounding, darlings. The floor is a very vulnerable place to be, but be vulnerable we must, if we are to grow. We glorify striving, when simply being is enough.
So just ‘be’ today, friends.
Just be, Groundlings. And don’t forget to breathe. And ask the Universe to make you ever more aware of his presence. If we increase our awareness of this supernatural experience, we begin to see God everywhere – in every ONE.
In you, too! Ready to see, soothe, and comfort you – meeting you on hallowed ground.
Today’s writing prompt from The Writing Room Collective:
By: JANA GREENE
If you are going to trust with any degree of your tender, fleshy heart, you will get hurt. It isn’t a possibility. It isn’t a “might happen.” We all experience betrayal. Death has lost it’s eternal sting, but betrayal still really smarts.
Many years ago, a woman who was freshly out of rehab was being released into her natural habitat of Life on Life’s Terms. We had a mutual friend at the time, who asked me to reach out to her so I can hook her up with some meeting resources, and just generally be her friend. As a result of her past choices, she relied on others to get her around town – she lost her licence – and I was all too happy to be her recovery buddy and take her to meetings with me.
And become her friend, I did.
Not only did she confide in me, but I in her; and regularly. Looking back now, I cringe at the uber-vulnerability I felt comfortable engaging in with her. I wasn’t her sponsor, but I was her friend, and I have a propensity for letting it all hang out anyway.
She had close ties with people who used to be an intimate part of my life (ESTRANGED family, gee, that should have been a clue!) but I did a crazy thing, which is to trust her.
What I should have caught on to, but missed by a mile, was that her wildly elaborate and passionate stories about recovery were pockmarked with holes, hugs, and bullshit. My gut often doesn’t get consulted on these things, when it should be the FIRST consultation I make.
On our rides to meetings, she was super animated and would often even quote from my own blog to me. I would sometimes think, ‘okay…THAT was weird,’ but most of my friends – and certainly me – are weird. Some of the personal stories she told suspended belief!
Eventually, this friend needed witnesses who ‘knew’ her pretty well, and after taking her to meetings for damn near a year I felt confident about testifying on her behalf. “You’ve worked so hard on your recovery,” I said. “I would be honored to help!”
The Oscar for Best Actress goes to ….
My “friend.”
After I was a character witness for her, I never saw or heard from her again. She fell off the face of the Earth. It’s hard for me to imagine that degree of deception.
Turns out, this woman had been drinking all along – Vodka apparently, so I didn’t smell it. ALL ALONG.
I kind of pride myself on this mission statement: I don’t have relationships with people I don’t trust. That assumes I know untrustworthy people and can tell when they are lying. I thought I had decent discernment. Maybe that pride needs to go the way of ALL pridefulness. In the sh*tter, where it belongs.
The question I keep posing to myself is thus – HOW could I be so stupid and gullible? I honest to God just didn’t see it. I really hurt my own feelings about it. Then I realize, there is no betrayal that can’t teach us a thing or two.
There’s no way to wrap up this post up all clean and tidy-like, because life is just so messy. I don’t think I’ll hear from her again; she got what she had befriended me for.
What I experienced ain’t terribly original.
Active addicts lie. It’s kind of what they do. They deceive, minimize, maximize, lie, cheat, steal, and all to protect their best friend – the drug of choice. I myself used to strategically hide BOXES of wine all over the house (although I’m not sure why, as those in my life at the time didn’t seem to mind if I drank myself to death.)
But once I got into a program, I learned to call myself out on these behaviors and stop lying to myself. Because calling yourself out keeps you sober, frankly. “Rigorous honesty.”
Yeah, that old chestnut.
As with most things about recovery, I’ve learned tons about myself during this time. Had I to do it again, what would I change? Even if I knew she was using me and lying about her addiction?
I would still offer to take her to meetings with me. I would still give her a safe place to vent. I probably wouldn’t have shared as much of my personal life with her, and I surely wouldn’t have vouched for her. Like I said, it sometimes seems that no good deed goes unpunished.
Although the deception happened TO me, it is not ABOUT me. It’s not about me in the least. But it stings all the same – I’m just being honest about how this whole debacle made me feel.
Still, God calls me to be grace-full, and I’m trying. He never called me to be a sucker, though. I have forgiven this lady (although she never asked for it) after wasting precious hours and hours on trying to figure out what clues I missed.
But forgiving someone doesn’t mean you want to break bread with them. You can forgive, walk away, and be wiser for the trouble.
