tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-126729195749397392024-03-05T17:11:05.254-08:00JessicarrotThe stuff I think aboutJessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.comBlogger69125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-57302227519888567412016-03-27T18:15:00.003-07:002016-03-27T18:15:54.004-07:00Rise and take a seat at the tableThe evolution of my faith has brought me to a new understanding of <i>worship</i>. <a href="http://www.psychologycharts.com/james-fowler-stages-of-faith.html">Fowler's Stages of Faith</a> suggests that this is a universal experience. We all move from literal to mythical to conventional to logical and if we are lucky it all comes together at some point where we understand the limits to logic and the value of our ancient stories and that compels us to be active instead of passive in our worship.<div>
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This year I participated in Maundy Thursday (celebrating the last supper and the events that lead Jesus to the Cross), Good Friday (remembering the actual suffering and death of Jesus), and sunrise Easter service where we celebrate the victory over death and the Resurrection. </div>
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Each of those observances were deeply moving and powerful for me. </div>
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And they made me wonder as well. How does this actually apply to me? To my neighbor? To my fellow humans who don't share my faith? </div>
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And a secondary question that hung in the air for me while contemplating this day-- If Jesus died for all of us… why do we have a tendency to try to separate ourselves out from each other?</div>
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I had the good fortune last May to travel to Israel and see the actual places on earth Jesus' story unfolded. There in Jericho where Jesus went to pray and fast is a lift that carries tourists to the top of a cliff where there is a small church cut out of stone that is supposedly on the very place Jesus sat. On the ride up Bill and I sat with a mother and daughter and our guide. The mother and daughter were visiting from Gaza. They were both beautiful and gracious. And it turned out they were in the midst of grieving a great loss. The mother was a widow. Her husband and the father of her child was killed in violence in Gaza.</div>
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There was a recognition for me, for Bill, for our new friends that we belonged there together, that we were part of this same human family. We prayed together in that place where Jesus went to be alone and commune. Palestinians are a people I feel I was taught to despise. They are "othered" by many in this country and the truth is they are just mothers and daughters and fathers and brothers all trying to live and thrive and give their gifts of hope to the next generation.</div>
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The truth is the whole of the human family in in that same work. Not because they confess Christ as their savior. Not because they belong to our same university or church or race or gender. Not because we approve of their choices or morals or political opinions. Just because we're humans. Just because we are alive together and reside on this planet. </div>
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The more active our faith becomes, the more we have to recognize the fact that humanity itself will rise and fall together. The more active your faith, I think, the more universalist you become. </div>
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For me, this is how the cross relates to everyone, whether you're Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, Atheist, Pagan--wherever you fall in belief or non belief we are descended from the same civilizations that created these sacred archetypes. This story is OUR story. </div>
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We participate every day in the work of crucifying our own hope, our own Messiah. It happened just today in <a href="http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-35908512">Pakistan</a>. Women and children mostly, in a beautiful innocuous public park were playing, loving each other and bomb went off killing over 50 innocent people. Fifty six people and parts of hundred's of souls ripped into grief and unimaginable pain. It happened last week in <a href="http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/03/22/471391497/what-we-know-terrorist-bombing-at-brussels-airport">Belgium</a>. In our zeal to force an individual agenda, humanity keeps killing our best hopes. </div>
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However, for me the message of the resurrection and the power in the empty tomb resides in our species in those dark moments. Before the dust even settles we <i>RISE. </i>We rise and go back to lift each other. In those purposeful moments we rise against the tide, against reason, against our safety and against sometimes our lives we rise up to keep the light of hope alive in the world. Our lives becomes so simple in a tragedy, we are face to face with our humanity. </div>
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We rise when we recognize our ability to <i>do something</i> about pain or suffering. We rise when we step up to pay for the groceries someone can't afford. We rise when we intervene to help someone who feels invisible. We rise when we love each other well. We rise when we see each other in all our flaws and shortcomings and choose to love deeply and honestly anyway.</div>
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The message of Jesus the teacher, the brother, the Savior belongs to everyone. It is a human story. It has been told for generations. It resonates in all of us because we are meant to recognize what is the same in us. As we move forward as a society we rise against the zeal of bigotry, of racism, of single-mindedness and passive faith. We rise to be saved into the transformative body and wholeness of creation. </div>
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The Grace of God means there are no people beneath us, there is no one we need to build a wall to keep out. It means we are all worthy of a seat at the table.</div>
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Happy Easter</div>
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Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-18841363665292531772016-03-24T11:19:00.000-07:002016-03-24T11:19:51.522-07:00An Easter Prayer for the restlessDear God,<br />
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It isn't that I don't recognize how good I have it. Its just that I get so stuck sometimes.<br />
I get so off track chasing down meaning I can't make in life.<br />
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I am not hungry or sick or lost or homeless.<br />
I am not huddled in some God-forsaken hell that swallows all my gifts.<br />
I am not in the black of darkness.<br />
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I'm here, God.<br />
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I'm here and I have been hurt but I don't need to hurt anyone.<br />
I'm here and I've been lied to but I don't need to lie.<br />
I'm here and I've been beaten down but I don't need to beat anyone.<br />
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I stand here in all my bare truth and I know that I'm enough the way I am.<br />
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I am here failing and falling short and I am not ashamed of that.<br />
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I'm here in all my broken, aging, wrinkled beauty and I am yours, God.<br />
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Amen<br />
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<br />Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-13781679009924718792015-10-14T21:35:00.000-07:002015-10-14T21:44:10.878-07:00Love is: a living entitySometimes life slows down enough, time slows down enough for a moment for us to really see something important. I have this memory of dancing. It was dark, I was drunk off of adolescent angst and silliness and a sugar high and I was asked to dance. He was a tall, funny charming older boy dressed as a plumber, holding a plunger and everything. (Because it was Halloween) There was something so vulnerable in that energy. There was something inexplicable how powerful and emotional it was to dance without words. To be lead or to lead and allow that exchange. To hear in the motion of it something about my own heart. Something so time-slowing-downish that in a very small moment where I felt the world moving in a surreal way.<br />
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A few days later I found out that sweet and silly boy hung himself. And then I recognized the importance of that dance. The finality of that moment happening and then closing down permanently.<br />
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Life is so precious. So very finite. So full of surprising ends and beginnings. There is an order in the chaos of it all. There are echoes in all this nuance and mess.<br />
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It will never make sense to me what happened. That a person can be so broken and hurting and desperate on the inside when all we see is courageous strength and light in a brave smile. People are complex. People are walking around wounded. People are doing everything they can to hide the fact that they live with the chronic aches of healing and re-wounding. And somehow we are taught to feel shame in that.<br />
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I think of love a real, living entity. And that is why it is important to love people where they are. In the very moment where you are.<br />
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Sometimes we can't know what brought us here together. We can't know what will happen five days or five years from this moment. But we can actually imprint love in our interactions. Our brains are actually wired to change with every new interaction.<br />
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<b><i>Our brains are wired to keep learning with every interaction.</i> </b><br />
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I can't say that without a sense of awe and wonder every single time.<br />
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So I love this man. And absolutely nothing about loving him is easy. Absolutely nothing about accepting and growing together is textbook. It is alive. Love is like our bodies-- intricate and complex and amazing and incomprehensible. One hormonal imbalance can throw everything out of whack sometimes. But with care and diligence, we can always be healed if we are able to seek help and intervention.<br />
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Somewhere along my way in life I stopped dancing. I literally stopped wanting to dance. I don't know what brain rewriting lead to my fear and anxiety over dancing--or if I just accepted the things I told myself--that I am not good at dancing, I have no sense of timing or rhythm. Saturday night I danced with my husband for the first time. It was this beautifully intimate surrender of all of my self-consciousness that I will cherish for the rest of my life. It was for me, a transformative moment. A healing moment. A time-slowing down moment where I could close my eyes and feel perfectly safe. I could breath deep into the smell and confidence of my partner. I could feel where he wanted me to move. So many rewritings and relearning done in that blind moment.<br />
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And so as not to represent only the bravest of smiling faces I will be honest: It hurts sometimes. It isn't a beautiful surrender sometimes. Sometimes love feels like you are in the last mile of a race you just want to quit. Sometimes in love we can only see in our partners the result of lots of pain and deep, deep wounding that comes out in unexpectedly hurtful ways. We are very rarely honest about the hard stuff. And for good reason. But I just want to share this epiphany I had about loving wholly, loving and healing through the hard stuff. Because it always is transformative and empowering and so so worth it to work through the healing process. I believe there is a sanctifying grace in our suffering. There is an ability to dig in deep and find our strength. And sometimes what that feels like is not knowing what to do, where to go or how to move on. Sometimes that is where real loving and living begins. Sometimes we lead, sometimes we are lead. It is a beautiful surrender when we accept love as a living and breathing entity.<br />
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I'm not sure if that makes sense. I'm not sure you can really give anyone your epiphanies or life lessons like handing over a coin. But I do know about the currency of love--that the more you pour out of yourself, the more your internal reserves grow.<br />
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So love. And love big.<br />
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Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-88471802419710684142015-09-12T20:06:00.002-07:002015-09-12T20:10:33.326-07:00The last nightWhen I was a child, Christmas Eve was five hundred years of sleepless seconds. Anticipating Christmas was bigger and more incredible than Christmas day ever could be. Because the day inevitably comes to a close and then its over. Just like that.<br />
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I could never have been able to survive the evening before BJay died if I knew what was going to happen. And I think about this so often. Death happens all the time. All around us people fight for their lives in a hundred different ways. Sometimes we know it is coming. Sometimes we know it is near. Sometimes it is quick and completely unexpected. No one is ever really prepared. But I don't know that I could have survived anticipating the tremendous crushing ocean of sorrow that is losing someone you love. It feels merciful to me, that if it had to come at all, death came so completely unexpectedly.<br />
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I plead with you tonight as I remember so vividly the last night I spent with BJay in this world: Please don't take your love for granted. Please don't treat your relationships lightly. Loving is the greatest thing we get to do. Love is what binds us forever. Love is what makes all this pain and sorrow worth bearing. Love breaks us open to everything that hurts. And love is what heals us and binds us up again.<br />
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I am reminded once again as I've come to this night. Five years ago we left the children with my family and went out. We didn't go dancing. We didn't have a fancy meal. We didn't do anything bold or impetuous. But we did take the time to recognize each other. The world was shifting under our feet. I have no idea what I would have said or done if I had known it was the last time we would ever go out together. But I do know for certain that nothing was left unsaid. I went to sleep peaceful and filled up with happiness, contentment, and deep abiding love.<br />
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We woke up and cooked breakfast together. And within two hours he died. On a Monday morning, mid September.<br />
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On this eve before the day that marks the worst day I ever lived I am glad to be where I am now. I am glad to know what I know. Along the way I have seen this same nightmare unfold around people I know and those don't know and it inspires me to no end that people keep on living and creating beauty and being wonderful and cheerful and funny. Under the weight of so much pain and struggle we can all keep going. And we do. And we will.<br />
