Angela's Advent Devotion

Angela's Advent Devotion

Mark 13:32-36

But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come…

Telling a child that Santa is watching makes parenting a wee bit easier in the months leading up to Christmas. No one wants Santa to take away their gifts because they were whiny or misbehaved at the mall. As an adult who still gets presents from Santa, I make sure to mind my Ps and Qs this time of year as well.

Here’s the thing, God is always watching. It is up to us to remember that and act accordingly. Not just on Sunday or when we remember. It is up to us to have empathy for those around us, to share in the joy and pain we see around us.

Throughout the past few months, heartbreaking and challenging as they have been, a theme has emerged from the Zoom calls with colleagues, friends and family. Give grace. The whole world is struggling, and our lives have changed so dramatically in such a short period of time. We are encouraging one another to extend grace to those around us and to ourselves. We are doing enough, we are enough.

When we are able move forward as a society, I hope we do not lose the idea of extending grace to those around us. The truth is we can never know another person’s circumstances or experiences. Just as Santa is watching during the Christmas season, God is watching through all the seasons. Each time we extend grace we honor and renew our commitment to be the Christians God has taught us to be.

Prayer: 

Dear God, thank you for the grace you extend to each and every person, may we follow your example and be your light this holiday season.

The season of Advent is upon us...

Today is the first day of Advent and I wrote the devotion for Hollywood United Methodist Church to start the season.  

Isaiah 40:28-31

“Have you not heard? The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and strengthens the powerless. Even youths will faint and be weary, and the young will fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.”

When I opened up my email to see which scripture I’d been assigned for this year’s advent devotion, I read my verses and thought, yeah, that’s about right. That’s so 2020. That’s exactly what I’m feeling…

 

I have grown weary and I feel powerless, I am exhausted and I sometimes have a hard time understanding what’s happening and more so, why it’s happening. It’s been a year full of sickness and strife and so much pain. So. Much. Pain. 

 

I am heartbroken for so many, for our world. I am sad all the time. I am angry all the time. I am fragile and jaded all at once. And yet…

 

This passage from Isaiah reminds me that there is help. It reminds me that even though this year has been one like no other I’ve experienced; God is in control. He will renew me when I cannot renew myself. He will help me to stand tall and confident and He will shore up my reserves. And I need that. Every. Single. Day.

 

This advent season will be so different from any we’ve ever experienced. We will not gather in person to worship or celebrate. We will not gather in person to exchange gifts and eat cookies. We will not carol with friends. We will not shop in malls. We will not eat and drink and be merry in public or with anyone who doesn’t live in our house. We will celebrate differently but we will still celebrate. 

 

For the Lord will renew us regardless of what the world throws at us. And we will mount up with wings like eagles. We will hunker down and be thankful for what we have and that we are healthy and able to stay at home when we can. We will run and not be weary. We will wear masks and smile with our eyes, spreading the news of Jesus’ birth online and via the postal service. We will walk and not faint. We will be hopeful for what tomorrow will bring, knowing God will protect us, that He will save us. He’s got us. 

 

Advent is about waiting and preparing. We do that as we get ready for the baby Jesus’ birth. We do that too as we get ready for life after the pandemic. We put our faith and trust in Him. We believe in Him. We love Him. Because no matter how tired and powerless we feel, He loves us, He strengthens us. Every. Single. Day. 

 

Prayer – God, please hold our communities close. Please be with every person who is doing their part to make this world safer, healthier, happier, better. Please strengthen all of us. You are amazing, God. And we remember that, even in the darkest of days. Amen. 

  

I do not know what tomorrow will bring but...

Four years ago I wrote a blog post entitled: What happens next. In it I wrote about my sadness, my disappointment, and my determination not to quiet my voice. We had experienced a long election season and I had campaigned mightily for Hillary Clinton, among others. And we lost. 

I wrote these words at the end of that post: 

Be that person who's not just asking what happens next but actually be that person who goes out and does what happens next. Because what happens next will be extraordinary. It has to be.

And it's true. The last four years have been extraordinary. I have never been so invested in so many issues and projects outside of myself. Four years. I keep thinking about how my life is so very similar to how it was all those days ago. And yet, how it's so very different. 