I need to throw a little tantrum right now. Not a full-on nervy-b, but a proper little hissy fit.
I’m so grateful for the health days lately that have allowed me to do some normalsauce stuffs recently, but Ehlers Danlos is a chronic pain and illness condition. It doesn’t take vacations.
My whole body is made up of faulty collagen. The last two nights (and eapecially today,) the pain flares had been almost unbearable.
So here Is my stupid little list of wishes, compiled to get my frustration under control, and maybe remind you that you’re not alone if you’re hurting too.
I wish I could pop my shoulders out of the sockets like Ms. Potato Head, and replace them with sturdier, less excruciating shoulder joints. They pained me so severely last night, I writhed around trying to get comfortable for several hours instead of sleeping.
I wish it didn’t feel like oyster shuckers have been wedged under my kneecaps, feeling like someone is trying to jimmy them off every day. I wish my hips didn’t roll around and sublux levery dadgum day. I can pop the joint in and out, and it’s not a fun party trick. It’s agony.
I wish I had one of those cool new “exoskeleton” robot suits. Have you seen them?? They hold you together from the OUTSIDE. Like a Transformer. I would t even care that I looked like a weirdo.
I wish people disnt give me the stink-eye when I need to park In handicapped. Look at her, walking Into the store! What people dont realize Is that every step can be a real challenge. You never know what a disabled person is really feeling In their bodies. Sometimes the fatigue makes every step seem Impossible.
I wish people’s understood that different days require different mobility aids. Sometimes you will see me using a cane. I need it for stability on Sundays and or because the pain is making it hard to walk other days. I don’t use it at all and I know that seems really confusing, but it’s quite simple – there are good days and bad days.
I live every day fully aware that I will most likely lose mobility from here on out, so the days I don’t need my cane I revel not needing It.
I wish people understood the fragility of an EDSers body, and the strength It takes to keep going. We are fragile, but unbreakable.
There is little to no stability in my joints because most of my lax connective tissue. Pain and injury are the result. I once broke my ankle in two places from stepping out of bed to go pee in the middle of the night; it just rolled. And lest you think I’m just a big wimp about pain, I walked on that ankle for eleven days before I had it looked at by a doctor. My threshold is very high.
I wish I had a decent immune system. I don’t.
I wish the migraines would cease and desist, but they are tied into some of my other genetic mutation conditions. They are a whole other Issue altogether.
And I wish I were way more zen about pain. It teaches me things, true. But I simply get tired of this shit. I am trying to live transcendently – find joy beyond suffering and camp out In the assurance that God’s got me (and I get by with a LOT of help from my friends.)
I currently have a post-it scrawled with medical appointments I need to make on my kitchen counter. Like I NEED to make these appointments – for specialists, physical therapy, another cortisone shot in my knee, major dental work, a trip to Duke next month for gastroperesis treatment, and labs galore. It had been on the counter for weeks and every day I pass it and get a mini-panic attack, on account of I’m simply overwhelmed.
Because this IS overwhelming. My job is to stay healthy enough to have a quality of life, but I sure could use some PTO days to just NOT feel like this.
Life is challenging, but we are never alone. That’s important to wish for – for God to use my crappy conditions to make others feel less alone. That’s the best reason I can come up with for any kind of suffering.
Good morning, Dear Reader. I haven’t written in a while because I’ve been under the weather. But I did manage to create a Facebook group for readers of my blog. Please consider joining! I will get back to the regularly scheduled writing soon. Blessed be, friends. ❤
I think I’ve leveled-up on my woo-woo-ness. And I’m okay with that!
By: JANA GREENE
The best compliment I have ever been paid upon meeting someone that I have only known on social media previously is: “Wow! You have beautiful energy.”
I actually cried the first time someone said this. How wonderful to notice first the essence of a person; not the packaging. I can think of nothing better than receiving that “good word” (as I would say in my evangelical days.) It’s a big ‘ol NAMASTE – my soul recognizes yours. What could possibly be better?
And I am sure to comment on the energy of others too. Some people positively glow with it, so much so that their presence changes the entire trajectory of your day.
Energy isn’t the perfect lipstick or a flattering haircut. It doesn’t give a nod to trends, or consider an outward aesthetic.
It’s our very frequency, which the whole universe vibes with. People can actually “tune in” to yours and mine – it’s created to be shared. We are all just only energy anyway, might as well be good energy!
