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. 

Advent Devotion

The tiny nativity that sits in front of our television
(and yes, the cow falls over at least once a day, and sometimes Mary too)

Monday, December 16, 2018

Isaiah 9:6b-7

In my weathered, twenty-three year old New International Version (NIV) student bible with the neon cover that I bought myself during my first year of college, this verse declares that, “For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” 

And in The Message translation I Googled (oh, the changes the last twenty-some-odd years have seen), the verse announces, “His names will be Amazing Counselor, Strong God, Eternal Father, Prince of Wholeness. His ruling authority will grow, and there’ll be no limits to the wholeness he brings.” 

The language is similar, and yet…it’s that part about wholeness that struck me. Prince of Wholeness is not quite the same as Prince of Peace. And the “wholeness he brings” is an interesting concept. And one I’m quite sure I’m not the only one searching out.

As humans, I believe we want to feel whole, to be whole. We want to feel important and needed and loved. We want to feel complete, and I find it so hard to feel that way in this world we live in. And I know I’m not alone in this either. We try to complete ourselves with any number of things, activities, devices, and yet, it’s not enough. We still need more. 

But that’s where this verse comes in. That’s where this reminder leads us. For unto us a child is born. It’s a person, Jesus, sent from God, that will make us whole. And there are no limits to the wholeness he brings. 

Think about your best friend, or the stranger you last smiled at on the street. Think about your mother or the bagger at your grocery store you see every week. These people can bring joy into your lives. They can bring love and hope and light. And well, Jesus, He is all of these people. But most of all, this advent season, He is that little baby in the manger, bringing us wholeness. Bringing us the peace that wholeness brings, even if it’s just for a few moments. 

As I think about this verse in Isaiah, I realize that Jesus is what held me together this year through a cancer scare, through three parental hospitalizations, through a devastating job change, and through the everyday excitement and drudgery of life in these United States. Jesus is who made me whole, Jesus is who kept me whole, and Jesus is who will keep me whole every day to come. I search for His wholeness, his peace, hourly, daily, on a conscious and an unconscious basis. And He has it, always at the ready but never more brightly that right now, during Christmas. And I pray that we all find the wholeness we search for daily during this advent season.  

Prayer: May this child born to us, for us, bring us peace and make us whole, today and every day to come. Amen. 

Faith Renewed

Pick a random Tuesday on the calendar and you'll likely find me at Hollywood United Methodist Church. There's no worship service that day. In fact, the door to the sanctuary is locked on Tuesday. Instead, you'll find me in the small kitchen off the parlor. Or in the parlor. Or in the breezeway right inside the gates. I'll be unpacking little bottles of mouthwash or making sack lunches with all five ingredients or bagging Dollar Store cookies (do not mix the vanilla and chocolate, thank you very much).

And then when 11am comes, you'll find me opening the gates, surrounded by a handful of other volunteers, and welcoming in our guests. And it's hectic. For the first thirty to sixty minutes we go full out. Sometimes I don't remember seeing a late volunteer sneak past me in the gateway. I don't register the sun burning my cheeks or the flies buzzing our heads. But I do register the people who walk through the gates.

I'm usually the gatekeeper. The person who has the clipboard. Our guests sign in (with their name or any name), so we can keep track of numbers and control traffic flow. Then I ask them what they'd like for lunch and which fruit they'd prefer. I try to look each person in the eye when I talk to them. I ask them how they are or tell them how good it is to see them. I modulate my voice to theirs. If they're soft-spoken, so am I. I lean in. I ask the questions twice. I wait patiently for their slow responses. Or maybe I have to address my friend three guests back who is already asking me about my Detroit teams or wanting to know how my web series is going. But I am considerate. I always refocus on the person in front of me.

I'm not telling you this for applause or an atta girl. I'm telling you this because the folks I interact with on Tuesdays at our church's homeless lunch program are people. They are the same as you and they are definitely the same as me. They are individuals who have personalities and interests and preferences and loves and hearts and stories. Oh do they have stories. And those hearts I mentioned, they're there. And they're big and their bright and they're broken, just like mine.