Since 2016, I've made a web series. I've committed to directing a movie (pandemic-pending, but isn't everything?!). I've helped feed and cloth people. I've raised money. I've raised awareness. I've helped make sustainable menstrual health solutions for girls and women around the world. I've marched for and worked to help educators and students. And I've worked to Get Out The Vote more because I believe that is one of the most important things we can do. We need leaders who we can be proud of. We need leaders who look like us. ALL OF US. We need leaders with empathy. We need leaders who are smart. We need leaders who are women. And I've tried to help with that. And I'm proud of every single person I know who's doing all of these things too and so much more. 

So much has happened in the last four years. And yet, when I think back, I'm immediately flooded with stomach-churning memories of that night. The night we knew the election wasn't ours. Of the day after when I needed comfort from friends and family. When friends and family needed comfort from me. When we hugged and cried and decided we'd grieve but we'd try again. Because...

What else is there? 

These last four years have not been ordinary. They have not been easy. They have not been palatable. They have not been calm. Not for one moment. They have been violent. They have been heartbreaking. They have been maddening. They have been full of terror and anger and astonishment. 

I've never invested so much time into learning about my country, my government, foreign policy, community movements. And while I'm exhausted by it all, I have no right to be. I am a citizen. I am a woman. I should expect this from myself. I should expect to be involved. To be constantly learning and evolving and sharing. As part of a community, a country, I need to do better. Be better. TRY HARDER. We all do. 

I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I am equal parts terrified and excited, hopeful and anxious, angry and ecstatic. I do not know what tomorrow will bring. But I do know that the next four years will again, be extraordinary. They have to be. 

My mother, my grandmothers, and my great-grandmothers fought for me every day. They fought for me in ways big and small, by marching with their minds and with their feet. They wanted to make this world a better place for all of us, not just women. And I will pick up that baton, whatever tomorrow's outcome is. I will continue on. I will remind myself of that through the dread and the fear and the small glimmer of hope. I have to be the person who's not just asking what happens next but actually be that person who goes out and does what happens next. We all have to be that person. And it starts tomorrow, by voting. 

Please, BE A VOTER. Tomorrow and always. 

200 Days

Angela & our 200 Days of Distancing pie

Two hundred days ago was a Saturday. It was our very first day of The Distancing. We started a jigsaw puzzle. We assessed our grocery situation. We called our parents and texted our friends. We watched the first Fast and Furious movie. That seems like a lifetime ago. And yet I remember it so very clearly. 

In the past 200 days we've lost 200,000 Americans to this virus. To COVID-19. That terrifies me. And so I stay at home. I read the news day and night. I watch funny shows to dull that fear. I bake. I cook. I eat cheese and crackers for Sunday dinner. I cry. I rage. I take pictures. I write on my laptop, in a journal, on Instagram. 

We've experienced the start of three seasons during Safer At Home. Spring, summer, and today, fall. When Angela said last night that today is the first day of fall I replied, RUDE. And that's my general mood. I have friends and family who finished their distancing months ago, tens of thousands deaths ago. I try to remind myself I cannot control that. What I can control is my household, my environment, my actions, myself. 

So much has changed in the past 200 days. We moved. We left the house we'd called home for 12 years and bought a place to call our own for hopefully as long and beyond. We've lost people we love. My hair is so long. Angela's might be longer. We've grieved lost vacations, lost opportunities, and lost time with people, maybe the worst part of all of this. We cannot get that time back. 

Angela and I often talk about how this period has been a blessing to us and some of our family in so many ways. We firmly believe we would not have this house if COVID hadn't happened. We know people who would not have life changing opportunities if not for this pandemic. Our lives would have taken a very different path. But that path would have led us to Alaska and Vancouver and making a movie. A MOVIE. Instead we now own a swimming pool and luxuriate in central air conditioning while celebrating a script of mine winning a writing contest. Different timelines for sure. Better? Worse? We can't dwell on that too much. There's too much heartache. 

Two hundred days ago my toes were painted bright pink. I had a week-old pedicure. Today my toes are the color I was born with and they need their bi-monthly trim. I miss the pedicures. I miss the pampering. I miss the ladies who smiled when we walked in and always asked how our dad was. But when I took off that pink polish at the end of March I noticed my nails were slightly yellow underneath and had some weird ridges. Today? Today my nails are not at all yellow and they are perfectly formed as my toenails should be. They needed the time to breath after 14+ years of never having seen the light of day except for a few minutes between polish changes. Isn't it interesting what 200 days can teach us. 

In the last 200 days I've grown a tomato plant and eaten more tomatoes than I probably have in the past two years. Angela had never willingly eaten tomatoes before this. Now she requests bruschetta when we have extras. We learned to make our own pizza dough for a fraction of the price we used to pay for ready made pies elsewhere. I definitely never would have done that in the other timeline.