Wrinkles and fat come and go (mostly just come these days.) “Beauty” by conventional definition “fades.” Our mental health gets janky. Cellulite dimples our bodies. Hair grays. Boobs fall. Fupas happen. My physical health is falling apart due to chronic illness. But this little light of mine? It transcends this Earth Suit. Thank God for that.
Your frequency is like no other. We don’t need to be perfect; we just need to lean into the Oneness that we all belong to. Blessed be, Dear Reader.
And namaste, you beautiful energy vessel, you. Thanks for sharing your frequency with the world.
I was going to write about the subject of today’s writing prompt, which is “Describe your favorite childhood book.” How very light, fluffy, and FUN! Maybe I’ll write about that tomorrow. I’m not really feeling it today.
Yesterday, my husband and I went for a Sunday convertible drive, the weather was so lovely. We drove all the way down to Fort Fisher like we usually do because (I realize this is kind of nauseating) that’s where we had our very first kiss. We stop and kiss in that exact spot, and notice three guys with motorcycles watching the kiteboarders in the inlet.
“What a beautiful day for a bike ride!” we said aloud at one point. We admired the view for a bit. It really was a beautiful day.
We started back up Fort Fisher, stopping to take a few pictures (to use on my blog) and we heard sirens. An ambulance raced past, heading to the end of the long road. Then a firetruck. I am nosy, so I wondered aloud, should we go see what’s happening? Something told me “no.” Something told me (correctly) that I couldn’t handle whatever “this” was. We decided to head home as a state police car barreled past us. He was flying. The emergency presence was alarming…
CB and Kure police. State police. A fire truck. And, an ambulance. We both had a sick feeling about it for some weird reason, and it was a feeling we couldn’t shake.
Later in the afternoon, when we got home, we found out it was a motorcycle accident that happened minutes after we left Fort Fisher. Minutes.
Today I read the news that the motorcyclist did not survive the accident. I can not stop thinking about him today.
There had only been three guys on motorcycles and a tourist couple taking pictures, (and Bob and I) down that long stretch of road. That’s all. I could remember the faces, which seems odd – that my mind – which is not so swell at remembering anything else – could conjure their faces.
Which one, I wondered. Which gentleman was it? The one riding a trike or one of the two men who were riding together. Was it you, Guy in the royal blue shirt? Was it the dude on the trike? Or was it the short one with long hair?
I may never know. But here’s what I DO know… Life is effing short.
None of those men thought a ride to Fort Fisher would be the last thing he did on this earth. How absurd that someone in their prime of life would go for a bike ride and never come home? I’m crying thinking about it.
So I pray for the family, because what else are we supposed to do with these jarring realizations that this life is but one leg of an eternal journey. I’m so sorry for them. Their worlds make absolutely no sense today.
We have the time we have allotted and not a minute more, so what are we doing with the it? Learn to be present in the moment. Let the small stuff go. Enjoy the living daylights out of every minute. Which is difficult because in addition to being the most amazing ever, life is also the hardest, most bewildering thing ever.
In honor of the gentleman who lost his life minutes after we saw his face, I’m going to love on my family harder than necessary today. I’m going to be more aware in the moments with friends, which are so precious. Please take good care of yourself and each other today. God really does love you, and so do I.
On this second day of taking a cue from my favorite Author’s writing prompt suggestions, I bring you a little poetry jam. Anne Lamott’s prompt today? Write about: “It seemed like a good plan on paper.” This piece wholly turned into something completely different than I had in mind, as so often happens. I hope you enjoy, Dear Reader. From my paper heart to yours.
WRITING PROMPT: “Write about the first time you fell in love.”
– Anne Lamott, (A Writing Room)
By: JANA GREENE
I have a tendency to fall in love instantly. I fell head over heels in love with my husband nearly 18 years ago, but I’ve made lifelong friends that I’ve loved since day one. Dogs, cats, people I mentor – doesn’t matter. If my soul recognizes you, I can love you genuinely right away. I’ve hated that about myself most of my life (it’s illogical, according to this cold, hard world,) but I’m at such peace with it now. If people can hate without even getting to know a person, I can certainly love right out of the gate.
The fist time it happened was in 1983.
His name was Trace, and I met him at the skating rink. I still cannot hear Loverboy’s “Take me to the Top” without recalling the scent of Giorgio for Men and the whisp-whisp-whisp of his parachute pants as he whooshed by me in an eternally moving loop on his “peanut butters.”