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Today, remember to love the ones you love well… if you would. For BJay.<br />
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Thanks<br />
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<br />Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-34826216408874786842015-04-10T12:46:00.000-07:002015-04-11T06:18:36.441-07:00Faith<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Taking a much needed break from my amazing wonderful children and annoying little puppy to spend a few days in Savannah resting, running, thinking and studying. I have been thinking about faith and what it means for me and I was reminded of this little gem:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Have faith."</span><b id="docs-internal-guid-35b2900c-9f33-83ac-2a46-a9926de67d58" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When he said it, the words pressed into my palms, like coins. Since then I've measured all virtuous currency. I've checked it against a balance sheet. I know how much it costs to cross the line. I know how much I earn for grieving. Annuities paid out for never questioning. Nose to the grindstone, I'll have enough by the end of next year.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When I have enough, I will cross the Rubicon. All my rabid sins will find me.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.2; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What I was trying to get across was that there is this </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.2; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>false</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;"> idea that faith is like religious currency. And so doubt is like some kind of spiritual debt. In </span><span style="line-height: 19px; white-space: pre-wrap;">this paradigm, faith is</span><span style="line-height: 1.2; white-space: pre-wrap;"> something you accumulate and amass. If your faith account is big enough, you can buy favor from God. If you have enough of it, you can use the earned-interest to make a transaction with God where you make known your will and in exchange for faith, God will remove obstacles in your path, heal, bless or give you what you need or want. However, if you give away too much of it, if you go bankrupt in faith by accumulating too much doubt, you can lose your account with God and without the currency of faith, give way to the barren emptiness of Godlessness and Faithlessness. In this way, faith is evidence of personal righteousness. And doubt is evidence of unrighteousness. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.2;">I don't think this thought was fully developed in my mind when I wrote that fiction in 2009. It is very hard to even find the words to describe what it meant for me today. I think I thought the flash was about gambling your faith on an absolute idea. Or accumulating enough currency to be a good enough person and then finding out when you are at the point of no return that it </span><span style="line-height: 19px;">wasn't enough. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.2;">For me right now, faith is something broader and more transformative than a positive spiritual currency. I don't believe it can not be had without doubt. I don't think you can gain a deep, abiding faith without fully recognizing, categorizing, acknowledging and getting to the bedrock of your doubts. After all, faith is defined as believing even though there is evidence not to believe. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">According to <a href="http://www.pewforum.org/2012/12/18/global-religious-landscape-exec/">Pew Research on the global religious landscape</a> most people in the world have faith in the divine. According to Pew, Christianity is the largest piece of the pie with 31.5% of the population ascribing to the teachings of Jesus Christ. After Christianity, Islam has 23.2% of the world's population, followed by 16.3% of the population that is "unaffiliated". The study categorizes the third largest group this way, but for my purposes I think this is a little misleading. This segment of the world population is not necessarily atheist, many may believe in a higher power or have spiritual beliefs, they just don't affiliate themselves with any particular religion. Even still, if you don't count the unaffiliated group, the vast majority of the world believes in a higher power. In the world, 84% of the population labels themselves as a believer in some established religious tradition. That is a huge statistic. It means that most people in the world have faith. Something compels humans to believe in something. And we believe even though there is no rational reason to believe. We have faith even when there is very little to no historical, scientific, or measurable reason to have faith. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In fact, our faith has the power to link us to the divine even when the historical evidence shows us that the religions we ascribe to do not always behave in benevolent ways. There are embarrassing failures of doctrine, catastrophic misunderstandings that lead people to feel they are enacting "God's will" in violent, irreverent, racist,discriminatory and even hateful ways. But our faith can overcome any and all of these things no matter how troubling or how strong the evidence. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Why?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In my opinion it is very simple and exquisitely beautiful. God gave us the power to choose. Freedom, having the power to choose has been so important throughout the history of the world that men will fight and die and <i>kill</i> to protect it. It is so innate in us, this gift God gave us to decide for ourselves what is true enough to exercise our faith in that it becomes a wellspring for all the good humanity produces. Where freedom of religion is allowed, intellectual study and ideas flourish. The arts flourish. Scientific discovery flourishes. Freedom to choose doesn't mean that bad things don't happen because they always will. Humanity produces ugliness and horror as much as it produces good and beauty. But I think it is always when choice is limited or perverted or taken away completely that the ugliness is most potent. And ironically, trying to legislate goodness into society by limiting freedoms has the opposite effect. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Limiting faith to one state church was and is and will always be a disaster. I think there is evidence for that historically. I think there is evidence for that now. Church and state can not effectively govern together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think I'm biting off more than I meant to chew on here. My point is that faith is powerful enough to withstand all doubt. Truth and faith align in the power to choose. I have spent this awesome time off from responsibilities listening to and reading a lot of lectures on faith. One point from a <a href="http://mormonscholarstestify.org/3015/melissa-wei-tsing-inouye">Mormon intellectual</a> that I went to church with in California (when she was likely in her college-doubting phase) said something that I found very profound that was told to her in her doubts about her faith:</span></div>
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<em style="background-color: white; color: #272a21;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">“There are a lot of stories in the world, but Mormonism is the story that I want to be true. To the extent that it is not, I will make it true.”</span></em></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think this is a powerful idea and it extends outside of Mormonism. Because you can certainly find evidence against a religion or sect if you go looking for it. But the beautiful thing about faith is that we get to choose where we fit. We get to make true what we want to be true. And most people in the world are doing just that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What I have found important as my faith has ebbed and flowed and as I've become restless is that you have to choose something with innate goodness that excites you and connects you to the Almighty. You have to connect in a way that you are excited and willing to contribute to the good of the world. This zeal and excitement for people, this reservoir of faith has to happen on an individual and organic way. <i>You have to choose it. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Faith to me is not the power to bend God to our will, but the acceptance that once we choose God, we can accept the journey whatever comes along. Once we choose to connect to the goodness of God we can walk or climb or crawl or be carried at times through any challenge of doubt or pain or grief because our faith is not anchored in our own ability to achieve, but in God's ability to refine and change us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I am thankful for the freedom to exercise my faith. I am energized and excited in the story of Jesus Christ. The simplicity of His message to Love God and Love you Neighbor is what I find the most goodness in. :)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 1.2;">Thanks for </span><span style="line-height: 19px;">listening</span><span style="line-height: 1.2;">. </span></span><br />
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Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-2227849072927204462015-02-18T16:30:00.001-08:002015-02-18T16:30:30.132-08:00A little honestyI don't think it is too far off that there will be a device that takes the thoughts out of our heads and writes them out for us. I would love to have something like that when I run. Running is a meditation for me. I usually run alone. I run with my thoughts. And I run with the aim of connecting with God as I sort through the stuff on my mind. I'm staring down day 3 of being "snowed-in" here in NC. Arctic weather has set in and I'm loving the extra time with the kids but not loving the winter bite out there enough to make myself run in it. So I have a lot of thoughts built up and I guess I wanted to air them out here.<br />
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<b>An encouraging word</b></div>
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Women in my life: I love you. I am uplifted and inspired and encouraged by you. And I don't tell you that enough. And I don't tell myself enough that its okay, and I'm okay and you're more than okay because we're doing our best. Maybe we are hard on us because we don't know if we are doing our best or if we could be doing more. You know? Because we're busy putting everything ahead of ourselves in order or importance and we're just trying to get to the bottom of the list. I don't know what I'm saying here really, it made so much more sense to me the other day when I was running. And, btw, I had to stop and walk like 4 times and couldn't get into a comfortable pace. And I felt like crap about it. Why? Because I'm not an athlete? Because I don't know if I'll ever be able to really finish a marathon… And then I realized that that was okay. There was a time 3 miles might as well have been a marathon because I didn't believe I'd ever be able to run that far. And there was a time before that when I didn't know how I could make it to 2012 because I was so broken and alone and I didn't know how to ask for help so I sunk deeper into isolation. But. Things got better. I got stronger. And I kept going. So. If you are having a hard time with whatever it is, just keep putting one foot in front of the other. It isn't true that "everything is possible". Because it just isn't. But <i>you</i> can change what is possible for <i>YOU</i>. </div>
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<b>The strength to be vulnerable</b></div>
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I find myself in a vulnerable place. I am going to come clean here and I don't know how its going to work out. I am struggling to make sense of matters of faith. I have come to realize that I can't know the things I want to be sure about. The religious convictions I held so strongly for so long are waning and its hard to accept, its hard to understand. The things that I know are that God is real, that he loves me and that he sent Jesus to atone for the world so that we could overcome our vulnerable nature and be forgiven of our sins. I know for sure I need Jesus Christ in this moment more than anything else. But I feel so alienated from church and doctrine and the religious condescension and smugness that I honestly don't feel I belong to anything. I honestly don't feel at home or accepted anywhere. And I guess I have put myself in this place. But I have to be honest, its a very lonely place, once again. I feel like my LDS friends and family will see me as an apostate and my Christian friends see me as a heretic. And I just want to be a believer. "Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief."Mark 9:24.</div>
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I struggle to understand how so many people in the world call themselves a Christian yet treat fellow Christians of different denominations with contempt. Are we not all beggars? Mosiah 4:19? I know I am. </div>
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<b>Please</b></div>
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Friends, I love you. Please don't tell me how to fix this. I am working on it. Prayers would be great. Thanks for listening again. And thanks for being part of my life. My heart is so full with gratitude for all the kindness, all the friendships, and all the understanding I have been granted by you. Hugs all around. </div>
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<br />Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-78693926668694264872014-09-18T20:27:00.001-07:002014-09-19T16:00:35.806-07:00The BoatmanIt has been a busy couple of months. I had a wedding, moved, went on a family vacation/road trip with our new family of 10. Got started in 4 new schools, started settling into our new place. And I'm learning how to be married to a pilot. I'm learning I love being married again. And I am learning it is still hard work. So many things I should devote entire pages to. And I will. And pictures.<br />
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I love my new life, my new home, my new friends. And I love my new family. I feel… just so full up and content when we get to all be together and I see how the kids are loving each other and playing with each other and I can cook for all of them and learn what everyone likes and doesn't like. I love making 6 lunches for school. I love how love expands from the man I fell in love with to the children he is responsible for. And even when it isn't easy, it is still love. And that is a gift and a blessing.<br />
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BJay has been on my mind the past few weeks. We just passed the 4 year mark of when BJay died. I was going through some old files and I found this poem I wrote in the days after BJay died. It was all so fresh then, that hurt. But I like that I have stuff like this to remind me how I felt. I had forgotten that Jamie, my little sister made cookies for the kids the day BJay died and they saved some of the cookies for the man in the fishing boat who helped them. I never got to thank that man. He literally disappeared as soon as he came to shore. The children divided their food for him. And it made me think of him as something mythical, or some otherworldly being. I was thinking of Greek mythology here, the boatman who takes people to the other side. And you leave coins for him on the eyes of the dead. And I thought of how hard it would be to have that job. At the time I was seeing people who dealt with the grieving all the time. Funeral home directors, cemetery plot salesmen. These people see grief every day, they live in it. They hear it and see it. And I just think it takes a certain kind of strength to do that, to see it and hear it all the time.<br />