This last week I was at church on Tuesday morning. We had a much smaller volunteer crew than normal. But we were doing the work, we were busy, we were all in. And there were extra cases of water to fetch and bigger plastic bags to track down and a particular size of used pants to find and reminders of take just two pieces of clothing please to say a little louder (thank goodness for my teacher voice). But the regular guests come through and this is their time to spend with us and they don't let us forget that. They make jokes. (Yes, I say chicken tuna too fast for lunch options and one little older woman who barely speaks English likes to remind me she always wants chickentuna for lunch with a twinkle in her eye). They call me by name, which when I think about it makes me want to burst out in tears. They know me. They know who I am.

And that's when Michael comes through the gate. We've gotten through our line in about forty minutes. We're taking a breath. We can say hi to the new volunteers and assess our need to restock crackers and sardines. But Michael is there. And he's been there for the eleven years I've been there. Even now that he stays up in Pasadena, which is a HIKE, he rides his bike down the hill to us. He gets a lunch, checks out the extras, and then chats. Michael likes to talk and even more he likes to laugh and make us laugh. I know he's talented with a needle and thread and I go inside to check for sewing kits. I thought I had some socked away and can't find them. And another volunteer jumps in and finds one in a donation bag. I hand it over to Michael and he beams, saying how did you know? And I remind him that I've known him forever and I've seen his handiwork and he ducks his head and says aw shucks. Yea, Michael actually say aw shucks. I'm guessing his upbringing in his Spanish speaking home included some black and white television shows.

And then Michael heads for his bike. But he stops and yells back, hey did you get to DC this summer? And I tell him I did. And he asks questions about my trip and if I took pictures and if my parents in Michigan went and if my sister is still teaching. And I feel loved. I feel seen. I feel heard. And that's what I'm supposed to be doing for Michael but he's doing it for me and suddenly the world is brighter and better and I feel my heart soften to mush.

Michael rides off and I already look forward to seeing him sometime again in the winter when he makes the trek back down the hill to see us. I know he can get a lunch up there. He doesn't take clothes from us. He comes to see us. And I am oh so glad to see him and know my friend is doing alright.

And then before Michael's even past the sidewalk I see Francis. Francis who has housing now after years of struggle. I'm not saying the struggle isn't still happening but struggling with a roof over one's head is a start toward a better life, if you ask me and Francis. He comes in and he has a Ziplock bag in his hand. And I wonder what's about to happen. I've been doing mending for Francis for years. He found out I can sew and now he brings me (always properly washed and folded and sometimes ironed) cashmere sweaters and jackets and beautiful shirts that just need a little care. He asks me in advance and we set a date on the calendar and then he brings me the mending. And I do it the next night even though he's sure it must take me days to complete. So I wonder today what this Ziplock is all about...

But it's not for me. See, another lunch guest, Rodney, is our resident extra security guard/Mrs. Kravitz. He doesn't miss a thing. He comes in about halfway through lunch every week and takes a seat on one of the chairs designated for supplies and he watches. And he asks questions. And he wants to tell us stories and talk news and flirt with some of our volunteers. Rodney has a speech impediment that makes his questions and stories hard to understand and sometimes we have to gather a group together to decipher his comments but he's patient with us and we get there. Every single time. (Once I saw Rodney's sister come to get him to go to lunch and he told her he couldn't go until lunch was over at 1pm. This cemented for me how important our time with Rodney is to him.)

So back to the Ziplock. Francis says he was wearing a t-shirt last week with the Death Row Records logo on it. I remembered. Angela was volunteering with us and Rodney had mentioned the t-shirt. He wanted to know where Francis, an older white English man, had gotten the shirt. Francis had picked it up at Goodwill one day. Rodney, a black Los Angeles native, seemed satisfied with that answer. Their encounter was brief and unremarkable. They don't chat much, if ever, and I'd filed the encounter away.

But then Tuesday Francis said he wanted to give the t-shirt, which he'd laundered and ironed, to Rodney. I said he was there so I walked Francis over to Rodney's chair. And I prayed an honest to God prayer that this encounter would go well. That Rodney would be accepting. Because I've seen some of our guests interact with each other and it's not always friendly. Several other volunteers were gathered near and later we talked about how we all momentarily held our breath.