Peanut butters – for those not in the know – are what we called those iconic brown rental skates at the rink – the ones that you tried not to think about the foot that was there before yours. Only the very popular, rich kids brought their own skates.
I was born with a painful and injurious connective tissue condition. When I was a kid, my family called it “clumsiness,” but it was actually many of my joints subluxing and dislocating constantly. I remember my ankles were janky that day, so I skated in a slow, steady loop, acting casual. Each time he’d pass me, he would wink at me over his shoulder. I guess because it was the early-eighties and we flirted like we were in a John Hughes film (what other template could we have used? Mr. Hughes defined our generation!)
It turned out, Trace was in the grade about me at the middle school. I was in seventh, he in eighth, and going to high school the following year. An almost-high-school boy liked me! That’s better than having custom roller skates!
And so began my first foray into “love.” And it was love, to some degree. I thought of nothing else but him. That evening, he asked me if I wanted to skate to the couples only skate. Actually, I think I was sitting on a bench festooned with neon colored patterns that glowed in the dark. When they cut the lights down, Journey’s “Open Arms” called us to the floor. I skated backwards and he forwards, but I saw nothing but his eyes. They were yellow-green, like a cat’s – but maybe those of a friendly cat. His hair was long, curly, and very blonde, like Sebastian Bach of the band “Skid Row.” And I was there for it. We became girlfriend/boyfriend that day and would be together off-and-on for the next couple of years – which is an eternity when you’re a teenager.
“I want to marry you,” he’d say, “and have lots of babies.” And I believed that’s what he wanted because his home was so unstable. We both wanted an opportunity to do better. Looking back, it’s a gigantic red flag, but my passionate 14 year old heart would not hear of anything less that marriage and babies. Oh the naivety!
Trace was wounded, in a way. And I worried about him constantly, which is another good indicator that this was different. He was sadness masquerading as a cowboy, in his hat and a pair of shit-kickers. I was sad too, but his love made me warm, and warm sadness is better than the regular kind, because any teenage couple worth their salt is plodding through angst. Me and you against the WORLD, right?
So I fell in love for the first time, with a boy from a broken home who called me his “angel,” and broke up with me because I was so afraid that he was going to expect me to do things after Prom that I canceled it altogether. I was terrified of intimacy; I simply was not ready. And he – being 17 – had “needs” that my Bible-toting, scripture-quoting, uber “good girl” self was not willing to facilitate. (Ugh. Could she not loosen up just a little?)
We had all the wonderful “firsts.” First couple’s skate. First hickey (“I burned my neck with the curling iron, Mom!”) First cheap but thoughtful necklace that turned my skin green. First experience with obsessing over a boy. First concept that I was adored by someone, and I was happy to adore in return. Of course, Trace was my first break-up too. I think break-ups teach us just as much about ourselves as relationships do. Maybe more.
Eventually it fell apart because – like every good John Hughes movie – there was drama. He had a rough childhood, and things were bad at my home too. Trauma-bonding does not make for the best relationship foundation. I moved away from Texas, and I have no idea what became of him. But I hope he is okay, and thriving somewhere with some special lady who is his “angel.”
First loves are practice; an art, not a science. We had all the standard-issue problems that teen couples do. But we also had stolen kisses behind the bleachers, sweet, corny love letters, and phone calls that ended with, “No, YOU hang up first…” “NO, you hang up first.’ “No, YOU” ad-nauseum so we could hear each other fall asleep.
He was such a sweet, troubled soul, and in truth – so was I. But all first loves should be equal parts magic and tragic, I think. It’s our first foray into accepting another human being for who they are, parachute pants, Peanut Butters, and all.
The year of our Lord 2023 can go suck eggs. It can suck eggs, eat my shorts, lick rust, and eat glass. I’m not one for oversimplifying (I can’t stand it when people say “the whole YEAR sucked!” because I’ve learned that the same year that held loss and grief also has it’s moments too. I can’t recall many right now, but they definitely happened. Small victories like medical lab results marginally improving, family birthday parties, lunch with friends.
Well, was it a bad year? It either was or it wasn’t, right?
At the beginning of 2023, one of my acquaintances posted to Facebook this ALL CAPS EXCITEMENT BOMB, and for good reason. “PRAISE GOD, YA’LL! HE IS SOOOO GOOD! IT WASN’T CANCER!” They had a cancer scare, and it turned out to be ‘nothing.’ So I rejoiced alongside my friend, with the cringe-comment, “WOOHOOO! GOD IS GOOD ALL THE TIME!” Hey, I was an evangelical a long time. The catchphrases die hard.
