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“Let me wake with power and purpose.”

So, how did it all go down, with the 9-5?

My mom said, “That doesn’t sound like you.” My brother said, “Good luck with that.” My dad said, “oh, that’s nice” in his quiet, dismissive tone that sounds a lot like my brother’s condescending good luck statement.

This was my family’s reaction when I  announced that I decided to get a 9-5 job.

Family. They know you best     – at your best, and at your worst.

When I graduated law school, with honors, on a full scholarship, I had one thing on my mind: Self-Employment. Sending resumes, writing cover letters, networking, begging for a big firm job, it all sounded a lot like work to me. Work I could put into starting my own firm. And work that would result in unlimited control of my time and uncapped income potential. Sounded pretty good to me.

But, according to Uncommon Counsel, a lawyer depression support project, the majority of students enter law school with “a psychological profile similar to the general public.” (I beg to differ) But then, 20-40% of them leave law school with some type of psychological disorder. (I am sure it’s higher than that.) You have to be crazy to do this, right? You also have to be crazy not to.

The practice went well. Sort of. But lots of stuff happened. And I fell, far and hard. And I destroyed myself and my practice out of anger and spite. (Blog post coming about that deep-seeded statement.) I am called to law but not to lawyer. What does that mean? It means I probably caught one of those psychological disorders that was going around law school. That’s all it means. It doesn’t mean I can’t do this.

So, back to the point, how did it all go down, with the 9-5?

November 1, 2017- My journal entry:

“Dear God, Please help me help them. Please let this job end. Put off the old habits that have gotten me nowhere -fear, blame, procrastination. And let me put on new habits- commitment, consistency, completion. Let me wake with power and purpose, with a plan to get me there.”

November 2, 2017.- I was halfway to my new 9-5. I turned the car around and went home. I went straight to my office, with commitment, consistency, completion, power, purpose, and a plan.

It would have been day 4. I was crying hot, angry tears over the loss of my self and my law firm. 9-5 is not the same for others as it is for me. We are all different, but to support my statement, take these statistics:

.03% of the population in Michigan are lawyers. That means of 1000 people, a third of one person is a lawyer. Adult ADHD is estimated at around 4% of the U.S. population.

That means of my 1000 facebook friends, only about 40 of them actually sort of know the real feeling of tingly, fizzy blood running through your veins, and the true burning desire to hurt yourself rather than sit in one spot doing something that doesn’t interest you, for any length of time. I know life is hard for everyone, but it is a lot different for me.

I was given many supportive statements in my complaints and pain. There were many people saying hang in there, and I am sure there were a few people thinking I was whiny, negative, entitled, little bitch. They are right. I am.

I do deserve better than this and I am taking the abundance that God has prepared me for and has set aside for me. And I encourage you to take a look at what you are accepting in your life in comparison to what has been set aside for you. This isn’t some kind of manifestation, magic, abundance psychic thing. It’s God’s power and purpose for you.

I hired myself back at Melinda Schmuck Law, PLLC.

My mom said, “That sounds more like you.” My brother said, “I told you so.” and my dad said, “What did they say when you quit?” in his quiet, dismissive tone that sounds a lot like my brother’s condescending I told you so statement.

Family. They know you best- at your best, and at your worst.

Bold Courage. Fearless Love. It means I don’t have to lawyer like everyone else. It means I can lawyer however I want to. It means yesterday I accepted a dare to wear a fluffy red suit to court. It means I worked until 11:30 last night, I got up at 5:30 this morning.

It means today it’s not even 11 am, I just billed $500, wrote this blog, and now I can take my dog for a walk. It mean’s when I get back from that walk I can write some more, I can make some phone calls, I can create some content, I can create some processes, and I can send out another invoice for $300. AND tomorrow is Saturday, and I am praying that I will be able to work more. It won’t be easy. I have a LOT of messes to clean up. I will hate it some days. I will cry more. I will throw things. I will curse and I will threaten to quit more days than not.

But:

It’s Bold. It’s Courageous. It’s Fearless. It’s Love.

~Go away fear, God is here.

 

What is Bold Courage?

Being courageous in today’s society is often associated with being resilient, persevering, facing fears head-on, taking on consequences, being heroic.

However, when we closely examine the word we find a meaning beyond heroism.

