I was writing this sentence that I thought was going to end in an exclamation point, but it ended in a period. I write, but am I in charge of my story? There’s ice on the streets and sidewalks, there’s no leaves on the trees. Snow is my friend, ice not so much-because danger. I’m as much in charge of the seasons as I am of my story. I wake up and experience what this sentence, this chapter, this season is going to show me. This week it was a period.
I went to this thing, for women. There was food and wine so that’s how they got me to go, plus I got to sit by teenagers so that’s kind of my jam. I met all these chicks who are not the same as me. I’m going to tell you why that was cool in a minute, but first let’s talk about flowers. I came home to flowers on my porch and a post-it note saying “your heart is true” with a heart drawn. Guys a paper note, on my porch.(jaw hanging wide open) I also got a paper note in the mail recently which said essentially “you and me, we are impatient. God is not”. Paper notes are the thing man, I’m like wicked encouraged by this stuff…and flowers in winter (deep breath in, long long sigh out) all the feels.
Okay so I’m a whiny little cry-baby-punk-sissy-wimp when it comes to christian women’s events. Why? Because!! Women complain about all the same things, and its so cliche and the conversation is so tired. Plus I’m like little miss vulnerable and I’m exhausted from being so heart-on-my-sleeve-ish. Like I said they promised wine and food and hanging out with guaranteed not moms at my particular table, so I said yes to the thing. I met people who I didn’t understand, who’s struggles were real and heavy and they were in it. Up to their elbows trying to get a grip on life and not fall on their faces, these girls were like me.
I listened in on some stories and I was humbled, just brought low. Some people are widows, some are fighting against self hate and depression, some have loved ones that are addicted to drugs and live on the street, some are told they are not allowed to dance, some try not to yell at their children all day. One lady lived through WWII in an underground bomb shelter her dad built, listening to explosions all day in the dark. One lady hangs out in dressing rooms at strip clubs in her hometown (Tampa, which btw has more strip clubs than Vegas) so she can be a friend and light to girls in the sex trade. My ill behaving uterus seemed of little consequence when I heard these stories. Guess what though? These girls cried with me about my vacant womb, they hugged me and assured me that my struggle is real too.
I’m lighter tonight. I will still cry at the origami gum wrapper commercial (watch if you dare), and my favorite Hamilton song (listen here, you will not regret this), and when the brownies go so so well with the wine (paleo brownie recipe here). I’m still a mess, I’m still in pieces, I’m totally undone. I met a girl who tried to conceive for five years, and she asked me all the right questions and guessed all my insecurities, and loved me in this embarrassing mess where I am. So my things are in perspective now, I remember who God is and who I am. I remember the most important thing is that we are all in this together. Want to have coffee?