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Anyway, that is where this poem came from. Out of all those thoughts. The most important being that BJay, as a father willingly took the place of his children in death. Just as any real father would do. There is dignity and honor in that. And that was and is very important to me, that that is the message that comes across when I talk about what happened to my children's father. I think some day there will be a message that is important for me to show the world about the man who is raising these kids now. And the respect and honor he has for BJay. The men I love are the real kind of superheroes. What a lucky woman I am. Anyway… enjoy. Or not. ;)<br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Boatman</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-8c433a32-8be2-951d-083c-032522ee5d3e" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He is always there before you expect him</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">gliding through a cloudless fog.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Keeping time, keeping constant strait lines-- never far from shore.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The boatman's time keeps pace with tragedy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With heartache and disembodied cries.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With pain so acute and fresh it can't be contained.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He has to hear and hear and hear, a chorus of anguish,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that is part of the chore.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is a thankless job, for coins.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And no one ever thinks to give him anything more.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once in a while he gets to see what is out of place.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The people who don't belong,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ones he can't bear to carry across.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that is when he takes them back.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wishing, just once, to reverse the order.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But he can not go back across empty handed.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He guided my children to my arms and</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">left us standing on the shore.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He took my lover to the great beyond,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">because he had to do it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because order can not be undone.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Because a father willingly pays the price for that mercy.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have met him but I did not see his face.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My children know him and they</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">divide their food.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"For the boatman," they say, because he helped us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-48691673529191415382014-05-26T08:54:00.001-07:002014-05-26T09:01:40.781-07:00My New Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNadBzvZJ7Tq4qKljhFIyT2CY3MMbTOFCnxvseUSXSLHEOCzrkJhEzdc2LBKEJcBl6EhFp-hUaXLyVxt3t3Oe9uO1eHbggcJRIFpsim0kB1zFQjRd2WxlCT8RuMqZUzSCUfTNbLpxqEHo/s1600/Bill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNadBzvZJ7Tq4qKljhFIyT2CY3MMbTOFCnxvseUSXSLHEOCzrkJhEzdc2LBKEJcBl6EhFp-hUaXLyVxt3t3Oe9uO1eHbggcJRIFpsim0kB1zFQjRd2WxlCT8RuMqZUzSCUfTNbLpxqEHo/s1600/Bill.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Today I am 37. Yesterday was my birthday. Today I am stuck in the airport in Chicago after missing my flight twice. Twice. First time was totally my fault, I didn't give myself enough time to turn in the rental car but I got on the next flight. When I got there I went right to the gate and waited… and waited. And then I noticed it was 6:20 and I hadn't heard anyone call for boarding so I went looking for someone. No one was at the counter… And the door was closed. Wow. Totally missed that flight while sitting right at the gate! Weird. And there isn't an open flight until tonight. Which would make my total travel time 24 hours if I don't get on this 11:30am flight I'm on standby for. Ugh. I miss my kids. And I miss my fiancé, who, btw is an amazingly sweet man to have in your corner when you're in crisis mode. Even if its your own stupid fault. I love Bill more today than any of the other days because he hears me. He listens. And when I need compassion and gentleness, he is that soft place for me.<br />
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I have taken a long hiatus from blogging again. Life got busy. School got busy. And somewhere along the way I fell in love. Also, I'm getting married in 4 days. For those of you who want to know how I got from:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">One thing I want to address because people keep bringing it up: The idea of finding love again is of no comfort to me. None. As much as I hate being alone, I hate the idea of doing the work involved in dating even more. And I can't imagine sharing my children with anyone. Dating with 5 kids is not remotely the same thing as dating as a single person. I just don't have enough faith that there exists a man who could fill BJay's shoes and love all 6 of us enough. Also, I'm just not willing to put up with the humiliation of being that single mom of 5 looking for a man. I'm sure there are other ways to think about it, but that is how I feel.</span></blockquote>
To being in love and about to get married, I will tell you.<br />
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So, 8 months ago I did not believe that there existed a man who could love me and my 5 amazing children. I did not believe that it was possible that anyone could look at us as a package deal and say, "Wow, what a privilege and a blessing you all are to me." When I imagined how it would be to date again, I could only envision rejection and heartache. And I just felt like it was my job as a mother to protect my children from any more hurt. So When anyone would suggest that I should date or that I would find love again--it really did annoy me. I had a partner in life, the children had a dad and that was all taken away from us. So- it felt like an insult in so many ways for me to go out into the world asking for someone to love me and my kids when ultimately, such a request could only end in heartache.<br />
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But then I had a complete change of heart. And for me it was like the flipping of a switch. For three years and four months I wasn't ready to think about dating. And then one day I was. I don't know if this is how everyone experiences getting to the point where you feel completely healed and ready to open up your heart, but this is how it worked for me.<br />
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I think everything brought me to that point, but it clicked for me when I noticed how my girls would light up around male friends of mine. I saw how much they were starved for a family that included a dad. Girls need fathers, I know that. And so do boys. <br />
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So I prayed. And I went to the temple and prayed. And I fully gave to God and BJay all my fear and trepidation about what it was going to mean to find and nurture love again. Because I knew I needed a man who could love my children--but I also knew that I couldn't settle for anything less than deep, abiding real love. I had that, I knew how good it was--and I wanted it again.<br />
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Enter Bill the Pilot<br />
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Does it matter how we met? (Online dating) I have felt God's hand in my life more than ever since BJay died. I have felt since the moment I knew BJay was gone and me and my world shattered that I could trust that God would guide me to protect and take care of my children. So when I met Bill the Pilot, I recognized something in him. He wasn't anything I thought I was looking for. And I wasn't anything he thought he was looking for. But there was a recognition immediately for both of us that something important was happening.<br />
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Bill saw that I was a widow and living near Fayetteville and assumed that I was a war widow. And he had compassion for me and my children because he is a Gulf War veteran. And that compassion only grew when he learned about BJay and how he died. And he wasn't one bit intimidated by the fact that I still love BJay and that we had an amazing marriage and life together. He also didn't flinch at the fact that I had 5 children. It was crazy how easy it was to talk to Bill and share with him my thoughts and feelings. And when I eventually allowed him to meet my children--it was amazing how they immediately warmed to him. And there was a softness about Bill with them that put me at ease.<br />
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The first time we met, Bill prayed with me. The first real date Bill took me on was just as bold. He took me to the beach where BJay died. I hadn't been back there. It was an amazingly healing experience. Ever since we met, Bill has always been thoughtful and compassionate. When I look back at the past 4 months--I really can't believe it has only been 4 months. So much has happened. I finished my last semester in grad school. I got a job. And I met and fell in love with an amazing man who loves me and my children back. I got engaged. And I'm getting married in 4 days!!<br />
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When I said I miss my old life, I meant it. Eight months ago I couldn't imagine that life would ever be that good again. What I could not have imagined was how good my new life feels. This journey God gave me has been every bit as difficult as it has been amazing and wonderful. Every struggle is matched with overcoming. Every challenge ends with some kind of victory. Everything God takes, he restores again. I always trusted God. I just could never have imagined the way he put me back together. And I certainly couldn't have imagined how he could make it right to my children.<br />
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I love my new life.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-91508380850247347752013-09-13T17:10:00.003-07:002013-09-13T17:10:50.743-07:00A long time coming<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I realized last month that I had forgotten the day BJay died. I hadn't forgotten that day, but the date. I couldn't remember if it was the 10th or the 13th. I had to look it up. I try not to put much stock in this day. Today, three years ago was the worst day of my life. To mark this day, to make something of it feels wrong to me. I will never forget. It comes back to me all the time. I have always felt there is nothing worse about this day than any other day that I live without my husband. It will still be hard tomorrow as it was last week. However, the body just won't forget. I have felt on edge this week, and yesterday a feeling of heaviness settled deep into my heart and bones. Three years ago last night was the best night of my life. Three years ago this morning was the worst morning of my life. It is remarkable how quickly life can change. Even more when you start to realize the permanence of it.<br />
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I think I ended year one and two with hopefulness. The first year was surviving, the second year I started to feel as if I could manage. This year has been a tough year because, while I've learned how to be an only parent and I've evolved into a version of myself I feel is a pretty good incarnation--I have hit a wall of anger I just can't seem to get past. The road seems so long ahead of me. I am so angry that I have to walk this road alone and I don't know how far it goes. I am tired. I am maxed out. And there really isn't anything anyone can do to make it easier. The fact is, nobody in this world will ever be as invested in my children as I am, and as BJay was. It is a heavy thing, being responsible for 5 children. Even if I get a "break" and leave them with someone I trust I worry the whole time about them because I know no one else knows and loves them as I do. It breaks my heart to know that are missing out on having a dad. It isn't fair.<br />
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One thing I want to address because people keep bringing it up: The idea of finding love again is of no comfort to me. None. As much as I hate being alone, I hate the idea of doing the work involved in dating even more. And I can't imagine sharing my children with anyone. Dating with 5 kids is not remotely the same thing as dating as a single person. I just don't have enough faith that there exists a man who could fill BJay's shoes and love all 6 of us enough. Also, I'm just not willing to put up with the humiliation of being that single mom of 5 looking for a man. I'm sure there are other ways to think about it, but that is how I feel.<br />
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I am thankful for my good friends who get me through the hard moments, lonely nights and share my small triumphs when they come. I am happy a lot of the time, I can find joy in the moment most of the time and I love and adore my sweet children. I am taking it one day at a time, and I can do this. It isn't at all easy though.<br />
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I miss my old life.<br />
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<br />Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-57789033696307043852013-06-20T08:33:00.004-07:002013-06-20T08:35:56.061-07:00Spotlight on Amanda Gowin: real beauty<br />
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Summer has been a slow blur so far. It feels like it has been more than 2 weeks, but also those two weeks have just evaporated into the ether without much to show for it. I have a few other excuses for not blogging, but the short of it is, I am scared.<br />
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I have put off this spotlight because, mostly, I am so intimidated by Amanda Gowin I don't know that I could fully explain her in a way that would do her justice. And that isn't fair. So, I'm just starting with an apology. I wish I could do this better! And I promise to do my best.<br />