The word “courage” takes root in the latin word, cor, and the french word, coeur, which means heart. Digging deeper, the meaning of the word heart holds the essence of soul, spirit, will, desire, mind, intellect. It is the biological word that represents the physical organ pumping blood through our bodies, giving us strength and life. Heart is the “inner part” of anything.

That root word, coeur, or heart, our innermost being, is followed by the old french term -age, the word-forming element that creates an act, process, function, or condition of a noun. This element comes from late latin -aticum, meaning, “belonging to, related to.”

Belonging to or related to our inner most being. Courage.

Boldness is to move forward despite barriers or fears we may experience. It’s the ability to speak the truth, and perform a task without concern of the consequences. Being “bold” is to concentrate on our character and follow our call with passion and conviction regardless of what the results may be.

Bold Courage. Regardless of the consequences, I will be true to my innermost being, God.

Bold Courage. Fully devoted to God in heart, soul, mind, and strength.

Gi’me a High Five, Jesus!

Natalie has been super into reading lately. I am so excited for her to have a love of language like I do! And it’s looking like she will have a relationship with Jesus like mine too, which is super awesome. The other day we were reading her children’s Bible stories, and she stopped me at the last page, where there was a picture of Jesus with his arms held high. She said, “Mom, I will read this!” and she pointed to the words. She read (as well as any three year old can- by making up the words to match the pictures) “And everyone was happy, happy, happy! Now give me a high five!” And she slapped the outstretched hands of Jesus.

We have been building up to this morning for a little over a week. My first real job, Natalie’s first long day in school. She’s never gone more than about 5 hours a day, never a whole 5 day week. Including my commute time, she is looking at a 45 hour week in daycare. I’m the one who was a mess. I almost just called the whole thing off.

As I was putting her shoes on her she said, “Hey mom, do you know what to say when you are scared?” It was as if she knew I was feeling all the feels. She said, “Goodbye fear! God is here! That’s what you say, Mom.”

Yes. And do you know what to say when you have the coolest, smartest, most intuitive three year old known to man? “Give me a high five, Jesus!”

I smell a RAT!!

Fall women’s bible study at a church I had never been to.

The moderator handed a microphone to the first in line of about nine women sitting on the stage, “Tell us about the last spontaneous thing you and your husband did.” Sitting on the stage were all the leaders for the small groups of our bible study. This was an opportunity to get to know them. The topic for the next nine weeks: marriage.

Many of the women answered the question about marital spontaniety with the same old, “I’m a total control freak, or I’m type A, I don’t do anything without a plan.” The others shared some variation of the same “exciting trip they took on a whim.” Which led to the next question, “Tell us about your worst vacation ever.”

I resisted the urge to compare myself…. but sitting in a crowd of women who all seemed a little like me AND a lot different than me made it hard. It made it impossible.

I immediately found myself in the peanut gallery, following the old familiar pattern of compare, compete, criticize, and condemn.

Compare. One woman shared how she bid at auction for a safari to Africa and won. That is spontaneous, I suppose.

Compete. I bid on a cake at an auction last year and won. It overdrew our checking account.

Complain. Man, I suck. How embarassing. What an idiot. How can someone seriously have a law degree and be so effing broke? I am such a loser for not getting a job. I need to just buck up and join the miserable world of employment. I can’t do anything right. My dreams are worthless.

Now since I felt like crap I had to bring her down a notch too….

Condemn. Africa! Who would want to go there anyway!? How stupid. Plus, look at her hair and her clothes. She is wearing SO much make-up. She was probably a real joy on a safari!! I bet she wore those heels and whined the whole time. Idiot.

I might be a loser, but she is a stupid high-maintenance hussie with a crap marriage. One Jesus point for me.

I thought back to the last trip my husband and I took together.

Compare. We went to the humane society. Animals. That’s like a safari. I remembered he pointed out the hole in the armpit of my shirt as we walked in the door.

Compete. I am so righteous. No vanity here. No sir. Another Jesus point for me.

Complain. I am wearing dirty jeans and couldn’t even bother to throw on some mascaera. I suck. I only have one kid, and I can’t even get here on time or run a load of laundry.