The very next day, I received news that a friend who was like a sister to me was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. She was given months to live. What the actual HELL, God? God did NOT seem so good anymore, in that moment – less than 24 hours after celebrating my acquaintances’ good news.
I was angry, and it set the tone for the whole year. I wanted to retract my praise for my FB friend’s diagnosis – not because I wasn’t thankful that they’d be okay, but because God knew devastating news was coming and he let me rant about how ‘good’ he is! SO good at healing, knowing good and damn well he was going to take my sisterfriend from us.
I don’t know about you, but I like absolutes – something this world is stingy with.
God is good, or he’s not.
Either “it is finished” by Jesus, or we are all still waiting in spiritual limbo.
Either God heals or he doesn’t.
A funny thing happened on Bitterness Road though. Our close friend group rallied around our sick friend. She herself had beautiful spiritual revelations in the last months of her life. REALLY profound, amazing realizations. We – the ladies in our tribe – learned more about facing death with grace and dignity than we had never known. She too was angry for a time, because of COURSE she was!
But in her terrible struggle, she also introduced us all to a peace that truly passes understanding; a peace not sullied by all the temporal shit we contend with every day. She was going home, and she showed us all how to do it with grace.
I still say 2023 was awful, as a whole. But there were so many glimmers. The high points didn’t look like winning the lottery, or losing weight, or getting a promotion, or any of the other things we think of as manifestations of God’s love for us (that we label as “success.”)
Manifestations of God’s love show up in the grace of going through the very worst life has to offer. And I guess I’d prefer that to a holy love that only manifests as “good” things. That’s a love entirely too shallow.
Today, I choose to believe the lovingness of God far surpasses the crappiness of life.
And on days (years?) when I struggle with thinking of God as pure love, I choose to believe God is only, simply love – no fillers or by-products. We can lean into that love. We MUST lean into it.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, because my spirit knows it to be true. So maybe don’t lick rust, 2023 – you taught me a lot. But I welcome 2024 with the expectation that God is good, and the assurance that when life isn’t, he still is. Blessed be, Friends.
When I was a child, my parents sent me to catechism classes for a few months, before they decided Catholicism wasn’t for them, and I have a few spotty memories.
I have always loved big words, and I remember learning the concept of “canonization,” which is when someone who lived a really stellar life could be declared a saint. According to Wikipedia, it is also declaring a person worthy of public veneration and entering their name in the canon catalogue of saints.
The extent of my experience with “catalogues” was that Sears put out a “Big Book” and that thing was the epitome of childhood joy! The be-all-end-all; about three solid inches of dog-eared, magic-marker-circled laminated possibility. The funny thing is that when it came in the mail each year, I cried. I sobbed with overwhelming emotion. It was TOO. MUCH. If I had had the language, I would have said, “I CANNOT EVEN WITH THIS.”
There were tears later for excerpts from the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book, but that’s a story for another time.)
How odd that despair and all-encompassing joy make us cry.
I still cry, but not in as much despair. At lease not most days.
Despair, when taken to liberally, only buys me more of itself. It confirms what every trauma of my life told you was truth. It makes me conduct life as if in mourning clothes – black and somber (but also a little bit enveloping and cozy.) Comforting because it’s familiar, and destructive for the same reason.
Here’s the thing: As far as I can tell, life is a tearful experience. No getting around it.
Tears are salty, either way. Whether they are generated by grief or extreme joy, there they are! Manifestations of our Big Feels, rolling down our cheeks for all the world to witness. No two spurred by identical emotion, each unique to the life experience that prescribed it.
I suspect that God is forever traipsing along behind us, collecting every single one; and not minding a bit to get his hands wet (or even snotty.) I don’t know why the image of the Almighty Cosmic Creator collecting our tears is so comforting to me. It’s validating, I guess.
So many of us were sprinkled by “holy water” to be baptized in the church tradition. How odd then that the sprinklings that we offer God so often roll down our cheeks. I like the thought that none of it goes to waste; that all tears are valid. (Are tears holy water too? Maybe they’re the holiest.)