I've done almost 200 days of Spanish lessons, I've taken several photography classes, I've done a daily devotional and I've completed almost 200 daily crosswords from the LA Times. All things I likely would have never attempted or completed if not for the Distancing. 

The Distancing introduced us to Zoom game nights which I hope to continue with our friends and family across the country even when we can travel again. The Distancing has reintroduced us to people who we now chat with regularly who we hadn't spent time with regularly in decades. For that, I can never not be grateful. But the Distancing has stopped us from celebrating birthdays and births and lazy July days with those we love. The Distancing has instilled something in me that is not new but it certainly is distinct.

I live life constantly in fear. I know all of us do. Even if we pretend we don't. We fear aging. We fear losing people. We fear failure. We fear they'll be out of guac at Chipotle. Three hundred days ago I feared catching a cold or the flu but I mitigated the exposure by justifying I'd get over it. As someone with an autoimmune disease I have always been extremely susceptible to illness. I accept that even though I fear it and hate it. When I worked and/or volunteered in places where germs spread readily (i.e., schools or churches) I used hand sanitizer more than anyone should. And I accepted my fate that I'd likely end the Book Fair or the fall event with a cold. More often than not I'd get off an airplane with a head cold. Christmas vacation wasn't Christmas vacation without some form of sickness. I've played golf in the middle of August with a sinus infection. It's just my lot in life. There is so much worse I could have to deal with. But this...this time...it's different.

Two hundred days of being at home. Well, at two homes. We managed a safe move and for that I'll always be impressed and happily surprised. Two hundred days of mounting death tolls. Two hundred thousand souls we pray for and millions more left behind we grieve with. Two hundred days of making silly baking shows that bring us as much laughter as we hope that do our friends. Two hundred days of learning new words and swearing when we don't know old ones over the crossword with my parents on FaceTime. Two hundred days of opening our phones in the morning fearful of what the day might possibly bring next. Two hundred days of jigsaw puzzles and podcasts and crying for no reason and crying for every reason and not sleeping and sleeping in too late and no one even noticing because there are no longer time cards. Two hundred days of wondering if we could just go back and do it all over again, would we? Because then these two hundred days of life would vanish. And they haven't been all terrible. We laugh through the tears eventually. We order Twizzlers from Instacart. We remember when we couldn't buy fresh fruit and we couldn't get grocery deliveries or Advil from Target and we think about the fear we felt then we with a sense of nostalgia. And then we wish for that naive nostalgia because we wonder if tomorrow will really be worse. And in a way, it will be. We know more. And that's good and bad. 

My prayer is that in 200 more days life is drastically different. And at the same time I hope it's somewhat the same. That's the joy of being human isn't it? We yearn for comfort and we long for adventure. We can't have both. But we can. 

Two hundred days. A lifetime in the blink of an eye. 

12 Years Ago Today

Twelve years ago today I moved to Los Angeles to become a UCLA Bruin. I moved here to Los Angeles to become a screenwriter. I moved here to Los Angeles to tell stories. And what I didn't know then was I moved to Los Angeles to meet some amazing people, form some life-changing relationships, and learn so much more than I ever could imagine, most of it not inside those college walls. 

Twelve years ago I was sure I'd write a movie, get discovered by an agent, and have a career. Bing, bang, boom! Ah, what I didn't know then could fill the universe. What I still don't know today could fill several. But what I've learned has been invaluable. At UCLA I met friends I still have, some live just down the street from me and we pick up right where we left off whether it's been two hours or two years since we last talked. Some live across the country, have moved on to different jobs, and I click like on their babies' photos on Facebook and exchange birthday and Christmas cards. Some I cry in front of, others I only share the positive with. Every one of them has been and is so important to me. They have formed me and my path in LA. 

At UCLA I learned that the most important part of any story is conflict. That was drilled into me. I had to sign a contract about it and everything. Conflict in every story. In every act. In every scene. In every sentence. It's something I think about daily when I sit down to work: am I writing in the highest conflict available? For me, it's a plumb line when things start to overwhelm me at my desk. But it's also served me well in life. Oftentimes, the important things are discovered and achieved only through conflict. And conflict doesn't necessarily mean a fistfight, at times it's struggle in my brain, or my heart. But conflict is almost always the precursor to a happy ending...which is important to remember as well. Whether I'm at my desk or not.  