Condemn. They probably all get drunk all day and need the makeup to cover their hangovers. Nobody is this cheerful about being a wife and mom if they are sober. I do laundry when I’m drunk, too. And who wears heels that high when they have an infant car seat to carry? Someone who is insecure, obviously. I hope she takes off those heels before she starts drinking today. Silly woman gonna break an ankle up in here.

Well. I may be lazy but these women are all a bunch of insecure closet drunks.

I thought more about our trip to the humane society. Nick wanted a dog. Natalie and I found a cage of rats that looked nice. We argued over the rats. I filled out a paper to adopt rodents and he filled out a paper to adopt a dog. He said the rats would stink. I said the dog would be a lot of work. We sat, glaring at eachother. The competition was fierce. We went home with no animals.

Compare. Her worst vacation is Africa. We can’t even take a vacation. Let alone have a worst one.

Compete. I bet her husband is cool enough to let her have a rat. She just isn’t as cool as me to want one.

Complain. I am such a bad wife. I should have just let him get the dog. Why do I always have to control and fight over stuff? I ruined a perfectly good day over a couple rats. The only rat I smell is me. Minus one Jesus point for being a horrible wife.

Condemn. Dude. Are these women ever going to shut up about how BAD a vacation was?! Have a little gratitude, for Pete’s sake. If they were more spontaneous and less controlling they wouldn’t be so wrapped up in the demise of a perfectly good adventure.

Ungrateful, unappreciative bimbs is what they are.

I left that Bible study early because I suddenly realized I had forgotten to pack Natalie a lunch. More negative self talk ensued. One kid. One lunch. Seriously??! I will never get life right. Minus a Jesus point.

I left that Bible study angry with myself over what I didn’t have, angry with other women for having it. And angry with God for making me such a mess. And I was negative one Jesus point.

I got to school just in time to see Natalie in tears in the hallway looking for her lunch. Another little girl was following her, kindly trying to hand her a banana from her own lunch. So sweet. So innocent. So caring.

But Natalie couldn’t see that.

All she could see was what she didn’t have, and what it seemed like everyone else did have. And she was angry with me for being the kind of mom who forgets her kid’s lunch. Sounds familliar.

I realized that everything I thought about myself that morning was true. And everything I thought about those other women might have been true too. And in some way, the awful things I thought about them were also true of myself. (Except the closet drunk part. I am pretty sure that if I were day drinking there would be a facebook live post, or eight, to back it up that day.)

God didn’t make me a jealous, judgemental, insecure, jerk who thinks mean things about other people by accident. He didn’t just forget to make me the kind of person who can wake up early and put on make up, or do laundry. He didn’t fail when he made me bad with money and he certianly didn’t fail when he gave me the heart to make risky employment decisions.

He doesn’t expect me to ever get life right. It’s His job to get life right. It’s my job to trust Him. And he isn’t keeping score.

It is so hard to remember to draw close to him. I was IN church! I was there to study his word, to participate in fellowship, to grow in my spirit. And I literally walked through the doors and hung up my intentions with my coat. And I left counting my own Jesus points, farther away from God than ever. There is no such thing as Jesus points.

After the lunch fiasco and the lesson learned, I got home to find my husband, with a cage of Rats for me. And guess what? They don’t stink. And that weekend, we ended up with a new dog. And she IS a lot of work. At least I won that argument. One marriage point for me.

Level-Up. Life before Law School. Walking with ADHD and God.

I firmly believe that God put me in law school. It was a call that I heard for years. “Go to law school.”

Doctors and Lawyers had the highest education level I knew of, and I LOVED learning! But doctors had to deal with blood, and as you’ll soon read, blood and I don’t have the greatest relationship. But lawyers got to deal with books. Lots of books. And I loved books.

Books were in my blood, and their words spoke to my soul before I could even read them. I remember as a young child I found an old hardcover copy of a textbook for shorthand. I carried that around for a year, like a security blanket. I still remember the faded yellow cover, and the odd scribbles, interspersed among what I recognized as real letters. This strange book could mean anything I wanted it to mean. And I gave it the deepest meaning I could.

I remember sitting with that book, flipping through the pages, “reading” it. I pretended the book was my diary, and that God was the only other one who could read it. This book looked nothing like the large black leather covered Bible in my parent’s closet. But I found God in those words. I found Him in those random scribbles that could mean anything. And I found him in the spaces between the words where they could mean nothing and anything all the same. I couldn’t read the Bible yet, and I couldn’t even read this yellow book with the funny scribbles in it, but I found God there.