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First off, I think the first interaction I had with this girl is what defined her, for me. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Amanda-Gowin/e/B006CS27HS">Amanda is a writer</a>, so already I am in awe because I know that takes mental stamina that I just don't seem to have. Back to first impression. I noticed Amanda had posted a picture of herself with her hair shaved and I think I commented that she has a really nice shaped head, and probably (making it about me) I said something about how I could never rock a shaved head because my head is flat in the back. I'm vain. In my younger, less experienced days I used to think if I got cancer I would forgo chemotherapy because I wouldn't want to lose my hair. Because I would be ugly? That was before I had kids. Anyway, this girl-- Amanda, replied that a cousin (I believe) of hers was, in fact, battling cancer and that she had shaved her head in support. I think Amanda said something like, "I wanted to make the point that it's only hair." <i>It's only hair.</i> That idea stopped me dead in my tracks. First of all, the gesture... It was just so beautiful. And second of all, I'm not sure I have progressed so far as a human that I have that kind of perspective. I should be. I "met" Amanda after BJay died. So I should have known already that nothing in the world matters more than life. More than health. That baubles and things, and hair, are just not that big of a deal. Things can be replaced, hair grows back. But <i>life</i> is right now, and it is all that really matters, it is all we really have of value.<br />
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So, as the kind of person who has this vital perspective at such a young age, Amanda is one of those women you admire. But not in a petty, female way. People like her. And not because she is pretty, not necessarily because she is one of those super fun moms who makes the job look glamorous. And probably not even because she seems to be one of those super cool wives who doesn't seem to take for granted how fortunate she is to have found and nourished love. I'm pretty sure it is because she may have been born fully-formed as a woman who emerged from the ocean with a complete understanding of her place in the universe. I'm kidding. Sort of. I really think what makes Amanda so likable is that she is a little bit too wise. It seems to me that she's comfortable in her own skin, that somehow she holds the reigns to her own insecurities. And having that kind of hold on herself, she's able to lift other people up. That is the kind of strength that drives our species forward. That is real beauty.<br />
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<!--3-->Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-5144774373939690172013-05-28T08:15:00.000-07:002013-05-28T08:25:22.968-07:00Spotlight on Sara Morris Cardon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Nothing happens by accident. I am starting to be a firm believer, that everything-- every. little. thing. happens for a reason and a purpose. I have been amazed doing this project just how connected every random thing has been to the bigger pictures.<br />
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I have been on a blogging break for the past few weeks. A friend of mine from the Netherlands first joked and then was serious about coming to visit for the summer and I had to clean an organize my house just enough as to not appear to be a complete hoarder. This happens--by the end of the school year I have let things go enough to be a bit out of control and then I spend the first part of the summer throwing away and donating so much stuff. Anyway, we have a Dutchman visiting for the summer. He is here experiencing the wonderful North Carolina summer and bugs. Opportunity of a lifetime. ;)<br />
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So that explains why I have been slacking on two Spotlights that I owe. Sean P. Ferguson chose a person I will do next, but Sara is the person chosen at random by my friend Craig Wallwork and I have spent a while thinking about what I'd say about her.<br />
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I go to church with Sara. I know her because we have met and had casual conversations at church.<br />
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I am a Mormon. So, I spend a lot of time at church. Like, a ton of time. In my faith we are not only required to spend a lot of time in services, but we are also required to volunteer to do the work that to make those long services happen. All of us. From the ministry to the sunday school teachers to the people who clean the building and the bathrooms-- it is all done by volunteer. There a plenty of jobs that are difficult. And there are plenty of jobs that I have never done and hope to never have to do. But I think one of the ones that is most dreaded is the job of nursery leader/worker. This requires a person, and usually a mom (though I have known men to do this job) to spend 2 out of the 3 hours of Sunday service looking after the children who are 18 months to 3 years old. Sometimes this is an easy 3-4 kid group. But most of the time it is a job that requires the kind of person who can cheerfully hold two screaming babies in a chorus of a dozen crying babies while singing a song and sniffing bums to see who has pooped. For TWO HOURS. For free. People say no to this job, or "calling" as we call it. All the time. I know they do because I've been on the side of coordinating who to ask to do this job. I would say a good 8 out of 10 people say no. So, as you can imagine-- the people who say yes are... Amazing.<br />
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Sara is one of the amazing ones. Once you get in the calling of nursery leader, there are only two ways out, basically. One is--getting a new calling that requires you to be released. And the other is having a baby. At least, those are the only ways I've ever gotten out of that job. And yes, I've done it. The few conversations I've had have been with Sara in the nursery room, me sitting on the floor in a mess of toys and babies and she-- very cheerfully arranging snacks and a lesson and a craft, and all while keeping her cool in a thankless and often frustrating job while 8-9 months pregnant, no less.<br />
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I have done this job while pregnant too. And I don't have to tell you what a chore it is to pick up after and care for a bunch of little creatures when you are super pregnant. Some of it is just logistical-- it gets very hard to bend with a human occupying the space of your abdomen. And the rest is just pure exhaustion from the work of growing a human. I assumed that once she had that baby she would be released to sit with the other ladies and peacefully rock and sooth her tiny new baby. But apparently, Sara is one of those amazing women who doesn't mind doing the dirty work. She was back working in the nursery as soon as she and her baby were recovered enough to go back to church. And I think that says a lot about her.<br />
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Sara is the quiet and calm kind of strong who can cheerfully care for little children. This ability is what keeps our species going. Not everyone is motherly. And not all mothers should be mothers. But Sara is one of those very sweet people who not only has the kindness and patience and long suffering to care for her own family 24/7, but she also has enough patience left over to volunteer 2 hours a week wiping noses and smelling bottoms and calming anxieties of other people's children. This is no small task, and I for one am completely amazed and in awe. Thank you, Sara Morris Cardon! <3 p=""><br /><!--3--></3>Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-6681611273060987872013-05-06T22:51:00.001-07:002013-05-07T05:41:07.912-07:00Facebook Friend Spotlight on Sean P Ferguson <div>
I am at this really strange intersection in my life where I am questioning everything I do and think and believe. I wonder if it is a midlife crisis? Anyway, a funny thing happened after I wrote about my Facebook friend Craig Wallwork. After writing that I wanted to be the kind of person who can <i>be there</i> for my friends, I had the opportunity several times to practice what I preached. It was like the universe heard me and threw the words right back in my face, saying, "prove it". So it turns out, this silly idea I had to spotlight my friends is becoming my midlife crisis social experiment. Brought to you by social media. The experiment is now this: How I would reshape myself drawing from the extraordinary qualities of the people I am friends with on Facebook. Or: How can I Frankenstein myself into a better person by vampiring the best qualities of my Facebook friends list. </div>
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I was overwhelmed trying to decide who I could prey on next, then I decided to ask Craig to pick for me. He gave me 3 names. To decide my lucky victim at random, I asked my friend Mr. Corbier to choose a number between 1-3. The name associated with the number he chose was:</div>
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Sean P. Ferguson</div>
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Not to be confused with Shawn Ferguson, who is another of my facebook friends. We used to close our eyes and think about things while being photographed back in high school. I may have to write about him another day. :)</div>
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The Sean P. Ferguson I'm talking about right now <i>also </i>has no idea I'm stealing pictures of him to put on my blog. I just got an A in my behavioral ethics class, so I'm not sure this is right. Hopefully I'll be forgiven. Just in case, I'm using a picture of Sean partially hidden behind a great book with some gorgeous legs on it. ;)</div>
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I met this Sean for real in the flesh when I went to Boston a few months ago. I don't know Sean very well, we don't have a lot of history. So I started asking a few of our mutual friends for some input. But then I decided that should be against the rules. I should focus mostly on the things I know. I have included just a couple quotes because they are sweet. So there are three things I can tell about Sean even with very limited exposure:</div>
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<b>1. Sean loves his people. </b> If you are lucky enough to make the cut into his friends list, he will love you like you're his family. I don't know a lot of people like that. I think it takes a very courageous kind of vulnerability to love people, to say it and mean it. And to mean it without any kind of selfish agenda. I admire that. I don't have the guts to open my heart up like that. I want to be able to love that kind of strong.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">"my son said he loved me as much as all the hearts out of everybody's chests in the whole world all mashed together and put together to make his body. that's the way sean is - the way he loves people. i don't how to put it better than that." --Amanda Gowin</span></blockquote>
<b>2. This is a guy you want in your corner. </b>I think you can tell a lot about a person by what they chose to do for a living. Certain professions are dominated by the good people. I really believe that. Sean is a *Paramedic. And I think there is just something special about the people who chose to be the ones who run toward the disasters. People who deal with the best and worst of society every day, and somehow don't get completely beat down by it. I wish I had a Sean to watch <a href="http://www.fox.com/the-following/">The Following </a>with. Or, to ride with me in unregistered taxis in India in the middle of the night. Or, sometimes to just take out the trash at night when the ghosts are looming in the tall black pines.<br />
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I know when you are unlucky enough to need a *paramedic, they show up and take charge of a bad situation. They can deal with blood and poo and vomit all while alleviating your pain and anxiety. That is how my friend Pela describes Sean as a friend and writer for <a href="http://manarchymag.com/">Manarchy</a>. "He's not above doing any or all of the grunt work of a project." She also said that he was just made something like press secretary (?) for his local Democratic headquarters. Yeah, he's one of the good ones.<br />
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<b>3. He's funny. </b>My older sister is also a paramedic. I had a conversation with her that still intrigues me about the dark humor that she and her colleagues have developed to handle seeing some of the things they see. I read, I don't think it was a story--just a vent maybe about a day in the life of Sean that involved a pretty gruesome murder he had to clean up after that I still can't get out of my head. The way he wrote it was somehow hilarious as much as it was horrifying. And I guess that is what makes funny people funny. They are able to take the horrifying or disgusting and messy parts of life, turn them inside out and make them funny. They can take uncomfortable emotions and give them a pleasant outlet. And that is probably one of the best qualities there is. And to be clear, I don't think a lot of Sean's humor is dark. He's just a funny person. I don't know if it is possible to develop the ability to be funny--in the moment--like that. But if it is, I want to.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">"Ferg once shat on a copy of Down Periscope. He is crude and disgusting and perfect and awesome. He will be there for you if you need, with a good word and a fart joke. Hard working and hard living son of a bitch. Helped me sculpt great stories out of bad ones. He is a good friend." --Chris Deal</span></blockquote>
I will laugh at fart jokes every time. Every single time. Farts are just funny.<br />
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So. Thank you, Sean P. Ferguson, for existing so well and for wearing mean hats. (That was Caleb J. Ross) I am lucky to know you. (That is me)<br />
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And now, if you wouldn't mind playing along, please message me just one friend from my friend's list I can pick on next. :)<br />
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* Update-- I'm told by Sean that he has never been a paramedic. Only an EMT--which is the same thing to most of us. Also, he no longer works as an EMT because of an injury. Currently he works for the Sheriff's department dispatching EMS, police, and the fire department and taking 911 calls. I don't think these facts change what I've said, but for accuracy's sake I am putting this update in here. He's still a good one, and he's still works in a profession that says all good things about him. :) </div>
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<!--3-->Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-79872081169894761672013-04-26T07:31:00.001-07:002013-04-26T08:45:20.142-07:00BJay would have been 40 today!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Today would have been BJay's 40th birthday. I was going to say something about how he's lucky he never had to turn 40, and how I would have teased him all day about being so old and how lucky he is having such a young wife. But then... I think about yesterday and all the fun we had celebrating Bridger's birthday. I am the lucky one. Because growing older is a privilege.<br />
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This morning I slept in late and when I woke up I made one of BJay's favorite breakfasts. Ebelskivers.? Little ball-shaped pancakes. Except they were gluten-free. And I put a ton of cinnamon in them. And I was thinking as I did that if BJay would have been annoyed about that? But I think if he were here I wouldn't have slept in. And I would have made them exactly the way he liked them. And so, I guess the point is... I guess the point is I'll never know what it would have been like to celebrate BJay turning 40, except in the way I'm celebrating right now.<br />