If you'd asked me 12 years ago where I'd be today, I'd have had some answer about writing movies, or working on a television show maybe. And I'm not sure at that moment I really knew what that meant. And it's certainly part of where I am right now. But I'm also doing dozens of other things. It's researching for hours on end, it's thinking about writing a novel, it's playing with short stories, it's studying crowdfunding, it's opening the big directing books that sit on my desk and trying not to feel overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed but not defeated, that's a key difference. See back in late 2019 I decided to make my first feature film, Love and Embalming Fluid, myself. I decided to direct it and produce it, with help from A LOT of other people of course. In early 2020 I met with several producers, we made budgets, we made plans, I got ready to crowdfund for production and we started talking about filming in September 2020. In Michigan. Making the thing. I was ready. I was excited. I was all in. 

And then of course, the world changed. Seemingly overnight. My copy of the producing indies book sat untouched on my desk for months. The envelope of money my friends had already donated to my production fund got pushed to the way back of the shelf. We spent days trying to get groceries delivered to our house, there was no way were were going to be able to make a movie. No one could make a movie under these circumstances. And they didn't. My industry literally shut down in one afternoon. What a thing to witness. What a thing to realize. 

I cried. I sulked. I grew anxious. I got mad. I'd finally got some momentum. I'd finally decided I was ready to do this. I could do this. And then the door slammed shut. And there were no windows to open. I stayed away from my desk for months. There was always something else to do. It was a global pandemic for christ's sake. 

And then we moved. And that changed so much. And then it was time to get back to my desk. My newly cleaned, surrounded by air conditioning, desk. And I started thinking about the film again. And I got back into my studying. And a thought crept in, amidst all of the conflict, that maybe, just maybe, I could still do it. 

Not in September, for sure. Not even this year. But maybe soon. Maybe after all of this. Maybe next year. 

And it's that hope, that small glimmer, barely discernible to even myself, that is all it took. All it took to get me to jump back in. To believe. To have faith. That what I didn't even know to dream about those 12 years ago could come true. 

I came to Los Angeles 12 years ago to make movies. I've done that already. (Shout out to THE COUCH!) And I'm gonna keep doing that. Embracing the conflict, relying on those relationships to get me through, and knowing that I could have never nor could I ever, do this alone. I've got a community that spans this city and this country (and beyond!). It was my decision to move here to California but I didn't come alone. All of you came with me, all of you are with me every day. I love that, and I need that. That is what that small glimmer of hope feeds on. 

Guest Blogger - The Days are Long, but the Years are Short

Today, my little sister, Angela Leigh Knapp, turns forty years old. She wrote about this and asked if she could post it here. I'm honored. Happy Birthday, Angela. 

Some of my most vivid childhood memories are of driving in the car with my dad and he would ask me what I saw for my future. With the scent of wood chips in the air and wind blowing through my hair on warm Michigan days we would make plans to win the lottery and live our best lives. Sometimes he would ask where I would want to live if I could live anywhere? And sometimes it was what do you see yourself doing after college? During these conversations I never felt pressure, never felt that he wanted something specific for me, he was actually interested in what I thought. I honestly don’t remember much about my answers, I probably just wanted a credit card and to be a teacher. 

I have been on an incredible journey; one I couldn’t have imagined as a child in a small midwestern town in the 1980s. I have lived a life of privilege. I attended good public schools, was part of a loving church family, and college was not a choice, it was an expectation. When it became apparent that I had a chronic illness, my family let nothing stand in the way of finding the best doctors and seeking treatment for me, even when it meant going out of state and out of our health plan coverage area.

When I accepted a job across the country my friends and family loaded up a U-Haul and made my dream a reality. And when I called my mom, crying, begging her to come and get me because it was a horrible mistake, she said no, to which I will be forever grateful to her. 

That little girl dreaming big dreams with her dad has since graduated from college three times, lived in as many states, and has a job she loves. That little girl had no idea that she wanted to live in Los Angeles, and somedays, she’s still unsure. That little girl had no idea what 40 would look like. It was so far away, it seemed it would never come. But it has. Today, August 19, 1980, at 4:17 AM (EST) I turned 40 years old. I know society tells me I should feel old and sad, that the best times are behind me, but I don’t. 

I loved being a teenager, I had great friends, did well in school, had a large, loving family. My twenties were such a blast, so many memories, trials and successes. Honestly my thirties are a bit of a blur. I remember turning 30 and now it’s 10 years later, doesn’t seem possible!