He was my imaginary friend. (And he was a creepy dude in a suit who hid in the linen closet of our bathroom- but that’s the other story about me and God. You can read that here. I talked to God all the time. He talked to me. And together, he and I had a plan. The best thing, was, God isn’t the kind of imaginary friend that only kids have. And I knew that. God was a completely acceptable imaginary friend for grown-ups too. So God would go to law school with me.

As far back as I can remember remembering, I had my whole future planned out. Without question, I would attend Kindergarten, then Elementary, then Middle School, then High School, then College, then Law School. Without question, I would be a top student, excelling beyond my classmates in every endeavor. Without question, God would be there. The two of us, invisible. But I’d be seeing him, and he’d be seeing me- in books. And in the spaces between the books, that is where we would remain invisible but know each other.

Learning was life to me. Formal education was almost like a video game to me. But they depended on each other. I had to complete each level of formal learning, or my life would be over. Level up. Or die.

In early elementary school I used to sit in the classroom, lost in a secret little game-world of perfection. I loved learning, but formal education was agonizing to me. Sitting there, going at the pace the rest of the class took; it made my blood feel hungry. Like it had to all crawl out of my veins and out of my skin if I didn’t feed it. Like my blood was filled with blank pages, and I couldn’t keep it in my veins if I wasn’t feeding it words. I had to be constantly consuming information or my blood would crawl out of my skin and I would bleed out everywhere.

I secretly knew the answers to every question the teacher asked. I could read well ahead of the class in all the books. I usually had a second book or two that I would read, to keep myself occupied as the teacher had to keep the pace. I always finished tests and quizzes well ahead of anyone else. I would sit quietly, pretending to continue working, until others stood to turn in their papers before me. I was invisible, playing a game of perfection against myself, and the others. It felt like being alone and winning my game was the only way I could sit there in that classroom and not explode.

I even had a real classroom set up in the living room. I had an old desk with a globe,  a stack of papers, pens, crayons, and even a set of old encyclopedias. I read that entire set too, A-Z. Except P. The P book was missing. I would go home from school and play pretend school for hours on end. I’d read and re-read, and write and re-write. I assigned myself book reports and memorized the states and the capitals and the state birds. I had to know everything. My blood only did that weird thing at school.

The thing about elementary school that I remember the most though, is the need to remain invisible. I had to stay invisible or they’d know my blood was doing that weird thing. They would know I was a freak. And they wouldn’t understand. Plus if my blood actually crawled out of my skin it would be a terrible mess. I once vomited in front of the whole class. It was so embarrassing! Bleeding out was just not an option.

And then everything changed. I made it through elementary school. Level up.

It was the first week of Middle School. I remember the terrible, sinking feeling I got when the new kid raised his hand before me, and had the right answer. Then he finished a quiz, and even confidently stood to turn in his paper, just before I had finished. And that’s when I was done. I wasn’t winning my game. I wasn’t the invisible smartest kid anymore. I was suddenly just the invisible kid. And there was now a very visible, very smart kid -winning my game.

If I wasn’t going to win, I had to give up. I stopped the little competition in my head. I wasn’t prepared to be second best. Even if it was only in my head. The fun was over. It didn’t matter if I did the paper, or the homework, if it wasn’t going to be both perfect AND better than everyone else then it wasn’t worth my time. My hungry, crawling blood couldn’t stand mediocrity. It still needed something to feed on. I lost the words for it, and I lost the understanding that God and I had. I wrestled through middle school confused, and unsure of who I would be if I wasn’t a book. It was hard and uncomfortable. My blood grew thick and slow, it stopped needing to be fed but I was too distracted to even notice if it was hungry. I don’t even remember most of it.

And, as it tends to, the world put a damper on my dreams. And slowly, my imaginary, invisible friend, God, seemed to have gotten lost in the shuffle too. I stopped seeing him in the words. He was SO invisible then. And sometimes I forgot that he could be felt in the spaces between the words. I stopped feeling words all together sometimes. I would read, but the words didn’t feed my blood. I felt like my thick and slow blood could no longer be moved by words but that it could somehow be measured by time or distance. I started counting.