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I am lucky to see him the way I see him now. All the day to day compromises and annoyances have long since turned to ash. And all that is left is what is burned into my heart, and these five beautiful little children. And I can't help but sound like a broken record, <i>I am the lucky one!</i> Because I was loved in such a way that it changed me for the better. And when I get to 40 in a few short years, hopefully I'll have learned and grown that much more. And I will appreciate what a gift and honor this is, every year I get.<br />
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Happy birthday, BJay! So much love,<br />
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your young and gorgeous wife. ;)<br />
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Two studs</div>
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BJay wrestling with Paige on Halloween 2009</div>
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BJay doing the dishes...that might be why this is my favorite picture.</div>
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BJay taking a moment to enjoy the view.</div>
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Family picture at Hanging Rock. :)</div>
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<br />Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-57350344349762439222013-04-16T08:11:00.001-07:002013-04-16T10:05:52.316-07:00On the virtues and flaws of humanity and Lance ArmstrongI started writing this yesterday, but I never got it together. I couldn't pull my thoughts together coherently. And then I saw the news about Boston. I still can't wrap my head around it. I was up late last night with things to think about. And I think I'm going to try this again, only, with a little different slant.<br />
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I wanted to make a point about what I see as the main flaw of humanity. But in processing last night, and after having read this comment by Patton Oswald from Facebook that my sister posted:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">...here's what I DO know. If it's one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fracti</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">on of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we're lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they're pointed towards darkness.</span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><br /></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We'd have eaten ourselves alive long ago.</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><br /></span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, "The good outnumber you, and we always will." Patton Oswald</span><br />
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I think this message is more on point. This idea about the goodness of humanity diluting and weakening the evil. It is in the same vein as one of my favorite quotes:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #454545; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 19px;">"When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always." Mahatma Ghandi</span></blockquote>
When I started writing this yesterday, I wanted to call us out as a species for having this one universal flaw--the need to exact justice, tear down our heroes and kill our Gods. Yesterday as I was grocery shopping there was a crazy long line and my baby was done being patient. I was surprised when I got to the register and a woman came from I don't know where with her cart, got right in front of me and started unloading her things on the conveyor. Not just a couple things, but a cart full. She didn't make eye contact, but I could see from her expression and constant huffing that she was almost daring me to say something. Somehow she felt justified, cutting in line. So I just kind of sat there, watching this happen and in my mind I was trying to figure out what series of events led up to a woman acting like that, oblivious that everyone else had circumstances too. I didn't say anything, because, I really didn't want to get splashed with whatever ugliness she was experiencing. It just took a few extra minutes of my time, holding my 2 year old and putting back all the candy he kept reaching for. I decided it was an opportunity for me to practice what I'm about to preach.<br />
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That brings me, finally, to what I've been trying to write about since yesterday. Lance Armstrong. I have a hard time saying this exactly right. Because, I don't want to justify lying. Nor do I want to condone the kind of bullying that he did to maintain his lie. That is disheartening. But I also think it is important to just pause a minute and try and understand what series of events lead up to those lies, and aggressively maintaining that false narrative. </div>
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First, <a href="http://articles.washingtonpost.com/2013-01-21/national/36472769_1_max-mountain-stages-oxygen">why was there so much doping in cycling? </a> Basically, to compete professionally in cycling, you have to be a superman. <i>And you do have to be a man</i>. Not because cycling is sexist, it is just that men physically have greater lung capacity, so no woman has ever come close to qualifying. You have to have a VO2 max of like 75+ to compete. <span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">VO2 max= milliliters of oxygen used per kilogram of body weight per hour of activity. The average, <a href="http://www.topendsports.com/testing/vo2norms.htm">athletic woman's VO2 max compares to about the average for a man</a>. About 45. From the article:</span></div>
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Over the long, flat stages, the monitors suggest that riders hover between 50 and 70 percent of their VO2 max. That may sound like a light workout, but keep in mind that when a Tour de France rider is “resting” at 60 percent of his maximum capacity, he’s working about as hard as an average person at full exertion.</div>
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The time trials and mountain stages are entirely different. The long time trials last more than an hour, during which the cyclists remain above 90 percent of VO2 max. (As a crude comparison, for the average person that would be like sprinting for an entire hour.) In the mountains, thinning oxygen supply becomes an issue as riders traverse terrain above 8,000 feet, all the while staying in the vicinity of 90 percent of full exertion. Researchers have identified <a data-xslt="_http" href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/pulmonary-edema/DS00412" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px;">pulmonary edema</a> — an accumulation of fluid in the lungs caused by the effort to supply enough oxygen to the body — in Tour riders after mountain stages.</div>
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Studies have also shown that, during the course of a multi-stage race, professional riders experience a steady <a data-xslt="_http" href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/1899423" style="border: 0px; color: black; font-family: inherit; margin: 0px 0px 10px; padding: 0px;">decrease in levels of testosterone and cortisol</a> as the body struggles to rebuild itself after each day. This decline seems to be unique to cycling, as professional marathon runners have to train hard for six months before experiencing the kind of hormonal deficit that cyclists suffer in three weeks.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Again, I'm not trying to justify the use of illegal substances. But cycling is a brutal sport, even if you are some kind of He-Man you still can't overcome the toll it takes on your body. See how it might be easy to justify? Even as a superior athlete with a precision-tuned body, you just can't overcome your body's process of righting itself. Because it isn't natural to do what those cyclists are asking their bodies to do. I am in awe of that kind of drive and determination. I love running, but I only love it for about an hour, and I'm never at a full sprint. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Aside from that, the Lance Armstrong story is this amazing story. It was anyway. An athlete who came back from nearly dying of CANCER to win Tour De France. And then he just kept winning. I really wonder how many people had the will to keep on fighting, just because Lance did that. How many people have been directly helped, financially by the Livestrong foundation? I can't think of one other athlete that has done more, or who is more synonymous with philanthropy the way Armstrong is. I understand wanting to control the narrative. When BJay died, I wanted to control that narrative. I repeated that story to everyone willing to listen. It was vital to me, that people understood that BJay was a hero. He didn't just die. He died saving our sons. I wonder if somehow in all the justifications it wasn't a lie to Lance either, his version. Because he had this thing to uphold. It wasn't right to maintain that lie, and it was terrible the way he did it. But I get it. He was mythic. And that was the problem. As humans, we have a problem with myths. We need to expose them for what they are. What is that? </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Initially, I couldn't watch the Oprah interview. I knew it would just make me mad. I finally saw some clips the other day and they broke my heart. Especially when Lance was talking about telling his son to stop defending him. And the heartbreak in realizing that, even though he'd never talked to his children about it, they fully trusted that he was telling the truth. </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">That is hard stuff. Breaking the trust of your kids. Hard, hard stuff.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">It was a hard interview to watch. And Oprah needed those ratings, btw. In the interview, Lance admitted that when he lost control of the story, he expected that he'd lose his sponsors and his titles. But he didn't expect to lose his foundation. He also said that he deserved to be punished, but he wasn't sure he "deserves the death penalty". And that is what he got. As an athlete. He is not allowed to compete. In anything. It doesn't seem fair to me. When most people are punished for a crime, aren't they supposed to pay their debt to society? Lance hasn't just been stripped of his titles and disgraced. He's been stripped of every good thing he's done, or could do. And what a waste! He can't run in a marathon for charity?</span></span></div>
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I think this is the problem with humans exacting justice on humans. We're so limited. We don't have the ability to see the big picture most of the time. I think eventually, at some point this will be righted. I hope, at some point Lance Armstrong makes amends to the people he's hurt, and only those people, because I don't think he owes anything more to society as a whole. I hope he gets to compete. I hope he gets to do what he was put on the earth to do. I hope this isn't the end of this story.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;">I love Oprah, but I wasn't loving her in that interview. Especially when she questioned him about tweeting this photo:</span></div>
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I don't know, I get this photo. And in the interview Lance apologized for it. To me, it says: <i>Fine, take away my titles, I deserve it. But you can't take away the fact that I experienced every one of those races. </i>That is my take anyway. In my opinion, the good of Lance Armstrong totally dilutes the bad.<br />
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Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-7967015236377764882013-04-13T07:40:00.002-07:002013-04-13T07:40:27.181-07:00Honest running playlistThis might be completely boring. I apologize. This is what I ran to this morning, along with a play-by-blay of my run.<br />
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<b>1. E-pro, Beck</b><br />
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This one gets the job done, but I think it was a mistake putting it first. I started out running too fast and then I had to walk after the first km. That is when I noticed something really great. The male pollen structures are falling to the ground, spent. What are these things called? Stamens? Anyway, its a good thing. It means the pollen is almost done!!<br />
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<b>2. Try, Pink</b><br />
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picked up the pace to pass an old man walking on the road. Yeah, I was flying. lol.<br />
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<b>3. Fly Away, Lenny Kravitz</b><br />
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Finally getting into a good rhythm.<br />
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<b>4. Ho Hey, The Lumineers</b><br />
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Got on the greenway on Linden, the dog keeps seeing squirrels<br />
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<b>5. The Middle, Jimmy Eat World</b><br />
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Still on Linden<br />
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<b>6. D,yer Mak'er, Led Zeplin</b><br />
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Crossed the road to avoid a guy walking two dogs. My dog is such a dummy. She's small but she thinks she can tell everyone what to do.<br />
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<b>7. Bad Day, Daniel Powter</b><br />
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Merla (the dog) thought she was going to get a squirrel, yanked my arm, then crossed in front of me, tripping me and getting us tangled in her leash. This is why I hate running with my dog. She loves it though. So.<br />
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<b>8. Bad Girls, M.I.A.</b><br />
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Love this song, I've worn it out a couple times. Its back on for like the 5th time. Ran through the village, passed a pack of girls running, ran faster.<br />
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<b>9. Thrift Shop, Macklemore</b><br />
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hmmm. yeah. Running uphill. I hate this part. Started walking at the top of the hill. But not for too long. After the hill is the police and fire station. I always run faster. You know. In case there is an emergency or something. Thats it. Also, that is really close to where I turn around.<br />
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<b>10. Ttylxox, Bella Thorne</b><br />
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Cut me some slack, okay? This is an honest playlist. And... I have kids. Meh. I can't help it if I like some of their dumb songs! Running past the police/fire station again.<br />
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<b>11. It's Only Fear, Alexi Murdoch</b><br />
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This is a slow song, but I love it. And I put it in to remind me to stretch. Two weeks ago I stretched before crossing the crosswalk here and almost got run down. Now I make sure to cross the road first. lol.<br />
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<b>12. Party in the USA, Miley Cyrus</b><br />
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Uhhh. Yeah. Can't explain this one. Whatever. Uphill again into the village.<br />
<br />
<b>13. All My Days, Alexi Murdoch</b><br />
<br />
I'm having a little Alexi Murdoch crush right now. It isn't really running music but the lyrics slay me. I'm slain.<br />
<br />
<b>14. Tonight, Tonight, Hot Chelle Rae</b><br />
<br />
Back on Linden<br />
<br />
<b>15. Holla at the DJ, Coco Jones</b><br />
<br />
In the home stretch!<br />
<br />
<b>16. Blue Mind, Alexi Murdoch</b><br />
<br />