My school district is always back for my birthday, so no big plans were made for my 40^th. I had intended to celebrate a bit early on a cruise in Alaska with three of my favorite people in the whole wide world. We were going to see sled dog puppies and blow glass! But as we all know, this year had its own plans. So instead, we have quarantined at Club Cleon and it has been life changing. This wasn’t just a move over the hill, this move has created a peace in my soul I didn’t know I was missing. 

Many years ago, someone, I can’t remember who, said to me, the days are long, but the years are short. This quote has stuck with me and I use it as a mantra. When work gets tough and I want to scream into a pillow, when a migraine comes on and I can’t remember not having a headache, when I am so lost, I can’t see a way out, I say this to myself. It is calming to me. It reminds me that this will pass. This day is one of so many yet to live. I am proud of the woman I have become. I don’t think we say that about ourselves enough. I am proud of the work that I do to make others’ lives better. I am proud of the relationships that I have with friends and family and I am proud of the work I have done on myself to get to this point. 

No matter how old you are, be proud of yourself and keep working on yourself, the days are long but the years are short. 

 

Saying Hello to Club Cleon

Sarah & Angela at Club Cleon!

Back in the spring Angela started perusing real estate sites. She'd send me links to cute houses, big houses, old houses, tiny houses, houses we could never afford but loved and houses we could maybe afford but didn't want. We talked about it at length and the search for affordable real estate in Los Angeles seemed fruitless. Especially in our neighborhood. Back in December we'd gone to one open house, and the experience had been so disheartening we'd laughed it off and decided nope, not again. But with spring comes hope, and with a pandemic comes fear and we were both hopeful we could some day improve our home life and fearful we could never. 

This time Angela even went so far as to contact someone from our church we'd met who was a realtor. He sent a few listings but again, nothing piqued our interest. We are handy and we cook and we craft and we have tools but we did not want to spend our spare time drywalling and renovating. Things looked bleak. We considered a move to an apartment with central AC and couldn't even find one in Mid City that we could afford. We resigned ourselves to living at Abbey Place forever. 

And then one morning Angela asked me for a notebook. I took her to the closet where I had a stash (#writelife) and she chose a slim brown journal. She opened the first page and asked me what I would want for my perfect house in Los Angeles. What were my dreams? And so we brainstormed.

Trees. A pool. Air conditioning. A garage. Parking. Two bathrooms. We talked and she wrote and that was that. I went back to work, she opened Twitter.

And then a few days later, on a Thursday morning, she sent me a Redfin link. And that was it. Just 29 days later we would have the deed to this house and be spending our first night within its' walls. TWENTY NINE DAYS. 

The process was wild but so us. When Angela wanted a full-time teaching job and Michigan was in the middle of a recession and not hiring all the teachers they were producing, she applied for a job in Yuma, a place she'd never heard of, interviewed via phone the next day, and accepted the job that afternoon. When I was contemplating film school and a move to Los Angeles, we asked why not and jumped in with both feet immediately. When we needed a new car, we researched online, walked into the dealership and said we want that one and drove it home six hours later. When we decided what we wanted in a house Angela found it (or maybe it found us) and that was that.

She called the realtor back up and said, hey, maybe we aren't done after all, can we see this house. He arranged a visit in less than 24 hours. We donned masks and gloves and he opened all the doors and we stepped inside. The house was empty as it had been for more than six months. We were in here all of ten minutes. We social distanced. We didn't open many cupboards. We looked quickly and left. We hadn't been out of the house much since March and just this visit was a lot for us. 

Our realtor suggested if we were interested that we should put a bid in. That night. So Friday night, we put in a bid. We learned we were one of at least five other people bidding, some higher, some lower. Mom and Dad suggested going a little higher. The seller counter offered that weekend. Not just to us. We hit a financing snag. We overcame that snag together. We figured things out, and we sent in our counter. And we waited. And waited. And waited.

And then Tuesday afternoon our realtor called and put on his best well, there were a lot of people in the running voice...and told us it didn't matter because OUR OFFER WAS ACCEPTED. I screamed so loud I'm sure the sharks in the Pacific heard me. We cried. We laughed. We sat there freaked out. 

The next few weeks were a whirlwind. We would be in the house only three more times before we moved in. We met with the woman who inspected it for us, her in a respirator mask, us in masks, standing far apart, mostly outside. Then we met with a pool inspector, again in masks, again, outside around the pool, for just a few moments. And finally we'd do a last walkthrough right before signing closing papers. All the paperwork was done online until last week. And it all went so fast and was so stressful but so worth it (even the blood sample Mom kept offering up next!). 