60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour, 7 hours in a school day, 5 days in a week. 9 weeks in a marking period. That’s one million, one hundred and thirty four thousand seconds in a marking period. 27 ceiling tiles in the science room. 136 bleachers in the gymnasium. 73 squares of flooring between my homeroom and where my crush had homeroom. I don’t know if those are the real numbers but I remember counting a lot. It sounds crazy, but it kept me from going crazy. And I made it.

And then everything changed. I had completed Middle School. Level up.

I was now a Jr. High Student. That is when I learned the fine art of procrastination. This was a new game. A game of doing my own thing in ways that I could keep the crawling blood feeling at bay, and do just enough of the formal education things to keep up. Just enough to stay invisible. This balancing act was my new challenge. My blood liked it.

“Do it well, or not at all.” That was a motto I lived by. And even though independent learning and reading were still my favorite hobbies, following curriculum and hitting deadlines were not my thing. “Not at all,” became the default setting for anything assigned or expected from me. There is a strange rush when you’re disobeying norms, or breaking rules. A failure rush. Failure rush is like the direct opposite of winning rush.

Intentional failure though, that’s like a rush that you’re winning at failing. It’s a no-win game, a zero sum. But my blood didn’t care whether the food was positive or negative, or zero. The rush of failing kept it just as happy as the rush of winning did. Failing was a lot less work. And intentional failing was a lot more fun. Somehow, I got through.

And everything changed. I had completed Jr. High. Level up.

High School. My grades plummeted. If I wasn’t doing awesome it wasn’t worth doing. I was failing, and I didn’t really see the point of continuing, because, why bother? Do it well or not at all, right? The ultimate intentional failure is to quit outright. That would be the secret tunnel that would allow me to win this video game of formal education.

And then everything changed. I was offered an opportunity to duel-enroll. I was able to take college courses in place of high school courses. This allowed my day to be broken up between high school, college, work, and commutes. My crawling blood loved the novelty in my schedule! I loved that I could now be a new kid, and my silent genius brain started up again. I also learned to calculate my GPA, and match it with my attendance points and the weighted assignments combined with the college classes weight against my high school GPA, so I knew right away what days I could skip and what assignments would be useless. I knew what classes I needed to go to and what ones I didn’t. Then I used the in-school suspension time (that was supposed to be disciplinary) to complete my assignments without the distraction of a teacher lecturing in a classroom. I aced my college courses, balanced my way through skipping and skirting around my high school courses, and I ended up graduating high school in the top third of the class. All while still remaining invisible.

By now, the invisible God I had found in books had been totally replaced by my invisible self. It was like the words moved out of my blood and into my head. I couldn’t feel them anymore. But I could hear them. The words in my head grew more and more powerful. “Only smart kids go to law school.” The only way to prove I was smart was with grades. I didn’t have those. I wasn’t going to let my secret out now. It was too late. And without grades, I also wasn’t getting scholarships. “Only rich kids or scholarship-worthy prodigies go to law school.” I wasn’t valedictorian, I wasn’t athletic, and my musical gift (which I also kept hidden from the world) had only led me to a “musician’s lifestyle” of smoking pot and drinking tequila in people’s garages. Not exactly law school material. (Or, so I thought- Now I know, many lawyers are actually some pretty garage band-ish kind of people.) My blood still did that thing sometimes, but mostly now the words in my head were making me feel like something was missing. And it felt like it was something I couldn’t fill with words.

And then everything changed. I was now a High School Graduate. Level up.

I was a College Student. I was a cashier, a bartender, a waitress. I had various jobs, even sometimes all at the same time- but never for any length of time. That agonizing feeling of my blood needing to crawl out of my skin returned. Like it needed to be somewhere, anywhere but there. I couldn’t stand it. So I would change jobs, change schedules, skip classes, call in sick to work, and self-medicate. My books and words became drugs and alcohol.

Then it would get thick again, and sometimes it felt fizzy. I’d get lost for hours in mundane tasks so I could forget the distraction of my blood touching the inside of my veins.