But what happened made me burst into tears later that evening when I recounted the story to Angela. When Francis handed the Ziplock over to Rodney, the smile on Rodney's face was enormous. I'm not sure I've ever seen him smile so big. And Francis seemed so pleased, in his quiet English way. And then Rodney told him thank you and his voice was as clear and loud as I'd ever heard it and honestly, my faith in everything was renewed right that second.

I know I'm a broken record and not just in this blog post. These folks I meet and see on Tuesday give me so much. So so much. It's a community. It's a place to forget all that doesn't matter for a few moments and just be with people. Yes, the homeless problem in Los Angeles is out of control and mismanaged and killing people. Yes, we need to do so much more. But on Tuesdays when I'm in that breezeway on the corner of Franklin and Highland, I'm renewed. I think things can get better, I am reminded that I am human, and so is everyone else. And that they matter, and I matter, and I am renewed. (Mind you some weeks I am broken down and exhausted and brought to tears and anger but that's another post for another day, today I am focusing on this part.)

To be renewed. That's what I wish for you every day. That's what I wish for all of us. For myself. That as this year wraps up, as this decade wraps up, as we look forward to this next year that we are all renewed. Whether it's by a kind word, a remembered name, a tin of sardines or a bottle of water or a pair of new socks, we find renewal and faith in humankind. Faith in ourselves. Faith in others. Faith above all else. Faith that we can continue. And we will.

Angela's Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today Angela's devotion was featured.

Romans 15:4-13God is the one who makes us patient and cheerful. I pray that he will help you live at peace with each other, as you follow Christ. Then all of you together will praise God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Honor God by accepting each other, as Christ has accepted you…

Patient and cheerful. Live at peace with each other. These are all things that seem to be escaping me lately. 2019 was a trying year for me, as it was for many of you, I’m sure. The negative thoughts surround us all in the news, in our interactions with others, our work lives and sleepless nights. Hope seems more and more elusive, like it’s just out of reach. We want to embrace it, to live in it, but it’s stays just far enough away that we can’t grasp on with our outstretched hand.

Verse 13 says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit”. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving I was able to volunteer at the weekly homeless ministry and was able to help hand out brand new, in the box, shoes to many of our guests. For that two hours I was filled with hope of what can be. To witness the guests, many of whom have nothing, receive such a gift, with nothing asked of them in return, filled me with hope. The hope that one small gesture can turn someone’s day around, one small act of kindness can be a beacon for someone lost in the dark. Handing out shoes, new or not, is not going to save the world. However, it does remind me that hope is there, in the everyday, turning pain and sadness into patience and cheerfulness.

I am currently working toward a master’s degree in educational administration, in laymen’s terms, I hope to become a principal someday. Throughout the program we learn different theories of leadership and begin to decide what type of leader we want to be. Leadership theories are complex, and the list of attributes to be an effective leader is long. I have been in education for many years, but I have been a person a lot longer than that and what I have learned is that a spoken word or act of kindness is more important than any other leadership attribute. Treating every person you come into contact with as a human being, listening without judgement, and showing compassion are the hope I see in the leaders I wish to emulate.

I will not be patient and cheerful every day, I can’t promise to live in peace with everyone. But I can promise to be kind and show compassion. To bring hope to those that I meet. Anne Lamott reminds us that, “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.”

As we travel through this advent season, look for the outstretched hands grasping for hope and know that your kindness and compassion can be the hope that others can cling to.

Little Women today

No, I was not backstage but this is a very nice picture from last night I stole off the internet 

"There's never been a better moment to be a woman who wants to write or a woman who wants to direct," Greta Gerwig. 

That's how the writer and director of the new film adaptation of Little Women, Greta Gerwig, concluded the Q and A last night after the screening of her film.

Again, not my picture but I was there!

I hurried to the car and scribbled the words in a little notebook I keep in my purse, a notebook who's cover is emblazoned with the word 'wise'. Wise words indeed. Even if Greta was answering a question about how she feels that there still aren't more movies like hers in the world, movies with groups of women at the center, movies where women's and girls stories fill the screen, movies where women write and direct.