And finally it was the week of the move. And the pandemic was getting worse again. We'd only had to meet with three people total for this whole process and we'd all social distancing and worn our protective gear. But last week there was another money snafu. Which required Angela to go into two banks. This was scary but necessary (because although most of the economy is apparently reopen, banks are not. And bankers are not working at most banks (tellers are, learned that the hard way) and some aren't even open). But again we persevered and kept ourselves safe and got that wire transfer done! A traveling notary took the papers to Mom and Dad's house in Michigan to keep them safe and another brought the papers to Abbey Place to keep us safe. And then...we found out there was a filing deadline in California. After you sign your closing papers you do not get the keys. You wait 24 hours and then the deed is filed with the county and THEN you get the keys. 

By this point it was Thursday afternoon. We had the movers scheduled for Friday morning. We had the internet scheduled to switch on Friday at 12:01am. We had the entire house packed. And we weren't sure what to do. 

So we drove to the beach. We sat in the car and we looked at the waves and we smelled the salt water. And then we drove home.

And Friday morning about 15 minutes before the movers arrived we got the call that we owned the house! This is so us. We make a decision, and we plan, and we do it. And some how it works. Some how. Some miracle. 

The movers were great and safe. We socially distanced and wore masks all day. (Those expensive N95 masks we got at the pharmacy, and yes, mine broke about two hours in...)We used reusable green moving boxes that were delivered to us in a contactless manner. We found a locksmith who said safety was her biggest concern, who wore a mask and kept the doors open as she rekeyed the locks for us. We found a plumber who's suppling his employees with PPE and requiring them to get tested regularly. We had the requisite termite work done but it was all outside. So far we've felt very safe and very pleased with pulling off a move in the middle of a pandemic. We've had lots more time to pack and organize but it's been hard not being able to run to the hardware store or collect used boxes from stores or invite our friends in for a housewarming. But we're figuring it out. 

Another part of this that's been strange is sharing our news. For months now, life has been really really hard for so many. And in so many ways. So many people have lost their jobs and their homes and more importantly, their friends and family members, to this pandemic. And while we've had rough, hard days, we have been so privileged to get to stay safer at home, to get to keep a paycheck coming in, to get to order food that arrives relatively quickly, to get to have most of the people we know safe and secure. And so we had some guilt around this good news. We didn't want to share our move publicly until it was a sure thing but we wanted to tell some family and friends about it as we progressed through the process. And there was some fear and hesitation tied to that...

Ultimately, it's been a positive experience, particularly emotionally. EVERYONE has been supportive and excited for us and that's been so lovely to experience. We've needed this move, we've wanted this move, for so long. So many of you know we loved Abbey Place but we also despised it. We were constantly worried that the landlord would give us 30 days notice (as was his legal right, kinda...) and we'd have to move out. The sink was falling in and no plumber or handyman could convince us that the leaks were acceptable. The wiring was suspicious from day one. The bathroom and closets and bedroom walls had serious mold issues that we couldn't keep at bay. The list goes on...but still, with so many hurting and dying, we felt guilt at aspiring to this new home. Should we save the money. Should we give it away. Should we not share our joy. So many questions sat in our soul. 

Ultimately, we decided we had to move, we were fortunate enough that it all worked out and it was meant to be, because of so many factors. Living frugally for 12 years. Having amazing parents. Being smart about expectations. We know we are privileged and we acknowledge that. We name it and we try to continue to give back in other ways.

And now, with the Safer at Home order still in place, or again depending on who you ask, and with school going virtual in the fall again, we are so grateful for this space we have. For this air conditioning. For these windows (one word: mosquitoes). For this pool. For these walls and this safety. For all that we have.

Abbey Place will never be forgotten. But Club Cleon is the new, better, brighter, reality. And we love it! It is bright and shiny and new-ish (so far we've found ants, a broken door handle, lots of touchups to be done, and the plumber comes back Wednesday to fix a whole laundry list of items). And it is ours. The Knapps are now bi-coastal. And we cannot wait to invite you all INSIDE! 

Saying Goodbye to Abbey Place

We'll always love you Abbey Place!