But I kept trying to play school. Every semester of my early college years was like a new game to me. I’d start strong, then something would happen. I’d get sick, or miss an important test, or start a new job that conflicted with my class schedule or work load. I’d either quit a job, or drop out or fail out of school, using the delicate balancing act I had learned as my tool to chose what risky intentional failure I wanted to pick. Then; Reset the machine, pull the cartridge out, blow on it, put it back in, and repeat. I had to keep playing. Levels were the only reason I could think of to live. I was a dedicated gamer.

The problem was, that society didn’t see it that way. I wasn’t a dedicated gamer to them, I was a repeat college drop-out and I was continually failing. This led to academic probation, financial aid probation, and a narrow miss of district court probation.

The fail-outs, drop-outs, and night-outs were riddled with do-overs and hang-overs. I had full-time jobs and part-time jobs and inside jobs and outside jobs. I had over 40 employers in about a 10 year span. Like the GPA game, I learned how to balance sick days and vacation days with planned time off requests and still make enough money to pay my rent. But nothing more.

I kept putting that game cartridge back in the machine though, and somehow, I made it through my bachelor’a degree. Even though I had actually, probably, failed and dropped more classes than I had passed. I got through college.

And everything changed. I was now a college graduate. Level up. The next step was law school. But I was as far away from law school as humanly possible.

And it was clear to me that I could not function in a conventional world of academia, or employment.

My brain was too restless, my inner drive was too strong. I knew I was unable to let a work schedule or a paycheck be my reason for living. But leveling up- law school would be my last level. What happens when you finish a video game? You beat the levels. It’s just like finishing a good book. You turn it off. You close the cover. You go get some food. You walk around dazed, unsure what to do without that mission.

I could either keep playing the game, or just walk away from it.

I had sporadic academic records, poor finances, an insane collection of low-level job titles, a slight criminal history, and blood that is weird and sometimes flowed fizzy and sometimes flowed thick, and sometimes wanted to just flow right out of my body, and sometimes wanted to just stop flowing all together. This level would be impossible. I was defeated. The game won.

And then everything changed. I was a law school candidate. A secret level! A level between the words. An invisible place I couldn’t see! It was God. I could feel his words, I could see him in the spaces.

God plucked me out from behind the smoky, dingy, sticky bar where I worked and showed me how to go to law school.

My grades? Forgiven. My finances? Forgiven. My tendency to procrastinate? Forgiven. And actually, procrastination turned out to be a valuable skill in law school. My past encounters with drugs and alcohol? Forgiven. And also valuable. Turns out, a lot of law students are raging alcoholics and cocaine is rampant in law school. That boat was long gone in my life. Been there done that.

Law school was exactly what I needed and where I needed to be at the time. My love of preparing for and taking tests? Law School. My love of reading and writing? Law School. My love of independent learning? Law School.

I was made for law school.

God gave me law school. It was like he made law school specifically for me. And then he footed the bill! I got a full ride scholarship. He gave me law school, made me perfect for it, and when it was over, it was over.

And everything changed. Game over. Power down. Close the book. Now what?

Dear Mr. God

Natalie was looking at my Bible the other day and said, “God is inside this book, right Mom?” It made me wonder what she might think about God, and Jesus, and the Bible.

Kids have such a literal view of everything, and the slightest comment made, that we may not even think was heard, could potentially skew a childs entire image of God. The concept of God and religion is such a deep and complicated subject for people, even after a lifetime of study the ideas are never concrete and black and white.

As I thought about my early relationship with God it made me smile. It showed me how even today, many of my perceptions are still fueled by this image of God I had made up as a child.

I was raised in a more spiritual than religious family. We believed in one God, that everything was a devine plan with a reason, and that you didn’t use the Lord’s name in vain. I knew about Jesus, but he was more like God’s sidekick than a savoir to me. We didn’t quote scriptures or attend regular church services. We had a book of poetry that my mom read to us from, much like I imagine Bible reading would have been like. I still know many of those poems by heart. I am sure they will be the subject of many blog posts here. The Bible really only came out when mom needed our birth certificates or social security cards, because they were tucked, in the pages for safekeeping. We prayed at Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinner.