In the last km, back on my road. Passed a husband/wife running. That always makes me smile. And so does this song. Love. Love. Love.<br />
<br />
<br />
Home! Pretty slow pace today. 59:07 minutes 9:29/mn miles. Oh well. Got it done.<br />
<br />
<br />
I wear out my running playlist pretty fast. I have to change it up pretty often. What do you listen to when you run?Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-48741291991416499782013-04-11T09:36:00.001-07:002013-04-11T09:36:43.899-07:00Spotlight: Craig Wallwork and how he changed the way I think.So, I thought it could be fun to spotlight one of my facebook friends every once in a while? Every Thursday? I haven't decided. But I like it. I picked Mr. Wallwork first because he's been on my mind for a while now.<br />
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<br />
<b>Brief Bio</b><br />
I stole this from his<a href="http://www.craigwallwork.blogspot.com/"> blog</a>:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #58574a; font-family: Arial, Verdana; line-height: 19px;">Craig Wallwork lives in West Yorkshire, England. He is the author of the short story collection Quintessence of Dust (KUBOA), and the novels To Die Upon a Kiss (Snubnose Press) and The Sound of Loneliness (Perfect Edge Books). His fiction has appeared in various anthologies, journals and magazines.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #58574a; font-family: Arial, Verdana; line-height: 19px;"> He is the fiction editor at Menacing Hedge Magazine. </span> *<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Craig-Wallwork/e/B003VDNVCC/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1365695415&sr=1-2-ent">Author Page on Amazon, yo!</a></blockquote>
*I added that. Read on, you might want to pick up some of his work. :)<br />
<br />
<b>How I know him</b><br />
<br />
I don't really <i>know</i> him, know him. As with Facebook friends sometimes there is a tenuous connection. I've never actually met this guy face to face. He belongs in my friends list because I somehow stumbled into this really cool group of writers when I begged my friend Pela Via to let me join Write Club in 2010. ;) It's an uber-cool writer's workshop that I'm not supposed to talk about or something. Anyway, I found myself in this group with a bunch of writers way out of my league who were writing way cool stuff. I didn't get past chapter 2 of my "novel" lol. Meanwhile, Craig and I think everyone else in that group have published several books.<br />
<br />
September of that year my husband died. I found myself turning to this group to talk about a lot of stuff. Raw things. Things I don't think I would read now. *shudder* They are some amazing human beings, that group.<br />
<br />
<b>Why I've been thinking about him</b><br />
<br />
Don't worry, Mrs. Wallwork! Not that way. I have reached this point, post trauma, that I am trying to piece together the stand-out moments, people, events that galvanized that whole experience for me. And this one was a biggie.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Some background information: </span>My husband died very unexpectedly while we were on vacation. We had just announced to our parents that I was expecting our fifth baby. Just barely pregnant, before you generally announce it. Anyway, it was dark days. Long, cold, blue nights of not being able to sleep. Standing up to hug a million people at the viewing... not being able to eat. And all the while, shouldering this horrible reality, trying to make life as easy for my children as I could, and trying to come to grips that this was actually really happening. After the funeral, I was too exhausted to get out of bed. And then I started cramping. I was sure I was miscarrying. And I felt, at that time, if that happened. I would die. I felt like the baby was the only string holding me to earth. I'm not saying it was rational. And I definitely wouldn't say that my four existing children weren't enough of a connection, I didn't <i>want</i> to die. I just thought that if I lost one more part of BJay just then I would literally stop breathing.<br />
<br />
I had to check with him to make sure this happened, because my memory is very wishy washy. I was just a tiny bit worried this was a hallucination. It wasn't!<br />
<br />
I got a message from Mr. Wallwork that said something about how he was not a religious person, he hadn't prayed in years, but for some reason he stopped while he was at the gym and said a prayer for me.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I know for a fact lots of people were praying for me. But that prayer seemed like the "Yop" that made all the difference. That gesture felt so big, so incredibly kind. I can't even describe what it felt like. I remember thinking it was all going to be okay. All of it. And that is what it is, right folks? That is why we exist on this planet. For those tiny, but amazing moments when we stretch outside ourselves for a second, beyond all barriers, all the blocks we stack up to make the world make sense to us to reach out and do something that means something to someone else. <br />
<br />
I think about that a lot now. In my system of belief, if I'm willing to meet other people where they are. Am I willing to set aside whatever I believe to meet someone in the place that makes sense to <i>them</i>. To really be there in a way that matters to them. I think about it when I know someone is going through a hard time. I don't have to know how to cure cancer to be there for someone who is going through it. I just have to be there. Genuinely, <i>be there</i>.<br />
<br />
Along with this non-hallucination came another impression that has stuck with me. I mentioned this at the funeral, I think, and I'm surprised no one put me in an institution. For several days before BJay was buried, I felt like I could still hear him. One of the things he said was that "it is so much bigger than you can imagine." I feel like he meant God's capacity to know and understand all things, as well as the breadth of the whole human experience. THIS. This thing we are a part of, is so much bigger than where we narrowly exist most of the time. It is bigger than we can imagine.<br />
<br />
It must be. Because somehow in the web of human existence, I got to form a connection to this fantastic writer and genuinely kind human being who lives all the way across the ocean. Lucky me! And if I never said it before, <i>THANK YOU, Craig</i>. So much.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-34427419893708314112013-04-10T11:06:00.000-07:002013-04-10T11:06:14.574-07:00A letter to feminists on boobs.<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Dear Feminists,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />We have never been friends. You scare me a little. Honestly, I just don't think we see eye to eye on very much. But I want to have a candid conversation about something we have in common: Boobs. Creepy weirdos, you can move along. I'm not talking to you. Seriously, get out.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Okay, here's the thing. Topless protests? They bug me. I don't understand the rationale. I mean, sure, it is the fastest way to get attention, but is this what you want? Really? You want to besmirch the proud title of Feminism with your bare breasts? Because I'm not sure that is the attention you are looking for. There is a huge industry that makes billions on breasts, and I think we're both annoyed about that.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Recently, I read a facebook post that made a NC Bill that seeks to classify breasts in the same category as sexual organs sound like we were moving backward into the dark days of sexual repression of women. And you were there, we argued, you told me that "the man" was trying to make women ashamed of their bodies. That it isn't fair that men can go topless and women can't. And, what was that? Something about how men are making up these laws so they can feel better about raping us. Yes you did. You said that. Okay, it wasn't a direct quote. But you did suggest that the ability to feel better about raping women was behind laws like this. And that is just... insane. I'm sorry. It is.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Lets just break this down a little. The man behind this law, is Republican Rep<span style="line-height: 18px;">resentative Rayne Brown. She's a she. And the reason boobs are on her radar is because of this topless protest that happens in Asheville. And this is the proposed law, </span><a href="http://ncleg.net/Sessions/2013/Bills/House/HTML/H34v1.html" style="line-height: 18px;">right here.</a><span style="line-height: 18px;"> Currently, there is no law that governs breasts in NC. Boobs are tricky, aren't they? Because they are this bonus we get as ladies. They feed babies AND are part of what defines our sexuality. So, we don't want to throw breastfeeding moms in the slammer. That would be idiotic. As it is written, this law is clarifying that breasts--and specifically the areola and nipple are included in the same category as sexual organs. So you can't whip them out in public where there are children around use them for sexual gratification. That is what the proposed law says. Now. That should be a no-brainer. Feeding babies, yes. Sexual gratification in the presence of children, no. Isn't that just clarifying the law to hold women to the same standard as men? Seems reasonable to me.</span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">What doesn't seem reasonable to me is the idea that participating in a topless protest is somehow liberating, or empowering. Ever had one of those super empowering dreams where you show up to school and you're naked? And you're like, heck yeah everybody! I'm totally cool with this and I'm not embarrassed at all. No? Me either. </span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I want you to look at this feminists. Ladies: <a href="http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=36a_1346076360">this is the Asheville topless protest</a>. I'm sad. I don't think those ladies really felt empowered about having their tops off. Did you notice the girl with the scarf? And the sloping posture and arms crossed over the boobs? It kind of didn't look like they were having a lot of fun under the camera's glare there. And you know who organized that protest? <a href="http://blog.al.com/breaking/2012/07/topless_protest_march_in_ashev.html">This clown</a>. I'm hearing song lyrics right now, excuse me: "I call THAT getting swindled and pimped. I call THAT getting tricked by a BIZness." I'm not just being rude because I'm disgusted that he's a dude. He really did work part-time as a clown. Not that there is anything wrong with that. I'm more concerned that his WIFE is not cool with him organizing topless protests a couple of states away. Oh yeah, he's from Alabama. And you were having a fit because Rep. Brown lives 2 hours away from Asheville and it isn't her district. </span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Now... I wonder if this conversation is even necessary. Is it? Have we really come to the point in our society where we need to legislate self-respect? Maybe not. Because, it turns out this Asheville protest organized by a dude who is <i>so</i> concerned about equality he's willing to face the disapproval of his wife to make sure ladies can take their tops off in public did not have a very high attendance last year. <a href="http://www.citizen-times.com/article/20120827/NEWS01/308270018/Asheville-s-topless-rally-seems-lost-some-its-appeal?odyssey=mod%7Cnewswell%7Ctext%7CFrontpage%7Cp&nclick_check=1">According to this article</a>, attendance was way down. Let me venture a guess as to why. Was it harassment from the city of Asheville? Or was it that topless protests in August are a thing you just do once? Maybe it wasn't all it was cracked up to be? This is how I think it would go: you showed up ready to make a difference, ready to make a point that it isn't fair that women have to wear shirts and men don't. You took off your shirt. People stared at you. It was hot. Sweat started forming in uncomfortable places that are usually mitigated by the fabric of your clothes. Then you didn't quite know what to do with yourself. It was actually kind of lame. Maybe you got a sunburn. And then you decided you didn't want to do this again next year. Right? </span><br /><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">I've had this stuff swimming in my head for a month or so. I pulled the trigger because I got a blast on my twitter feed about the Iranian topless protests. I started following an Iranian activist after seeing the death of Neda Agha and it broke my heart. There is a world-wide topless protest in solidarity for Amina Tyler, a Tunsinian high school student who posted a topless photo of herself in protest Islamic oppression of women on her Facebook. This is a little more serious than pulling off your top in Asheville, NC. The stakes are higher for this girl than jail time. And, apparently, Amina has been kidnapped and cut off from all communication. <i>This</i> is horrifying. And sad. Firstly, teenage brains literally are not developed enough to understand the repercussions of their actions. And secondly, because FEMEN has taken hold of this story and essentially made it a thousand times worse by holding topless protests and burning Islamic flags in front of Mosques. I am afraid they are sealing Amina's fate as a martyr. And that makes me sad. When trying to further the cause of women I think there are two rules you should always follow, feminists. 1. Don't take your lead from teenage girls. 2. Be aware of the culture, lifestyle and needs of the women you are trying to help. <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/10/mideast-feminists-against-femen_n_3052175.html?utm_hp_ref=world">Muslim women are intelligent and they know what's up.</a></span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="background-color: white; border: none; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; list-style: none; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Moroccan pro-democracy activist Zineb Belmkaddem maintained that using a woman's naked body to change policy is simply bad for women.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; border: none; color: #333333; line-height: 21px; list-style: none; margin-bottom: 15px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"Exposing the woman's body ... reinforces the image that objectifies women actually, no matter how FEMEN would like to think that the action frees them somehow," she said. "I tell FEMEN, `call me when exposing your breasts gets you to break the glass ceiling.'</span></div>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Okay, I'm sorry for getting serious at the end there. I meant to keep this light and sweet. I just want you to see the contrast. We don't have to agree on everything. Or very much. But please, can we just agree on this one? There is still work to be done to ensure women's rights. But we can do this with our shirts on. Mmkay? Smooches.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Me</span>Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-90186264865677423212013-04-09T07:43:00.001-07:002013-04-09T07:43:25.938-07:00Letting GoIt has been a really long time since I felt like writing. About three years, according to the record. In September it will be three years since I lost my husband. That is such a funny thing to say. I didn't lose him. Not like I keep losing my jewelry anyway. Seriously, I have about twenty widowed earrings. And I currently can't find the ring I had made to replace my wedding ring that I lost. I don't know why I can't keep track of shiny things. I digress, My husband died two and a half years ago and since then I've evolved a bit. A lot, I think. And that is what has me thinking today and why I wanted to resurrect the blog.