We lived on Abbey Place for 11 years, 10 months and 21 days. It was inside of these walls that we laughed, slept, cried, screamed with delight, pounded our fists with frustration, spent thousands of hours talking with friends, hosted party after party, and lived our every day lives. Eating dinner in the living room, putting together jigsaw puzzles at the dining room table, making food to nourish our bodies and our souls in the kitchen, healed while lying in the beds, exercised while walking miles around the yard and the loop in the house. Writing screenplay after screenplay, studying, reading, posting, dancing, viewing, consuming, breathing, resting. So much resting. Abbey Place is where we met Betty, Bill, and Mary. Abbey Place is where we welcomed family from across the country and the continent. Abbey Place has been our home. And it has been an amazing home. It has been an amazing storage space for us with built-in closets and a garage and a yard. It is where we’ve grilled and grown food and washed our cars and watched the cats and hummingbirds for hours on end. It is where we felt safe. It is where our friends knew they could come when they needed to. It was always open and ready to receive. And now we have left it.

Moving is never easy. Even in the best of circumstances. You have to confront the why, the how, the details. At the very least you have to say goodbye. And then there’s the packing. And the cleaning. And the parting with what really should not go. And then you promise you will not forget. Because it’s rarely about the physical space. It’s always about the memories. The growth. The relationships. The stories.

I can tell you the exact spot where I killed every large spider. Some remains haunt the paint. Some remains haunt my mind. I can point out to you the plastered over wall where a termite popped out our first year there. I will never unsee the rats brought down out of the attic or the lizards under my bed or the earthworms in the middle of the carpet. The raccoons who played with the marshmallows in the trap outside instead of eating them will always have a place in my heart.

I know exactly where I was standing when Angela took my picture before I headed off to my first day of filming on The Couch. I think about how my dad drilled storage racks into the tiny bathroom our first night here. I knew right where to lie on my bed to get the sun on my legs but not on my face during the afternoon summers. I can tell you precisely where I was seated when my dear Trace called to tell me to go to the ER because she feared I had blood clots. I still smile as I think about every single conversation I had while seated around the table surrounded by people I love.

The backyard when we moved into Abbey Place

Moving is never easy. But sometimes it is exciting. When we moved from Yuma to Los Angeles on August 20, 2008 we knew an adventure was waiting. And that it has been. Jobs. Careers. Graduate degrees. Scripts. Web series. Relationships. Loss. Sickness. Healing. Life was rarely boring on Abbey Place. And when it was, we thanked God for that too. For the quiet winters when we locked up early, ate dinner at five and went to bed at nine-thirty. For the hot summer mornings that started before six because the sun was up and the trash trucks were on the move.

And this next move will be the best one yet, I’m sure of it. We’ve been pinching ourselves over the past three weeks (yes! all of this has transpired over just THREE WEEKS!). The world has changed, we’ve changed, our needs have changed. We can’t tolerate the increasingly hot weather as well as we once did. We need different types of exercise. We want more than just existence. We want comfort and happiness and contentment. And we pray that Club Cleon will be all of that and more.

There are checkmarks in both the plus and minus columns. We will no longer have a landlord. But we will be responsible for so much more. We will have air conditioning and a pool. But we will have more bills to fret over. We will not be where we’ve felt safe and comfortable for these past almost 12 years. But we will find that again. We are sure of it.

The backyard when we moved out of Abbey Place

This move came at the best time and the worst time. We are excited to create a space of our own we can thrive in for however long this pandemic endures. We can’t wait to have every single person we love and miss come visit and swim and eat and talk around the new, larger, dining room table. We were scared for movers and worker-type people to enter our walls. But we know this is the next step. This is what happens when you want more. When you work for and strive for more. You get more. And you work more. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. You tax yourself but you reward yourself.

We are so grateful for all Abbey Place has given us. And we can’t wait to learn what Club Cleon has in store for us.

Fear and banana bread

The piece of paper was a little bigger than one you'd find in a fortune cookie. And on it I had written the word FEAR. And as I dropped it into the large glass bowl of water at the front of the sanctuary on Ash Wednesday night, I prayed to let go of the fear. I prayed to manage the fear. I prayed to feel the fear.

I don't know when I first felt fear. I'm sure it was early on, as most children get a sense of fear when they first attempt to touch something hot or do something potentially harmful and a parent stops him or her. I'm sure that happened to me. More than once. I push the envelope from time to time. This isn't new.