I thought God was the most important man in the world, even more important than the President of the United States! (It was the 80’s. The president seemed important then.) His job was relatively simple but kept him very busy; He had to answer everyone’s prayers with a yes or a no. He could read our thoughts and could see what we were doing all the time. And despite being so important and busy, he was always with me, but I couldn’t see him. I thought he was usually invisible but also always ducking in corners and clumsily diving for cover into clever hiding spots, like the Easter Bunny. Like he would never just stand in front of me being invisible, he’d hide, and if I looked hard and fast enough, I might catch a glimpse. He followed me around everywhere, watching me, listening to my thoughts, and keeping me safe. And he wore a suit and a hat, kind of like a Chicago gangster. My own personal God. My imaginary friend. My guardian. My confidant. My helper.

And one day, I finally caught him. Because he could read my brain I tried not to think about it, so he wouldn’t know, but I could see him hiding in our bathroom. I was very young, taking a bath, and I saw the reflection of his foot in the tub faucet. I wasn’t sure exactly where he was hiding, I assumed that he stayed in the linen closet most of the time, but I was too scared to look for him. But in that shiny, silver, mirror-like faucet I could see a reflection. A misshapen black shoe, and the bottom of his black suit pant cuff. He was really in my bathroom.

Something about seeing the reflection of his foot made him SO real to me. I started talking to his foot during bath time. I told him my problems and asked him for advice, but only during bath time because he was busy and important. I didn’t want to bother him too much. Sometimes I asked him for stuff like snow days and a purple bike for my Birthday.

I wanted to talk to him more than just at bath time, so I started writing letters to him like I did to Santa. I addresed them, Dear Mr. God, and I buried them in the backyard. Burying them made the most sense to me, because God lived in Heaven, and we buried dead people and pets to send them to Heaven. And since I called my teachers Mr., I figured I should address him the same. “Mr. God” felt respectable.

My vision of God has evolved from this child’s vision, and as I get to know Jesus I see that he was more than a mere sidekick. But some things have stayed the same.

I still pray my best in the shower, but I don’t talk to his foot. I now realize it was the reflection of the shower head in the bath tub faucet. I still write God letters, but I don’t bury them in the back yard. He likes me to just keep the letters in a notebook, so He can read them with me later. I still tell Him my problems and ask Him for advice. He is never too busy or important for me. But I do still ask Him for snowdays and bikes, and also for lots of other stuff. I figure it can’t hurt.

The Breakdown

It happened in the bookstore. I had chosen a comfy chair in a semi-hidden corner. I wanted to just enjoy being with the books. I love to look at them, stacked high all around me. So many stories, each one a different example of someone’s genius, but also a representation of something tangible created by nothing but words.

I love words. I love books. And I needed solitude.

I thought sitting with the books would somehow make me feel better. I was looking for comfort in words.

I believe God created the world with words, and gifted us with words, and that the power of words is one way that God lives inside us.

In the quiet corner of the bookstore, in the solitude, the words turned out to be overwhelming, and the tears came.

They just started rolling out. Big, round, wet, hot, tears. They turned my eyes and cheeks red instantly. They poured out of my nose as thick, slimy snot. They drenched my face and dripped off my chin, landing in tiny splashing puddles on the pages of the book in my lap. When I thought it couldn’t get worse, suddenly my shoulders shook, every inhale made a quiet, high pitched hiccup or a loud gurgling sniffle. I couldn’t stop.

It was an ugly cry.

There was no chance of hiding it. There was no way I could bite my booger covered lip and quietly escape without drawing attention to myself. I couldn’t even sit in that chair in that quiet corner and not draw attention to myself. So I cried.

I cried for my Grandma, who is alone and confused and would dearly love for me to sit and visit with her for hours, but I just don’t feel like it sometimes. I cried for my daughter, who sits in my bed reading books with me and watching movies for hours some days, because sometimes I just don’t have the energy to do anything else. I cried for my husband who had to wear a dirty shirt to work that day because sometimes I just can’t remember to get the laundry in the dryer. I cried for my friends because I ignore them and hide from them most of the time. I even cried for my dog because I haven’t walked her in months. And I cried for my law degree, because even though I act defiant about it, it breaks my heart that I am not called to be a lawyer. I cried for my future, because I have absolutely no idea what it holds.

I cried the ugliest cry, about all the ugliest stuff. In a corner of a bookstore.

I was looking for comfort in words, but God gave it to me in tears. And he didn’t care how ugly it got.