Someone in my LDS widows group on Facebook posted this poem written by a friend of his:
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>
Clean State</blockquote>
Let your grief be clean.<br />
Let it be wise and warm,<br />
Bereft of bitterness and blame,<br />
And hollow of all harm.<br />
And when it dies, don’t mourn.<br />
<br />
Jonathon Penny<br />
<br />
I really like this poem. It is short, succinct. And more importantly it addresses the part of grief that nobody ever explained to me before I experienced it. The part where active mourning ends. And then you have to let it go. You have to move on with your life, and be this wholly redefined person. When, you come to the point where you can't take comfort in your sorrow anymore. I'm pretty sure this part hurts as much as the original pain of loss. Because it means you are finally you again, completely stripped down. It means saying "I" instead of "we". It is the final de-coupling, an acceptance and comfort with loneliness. I don't know that it is ever comfortable to be alone. But I think in this letting-go process, you get to a place where you are comfortable in your own head. With who you are, and where you want to go.<br />
<br />
Part of grieving, for me, has meant not being able to read books. And I love books. There is an association that I may have to work out in therapy... or it will work itself out in time. Anyway, last winter I went to see <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0454876/">Life of Pi</a> with a friend. I hadn't read the book, so I had no idea what it was about. I literally cried like a baby when Pi said he cried like a baby when the tiger Richard Parker walked out of his life. The tiger was a metaphor for grief. I didn't realize going in to the movie that the tiger is a fairly common metaphor for grief. After I watched the movie, I searched the internet for this poem:
<br />
<blockquote>
For Jane
</blockquote>
225 days under grass<br />
and you know more than I.<br />
they have long taken your blood,<br />
you are a dry stick in a basket.<br />
is this how it works?<br />
in this room<br />
the hours of love<br />
still make shadows.<br />
<br />
when you left<br />
you took almost
everything.<br />
I kneel in the nights<br />
before tigers<br />
that will not let me be.<br />
<br />
what you were<br />
will not happen again.<br />
the tigers have found me<br />
and I do not care.<br />
<br />
Charles Bukowski<br />
<br />
I think "For Jane" describes a part of the grieving process that comes right before letting go. The finality of loss. The idea that even if you used exactly the same molecules and organized them the exact same way, you could never recreate the person you lost. You can never get back what you had. In the movie Pi Patel's journey of grief means surviving in a small boat across the ocean with a tiger that means to destroy him. He has suffered the most profound loss, his entire family is gone. During that phase, that journey, nobody could help him. He had to figure it out on his own. And when he finally reaches the end of his journey, and is being carried off the beach, THAT was the moment he broke down. The moment he had to let it go. And he says, "I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye." Yes! That is exactly it. Maybe because you don't want to hear it, or you can't imagine it ever happening. But nobody ever explains this part to you when you are on this lonely road of hurt. That there will come a point where you're done with grief. And you have to let it go: The desire to put things back the way they were, the fear that if you stop mourning, it means you didn't love hard enough or deep enough. Letting go doesn't mean that you stop loving. It means you know you loved enough, and that love will always exist. It doesn't need tears or sadness to survive. It is waiting for you, whole and complete on the other side.
Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-1585732949010820082010-04-15T10:01:00.000-07:002010-04-15T10:11:14.505-07:00Poetry Contest and Review of Telling Tales of Dusk<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaLcnS6xQY17MoIlkWWqE8YG3O-59-9WWZCD0U_PkcCQuVnR3a0cjCX64CdREFLcUTCClK8293ihy43DfJxbjn-_yDwYI99s8WPre3A87TeCwFDgK8343zVbFgZaTar-veRZIy11TGgQ/s1600/tellingtalesofdusk_w_title_300.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEaLcnS6xQY17MoIlkWWqE8YG3O-59-9WWZCD0U_PkcCQuVnR3a0cjCX64CdREFLcUTCClK8293ihy43DfJxbjn-_yDwYI99s8WPre3A87TeCwFDgK8343zVbFgZaTar-veRZIy11TGgQ/s320/tellingtalesofdusk_w_title_300.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5460411462926567522" /></a><br />Erickson's book is available at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Telling-Tales-Terri-Kirby-Erickson/dp/0982441630/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1270725269&sr=8-1">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Telling-Tales-of-Dusk/Terri-Kirby-Erickson/e/9780982441633/?itm=1&USRI=terri+kirby+erickson">Barns And Noble</a>, and <a href="http://www.press53.com/">Press 53</a>.<br /><br />Spring in North Carolina came on this year like a tiger pouncing on its prey. There was no comfortable easing-in to the warm weather. The pine trees have come alive in this heat, blanketing everything with a fluorescent yellow coat of pollen. Pine tree sex happens in the air we breath, and the evidence is everywhere. Walking down the driveway to my mailbox, a ghostly trail of yellow-lined foot prints appears in my wake.<br /><br />This is my home; poetry exists in the air. I have the privilege of being the new poetry editor here, and every time I hear someone talk disparagingly about poetry, a little bit of me is always surprised. I usually say, “You just haven’t found a poet who speaks to you yet.” I have been lucky enough to stumble on quite a few poets who speak to me.<br /><br />Poet Terri Kirby Erickson is no exception. I was introduced to her work through a mutual friend, and I’ve had the pleasure of reading her latest book, Telling Tales of Dusk. This collection of poetry feels like being around people I’ve known. Maybe because Erickson is a North Carolinian as well, but I suspect it is more than that. Telling Tales of Dusk is a warm, sensuous stroll through memories and conventions on the verge of slipping away into the darkness of time.<br /><br />From Butter Mints “She wore floral patterned dresses with buttons white and round as moons…” I remember full boxes of buttons in my great-grandmothers house, counting and examining each one. Button collections like that belong back in a time when women wore floral dresses every day. In Queen Anne’s Lace “Queen Anne’s lace dandies up a ditch, like embroidered hankies in a farmer’s pocket.” I love that, and it reminds me of how my grandfather still carries an actual handkerchief in his pocket. Who does that anymore? I wouldn’t know how to blow my nose on an actual hankie. It would feel irreverent, somehow. From Salesman “Maybe death is like a door to door salesman. Not the eager boy with spit-shined shoes, but a middle-aged man in a brown Derby hat. His tie is egg-stained and crooked, shirt frayed at the cuffs.” The door to door salesman has long since given way to television infomercials and 24/7 Internet retailers. It adds to the defeated image of a middle-aged salesman of death. “Taking note of how tired he looks, face droopy and creased as an old hound dog’s, you feel kind of sorry for him, for what he’s there to do, but sorrier for yourself—unless you’re very sick or in pain, which makes it easier on both of you.”<br /><br />There is a sense of security (for me) in having these images preserved so beautifully. There were also scenes, hauntingly familiar. In Grandaddy’s Ghost, I was reminded of a late night phone call when my own mother found out that her father had died, the line “Her knees hit the floor, loud as gunshots.” brings me to tears every time I think of it. And in Time I could relate to the feeling of desperate elation at finding a lost child, “I found you at the playground, You were laughing, your feet so high in the air, God could have grabbed you easily, by your loose sandal. Instead it was me pulling your off the swing, my arms holding you so tight, you came out the other side of me, grown.”<br /><br />I loved this collection of poetry. It was beautiful and comforting and it made me feel at home. Now it is your turn to tell me about what feels like home to you. How do you know you’re home? What takes you back there when you’re away? What part of your home do you miss? What sensory elements remind you of home?. Is home a place or an idea for you? Terri Kirby Erickson has generously provided me with a copy of Telling Tales of Dusk to give away for a little poetry contest. The subject is home, whatever that means to you. First place will receive Erickson’s book. Second and third place will receive embroidered handkerchiefs. There will be no limit to the number of entries.<br /><br />Email entries via the OWC poetry submission email address with the subject line “home, poetry contest” and the title of your poem. The deadline for this contest will be April 29th. Thank you for participating!<br /><br />This article can be found at:<br /><br />http://www.outsiderwriters.org/archives/5452Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-60404525538320708102010-04-15T09:16:00.000-07:002010-04-15T09:21:32.543-07:00Black A poem, by Asher SmithAsher asked me if we could write poetry for journals today. How could I refuse? I don't know where it came from, but I'll take it. This was Asher's poem:<br /><br />Black is good<br />Black you can't see.<br />Black is weird.<br /><br />I am going to encourage poetry from now on. This was the first time I've ever gotten him to compose something on his own without feeling like I was pulling teeth.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-84895053222865861362010-04-07T13:35:00.000-07:002010-04-07T14:21:18.339-07:00Who would you like to trade places with right now?A few months ago, maybe a year actually, my dad pointed me to <a href="http://www.michaelyon-online.com/pedros.htm">an article by journalist Michael Yon</a>. I loved it. Black gloves? Of course. If I were going to trade places with anyone in the world right now, I believe it would be Michael Yon. It would have to be "Being John Malkovich" style though, a female journalist just wouldn't cut it, unfortunately. My favorite line from<span style="font-style:italic;"> Pedros</span>, the first article I read of Yon's, was "Afghanistan is the land of a million Alamos." He was referring to the fact that Afghans build walls first and then they build their homes inside. Little compounds can be found in the middle of nowhere, miles from anything. This kind of first-hand observation is the kind of thing I envy more than anything. I am happy with my life, the choices I've made. But If I were to trade places, even for a short while, I would give anything to observe the kinds of things Yon is observing.