I laugh more than I used to, too. Sometimes at the absolute absurdity of life. I mean, you can’t be serious, right? This place is crazy, man! Humanity is writhing right now. Each facet of our existences seems upended and spent. We are divided, swamped with information, fed a diet of doom, and all of this can make a very “connected” world feel very lonely.
Our instinct is to make our woe a solitary endeavor, but we’re all connected. Joy to joy, woe to woe. As best as I can figure, there are a trillion filaments of light woven between and through us all. That’s what vanquishes the darkness.
So yes, I cry. Some days, quite a bit. There are many times I “cannot even,” when my physical pain and mental/emotional pain are trying to outdo each other in a footrace, a good, cleansing cry is where it’s at. Not as a concession to the pain, but to spite it.
Being Earthside is wretched, brilliant, brutal, beautiful, and exquisite. It is a predetermined number of dog-eared possibilities.
But I’ve made it through 100 percent of the mess thrown at me so far, and so have YOU. That’s a pretty good track record. All we can do is try not to let our tears make us salty toward an open-wound world.
We become venerated by our tears. Canonized. Made whole and sainted, I think. All the really cool saints weep on the regular. I believe Jesus did, and why would he not? He rejoiced with weeping and wept with deep, abiding sorrow. He himself is the (Big?) Book of Life, not constrained by the two-thousand years of dog-eared, magic-marker-circled laminated possibility we have assigned him and called “Truth.”
Teardrop by teardrop. Emotional outburst by emotional outburst. Primal screaming session by primal screaming session. Whatever it takes to get through this stellar experience of life together.
Maybe my first blog – my first child in many ways – was preparing me to write more transparently (and ergo, more dangerously.) It would only make sense. I had an agenda with my first blog, “thebeggarsbakery.com,” without meaning to. The goal – even as it was unspoken to myself – was to be a grown-up “Writer” with a capital “w.” I wanted to carry answers to the big questions confidently, armed only with a background of religiosity and unrealistic expectations. I thought maybe I could even have one of those thingies that everyone else found so attainable, but I have never accomplished – an actual career!
What’s it like to have one of THOSE? I’ve had many jobs throughout the years, but none that brought me fulfillment or made me financially successful. I’ve wanted to write for a living since I could hold a crayon, but although I’ve been published in a national magazine (once), I still just write for therapy and funzies. Maybe that will change one day, but now I write from a place of peace, if not resignation. I’m okay with the fact that I may write for an audience of 1,900 (the total readership of my flagship blog after 11 years,) or 50 acquaintances, or a dozen close friends, or just the two – myself, and my endlessly supportive husband (who has read every word I’ve written since August of 2006, and even some archival stuff.) All of these options are okay with me. I don’t need to get it right, I just need to get this moving.
I MUST write like I must breathe (ugh, how dramatic! But it’s breathwork to me. I’ve recently started attending a writing workshop by my favorite author, Anne Lamott, and every little word she writes is magic because she shares her whole heart, not just the shiny pieces. What a time to start a new blog, I thought. I’ve shared a lot of shiny pieces, but I’m ready to share the rest of it.
So, welcome to my headspace. But more succinctly, welcome to my heart-space. I write in spite of the fact that I still don’t have quick answers to the big questions. My words will come at you, stream-of-consciousness-style. Although I am under no obligation to make sense to you, I’ll give it my level best!
My goal is to write a bit each day; that is my challenge to myself. I aim to “write clear and hard about what hurts,” as Ernest Hemmingway opined. Doesn’t matter about what.
Writing hard and clear about what matters is all I can asplire to. I’ve done myself a disservice in the past by writing about only what is hard and what is clear, since so much of this journey is neither (and/or both.)
And it’s all God’s fault. The Creator of the Cosmos wouldn’t stay in the little box-on-wheels the church gifted me, even though I implored him to keep his arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. You know, for his own safety and mine. He wouldn’t, and so I stuck a finger out the window, just to feel the wind, and now I’m ruined for stale spiritual air heretofore.
Maybe it’s all just practice, ya’ll. Maybe practice is where it’s at anyway. The best things in life are not the things we collect, but what we put into practice in our hearts. Day in, day out, practicing radical love – even when it looks sloppy and we feel unhinged.
So pull up a chair and come alongside me. There will be pearls of wisdom, and absolute drivel, because my headspace is full of both (and more!) Engage with me – I want to know what makes you tick, Dear Reader.
Let’s get this party started, with open minds and hearts. Blessed be, friends. ❤
Words by Jana Greene 