But I do remember the first real sense of dread I had. My parents were late picking me up from Latch Key, after school care, when I was in middle school. And I knew there was something bad about that. I knew something bad had happened (it had, my grandfather was in the hospital). I wanted them to come get me and take me home but I also knew that when they did, whatever bad thing had happened, I would then know about. And maybe it was better not knowing. That fear was real. So real I remember it decades later. I remember the way the air felt that day, in that parking lot, getting into our car, as if it happened just last week. 

But now, as a grown person, I know that feeling that fear means so much more than just the dread. I know that that fear can be excitement or anticipation. And yes, it can mean being terrified and panicked. It can me so much and so little at the same time. And I think that's why, last Wednesday, I prayed to feel it. But more so, I prayed to let go of the fear. 

We were instructed to let things go for Lent during the meditation. And fear was my thing. But I also knew, just a little more than I wanted to let myself believe, that I couldn't really let go of this thing I was writing on this slip of dissolvable paper they'd handed out when we entered the church that night. And thus, I prayed to manage the fear. And that's something I pray for regularly, daily, if not hourly at times. Because I'm fearful a lot. A LOT. 

I'm afraid of people in my life dying. I'm afraid of choking to death on a cracker sitting alone in my living room. I'm afraid of never "making it" as a writer. I'm afraid I angered a friend last week. I'm afraid I'll never lose those twenty pounds (or two hundred) I'd like to lose. I'm afraid that the negative blood tests for pancreatic cancer will have been misread and I actually do have cancer. I'm afraid that the Tigers will never have a viable baseball team again. I'm afraid that all my friends really don't like me. I'm afraid that the blood thinners will magically quit working and I'll get another PE.  I'm afraid that heaven might not be real. I'm afraid that I'm killing my brain and my wrists by using my iPhone twenty-seven hours a day. I'm afraid I'll never get through the stack of novels on my bedside table. I'm afraid I'll catch a cold if I volunteer. I'm afraid I'll miss out if I don't go to the comedy club. I'm afraid that I'll have nothing new to write about ever. I'm afraid that I'll never see a woman President of the United States in my lifetime. I'm afraid I'll trip and fall and sprain my ankle right before our vacation. I'm afraid the paper cut I got last week will never heal. I'm afraid I'm afraid I'm afraid.

I could go on for pages. For days. For ever. 

I'm afraid. 

And I know I'm not alone in that feeling. But that doesn't really make me feel better. 

So what do I do about it? What do we do about it?

Well, for starters, I wrote it down and I made it disappear in a bowl of water. That felt a little bit freeing. And then I committed to a Lenten Bible Study/Book Club with a bunch of other really cool women who are just as fearful about stuff as I am. I know it's true because we talked about it at our first meeting last week. And it felt so good to talk about it. Because that's the second thing I can do. Talk about it. 

One of the things I've learned about managing panic attacks and PTSD episodes is to talk about them. To tell the person you're with that you're having one, if you can. So I'll turn to Angela or my parents or whomever I trust and I'll say, I'm really panicking right now. And usually Angela will say, "I know." And I'll be all like, yeah, great, I'm a fantastic actor. And then I'll feel the tiniest bit better. 

But then I usually find that I have to do something to get over the fear. And wait - no, it usually has nothing to do with the fear. Although sometimes it does. But usually I just go do something. I get lost in a book. Or I make banana bread. Or I go volunteer and put my worry to go use. I ask Angela to play cards or I peruse Instagram and I forget, just for a moment, what I was so afraid of. 

And then I try to be brave. I'm not saying I'm brave, because I'm not. But I pretend. I try. I do the thing that scares me. Or the thing I will wish later I had done. 

I send my script out for notes when I'm terrified it's the worst thing ever written. I send a text to a friend I haven't talked to in a while. I call my parents. I write out greeting cards to the little ones in my life. I do some work that I've been putting off. I bake that banana bread. So much banana bread. (Four batches today. Four batches because that is something I can control, today, the day before the Democratic primaries, day whatever of this crazy Coronavirus worry, another day when I haven't heard back from someone about a work thing.)

Because sometimes all the fear needs is to get pushed aside. To get put on the back burner. To get forgotten about for a minute. 

Because we all have fear. We all need fear. It's within in. It's a great motivator. But it can also paralyze us. 

But being afraid is being alive. It's being strong or stronger despite all the terrible. And it's having the faith to keep going. To keep trying. To keep doing. Despite all the rest. 

This Lenten season, whether you're giving up anything or not, my hope for you is that you acknowledge your fears, that you name your fears, and that you do something, anything, big or small, despite your fears. That's my hope for you and that's my hope for me.