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, I started following Yon on Twitter. Some of my favorite pictures of the past few weeks:<br /><br /><a href="http://twitpic.com/1dtky8" title="A few hours ago during the mission, this guy was trying to tr... on Twitpic"><img src="http://twitpic.com/show/thumb/1dtky8.jpg" width="150" height="150" alt="A few hours ago during the mission, this guy was trying to tr... on Twitpic"></a><br /><br />Seedy little smile, I've seen that before. <br /><br /><a href="http://twitpic.com/1blt2a" title="Camel Viagara. Afghan and Iraqi villagers like Viagara. Via... on Twitpic"><img src="http://twitpic.com/show/thumb/1blt2a.jpg" width="150" height="150" alt="Camel Viagara. Afghan and Iraqi villagers like Viagara. Via... on Twitpic"></a> <br /><br />Camel Viagara? The plant observations are the most interesting to me. I wouldn't notice, or think to ask about them. It seems Afghanistan is still a place where people know the medicinal value of plants.<br /><br /><a href="http://twitpic.com/1bluad" title="Wearning my eyepro this morning...Notice his shirt with missp... on Twitpic"><img src="http://twitpic.com/show/thumb/1bluad.jpg" width="150" height="150" alt="Wearning my eyepro this morning...Notice his shirt with missp... on Twitpic"></a><br /><br />Nice. English spelling rules are a pain. <br /><br /><a href="http://twitpic.com/1dt3ni" title="Just got back from a 2-day mission with Charlie Company 1-17t... on Twitpic"><img src="http://twitpic.com/show/thumb/1dt3ni.jpg" width="150" height="150" alt="Just got back from a 2-day mission with Charlie Company 1-17t... on Twitpic"></a><br /><br />Look at that place. <br /><br /><a href="http://twitpic.com/1cvtof" title="We slept in the desert that night. A couple of illumination ... on Twitpic"><img src="http://twitpic.com/show/thumb/1cvtof.jpg" width="150" height="150" alt="We slept in the desert that night. A couple of illumination ... on Twitpic"></a><br /><br />Look at that photography.<br /><br />Sometimes in the middle of doing the dishes, or folding the laundry I'm thousands of miles away in my mind. Walking through desert terrain through the night, Staring at the moon over Afghanistan and wondering about the local plant life. I'm thinking about foreign faces, tiny Henna stained hands and feet, dusty little curious faces. I'm taking it all in through a camera lens. I'm making poetic observations a long way from home...Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-59303285279193904832010-03-08T20:41:00.000-08:002010-03-08T20:57:01.185-08:00The Hurt LockerI love this. I loved the movie and I'm glad it beat out Avatar for best picture, it seems that once in a while the Academy gets it right. I'm glad that this poem exists, that it came to mean something to somebody, and that that somebody did something about it.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.fishousepoems.org/archives/brian_turner/the_hurt_locker.shtml">The Hurt Locker<br />by Brian Turner</a><br /><br /><div class="poem-body"> <p>Nothing but the hurt left here.<br />Nothing but bullets and pain<br />and the bled out slumping<br />and all the <em>fucks</em> and <em>goddamns</em><br />and <em>Jesus Christs</em> of the wounded.<br />Nothing left here but the hurt.</p> <p>Believe it when you see it.<br />Believe it when a 12-year-old<br />rolls a grenade into the room.<br />Or when a sniper punches a hole<br />deep into someone’s skull.<br />Believe it when four men<br />step from a taxicab in Mosul<br />to shower the street in brass<br />and fire. Open the hurt locker<br />and see what there is of knives<br />and teeth. Open the hurt locker and learn<br />how rough men come hunting for souls.</p><p><br /></p><p>I loved how Kathryn Bigelow dedicated her Oscar to the men and women in the armed forces. I hope she continues to find success with her career. I hope she continues to see the beauty in complexity. I love this.<br /></p> </div>Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-31518595588068187512010-01-28T20:57:00.000-08:002010-01-28T20:58:37.229-08:00Have Faith"Have faith."<br /><br />When he said it, the words pressed into my palms, like coins. Since then I've measured all virtuous currency. I've checked it against a balance sheet. I know how much it costs to cross the line. I know how much I earn for grieving. Annuities paid out for never questioning. Nose to the grindstone, I'll have enough by the end of next year.<br /><br />When I have enough, I will cross the Rubicon. All my rabid sins will find me.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-43759950396001951222010-01-25T10:07:00.000-08:002010-01-25T10:21:00.112-08:00This is Port-au-Prince tower<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlq04IbYFZ1Eo9P3UaNSdOpuh1pXCvvxqo46Nhp8Vn1PrKKzQCmz93C_BoPebttrCpFdQsJnU9zPTGsY-cprWWzDmdMpPyJvCub_JRPIm24SPkhAFCMsJHRnIVWcT3WmOUQLWnPCFCg4/s1600-h/PortAuPrinceTower.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihlq04IbYFZ1Eo9P3UaNSdOpuh1pXCvvxqo46Nhp8Vn1PrKKzQCmz93C_BoPebttrCpFdQsJnU9zPTGsY-cprWWzDmdMpPyJvCub_JRPIm24SPkhAFCMsJHRnIVWcT3WmOUQLWnPCFCg4/s320/PortAuPrinceTower.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430741123431755762" border="0" /></a>When you envision air traffic control what is the first image that comes to mind? I'm thinking, tower, radar screens, chain-smoking near suicidal controllers with endless supply of coffee, right? Okay, maybe I colored it a bit. I do think that air traffic control has a pretty high suicide rate though, but I haven't checked that fact. So, what happens when an earthquake hits and the tower gets destroyed and you have hundreds of airplanes trying to scramble in to a dinky little airport to provide relief for one of the most devastating natural disasters in recent history? What you do is call in the United States Air Force. And what they do, is mobilize a special forces team of combat controllers. And what they will do, within 20 minutes of landing, is <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB20001424052748704541004575011403710933576.html">establish order in a really messed up chaotic situation</a>. <br /><br /><p></p><blockquote><p>The airmen have been here since the evening after the earthquake, when they found that aid planes were landing randomly. They brought enough landing lights for the 10,000-foot runway, although the existing lights were still functioning. The control tower, however, was too badly damaged to be used. So the airmen put their table out next to the runway and, within 20 minutes of arriving, they began contacting airplanes with the message, "This is Port-au-Prince tower." They have been there since, working and sleeping in 12-hour shifts.</p> <p>They landed about 50 planes that first night, and guided 35 or 40 to take off. There were only 10 parking spots by the main terminal, so aircraft stacked up quickly, blocking each other's movements. Small planes are sent to park on grassy fields. Helicopters are restricted to one side of the runway so that they don't interfere with arriving jets. </p> At times, an airmen jumps on a motorcycle to escort planes to their parking spots.<blockquote></blockquote></blockquote>Thats right, ya'll, forget the radar screens and tower. All you need is a folding table and a CCT team and the job gets done. Hooyah.Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12672919574939739.post-38689794245916039762009-11-30T09:41:00.000-08:002010-03-25T09:41:45.344-07:00Know what you are asking<div class="snap_preview"><p>It is time to drag out the anti-war poetry. </p> <p><strong>War is Kind<br />by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)</strong></p> <p>Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.<br />Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky<br />And affrighted steed ran on alone,<br />Do not weep<br />War is kind.</p> <p> Horse, booming drums of the regiment,<br /> Little souls who thirst for fight,<br /> These men were born to drill and die.<br /> The unexplained glory flies above them,<br /> Great is the battle god, great, and his kingdom<br /> A field where a thousand corpses lie.</p> <p>Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.<br />Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,<br />Raged at his breast, gulped and died,<br />Do not weep.<br />War is kind.</p> <p> Swift blazing flag of the regiment,<br /> Eagle with crest of red and gold,<br /> These men were born to drill and die.<br /> Point for them the virtue of slaughter,<br /> Make plain to them the excellence of killing<br /> And a field where a thousand corpses lie.</p> <p>Mother whose hear hung humble as a button<br />On the bright splendid shroud of your son,<br />Do not weep,<br />War is kind.</p> <p><strong>Dulce Et Decorum Est<br />Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)</strong></p> <p>Bent double, like old beggars under<br />sacks,<br />Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,<br />Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs<br />And toward our distant rest began to trudge.<br />Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots<br />But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;<br />Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots<br />Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.</p> <p>Gas! Gas! Quick boys!–An ecstasy of fumbling,<br />Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;<br />But someone still was yelling out and stumbling<br />And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…<br />Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,<br />As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.</p> <p>In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,<br />He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.</p> <p>If in some smothering dreams you too could pace<br />Behind the wagon that we flung him in,<br />And watch the white eyes writing in his face,<br />His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;<br />If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood<br />Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,<br />Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud<br />Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,–<br />My friend, you would not tell with such high zest<br />To children ardent for some desperate glory,<br />The old Lie: Ducle et decorum est<br />Pro patria mori.</p> <p>Its time to know what we’re asking. And I’m not sure that we know. I’m not sure its okay to send men off to die when we don’t know who the enemy is anymore. Or maybe when we’re just out-gunned with evil. Who sets a trap designed to slaughter those going to the aid of the wounded? Not anyone I’d want to die for. Not anyone I’d want to defend. </p> </div> <div class="post-info"> </div>Jessicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11041854638595286064noreply@blogger.com0