She was right, there has never been a better moment. Even though, as she went on to say, it's still not a great moment. But we're further than we've ever been, we're better off then we've ever been. It's better now, and it'll be even better for the next generation. But sometimes, sometimes it's still really really hard.

I sat there last night, next to my sister, and watched the story of these young women unfold. Men hopped in and out of several scenes but mostly, the story was there's to tell. These women. And it was glorious.

It made us cry (yes, even Angela!), it made us laugh out loud, and at one point, the audience even audibly gasped! It was that good.

I'd seen the 1994 adaptation back in theaters with my grandmother, my sister, and my cousins John and Nicole. I knew the story well. I've had a hardcover copy of the original novel on my shelf since I was in single digits. I knew what was going to happen. But Greta took the characters and infused them with something new, something so...wise.

At the Q and A she spoke about how she'd researched the author Louisa May Alcott while writing the screenplay and how she wanted Alcott's spirit to resonate through the film. Here was a woman who wrote a novel back when women didn't write novels, and if they did, they weren't treated well in the selling of said novels, and I love how Greta captured that part of the story in her film.

My own photo! 

One more thing -- we watched this film in a giant theater (the Directors' Guild theater, very nice!) filled at least half with men. And to know that these men, all around us, were laughing and wiping their eyes too (yes, I saw you friend in the seat next to me), well it's just a reminder of what the character of Amy says in the film, maybe women's stories need to be told more. We need to know about girls and women. We need to hear their stories in order to value them.

I'm so glad I got to watch this particular story last night. And afterwards to hear Greta, Meryl Streep, Saoirse Ronan, Florence Pugh, Timothee Chalamet, and Laura Dern talk about what it was like to tell this particular story. There really has never been a better moment...

Hollywood United Methodist Women

Our first Hollywood UMW meeting!

I don't remember when I became a United Methodist Woman. Maybe it was yesterday, when we had our very first official meeting at Hollywood United Methodist Church. Maybe it was back in my early twenties when Angela and I were awarded mission pins from the Howell United Methodist Women. Maybe it was the day I was first carried into the church in the days after my birth. Or the day I was baptized. Or the day I was confirmed. Or the day I received my third grade Bible. Or the day I started teaching Sunday School when I was just eighteen. Or the day I took over as senior youth group leader. Or when Angela and I started to lead the young adult group at Hollywood UMC. It's hard to pick a day because there have been so many. And this is just another beginning.

It's been a year in the making. Last October, the pastors at Hollywood UMC suggested we re-start the group at our church. It's been decades since the UMW have been active there. So we began. First, I was an interested observer. Willing to attend meetings, volunteer, etc.  And I did. We served lunch at Ronald McDonald House, we chatted, we planned, and then things got serious. This spring I was asked to be the treasurer of our group.

And the rest is history...

Before long, Angela had come on as secretary and we were having hours-long meetings at Denny's in the middle of Hollywood. We were attending district meetings in Redondo Beach and fundraiser tea parties in Burbank and finally, after lots of planning, we were having our first event. Our kickoff meeting.

Our leadership team is five strong and Sunday we gathered in Grant Hall at Hollywood UMC praying more women would join us. And they did! We had over forty women stop in for a catered lunch (Olive Garden for the win!), some giveaways (young and old alike get serious when it comes to prizes!), and an introduction to what being a United Methodist Woman is all about.

We had an amazingly diverse group, which is really something you could say about Hollywood UMC as a whole, so I was not surprised. We had elementary and middle school-aged girls, we had young women, we had mothers and grandmothers and great grandmothers, we had women who are looking to socialize, meet new friends, and make a difference. We had women who've been members of the church longer than I've been alive, we had women who've only stopped by once or twice before and were glad they stuck around.

And we had guests from the UMW Cal-Pac Conference and West District as well! These women took time out of their weekend to travel to Hollywood and join us, to share with us their knowledge, their love, and their prayers. And it really meant so much to all of us.

One of our guests from Cal-Pac gave us UMW notepads before she left, and she'd written First Timothy 4:12 on the first page. This morning I pulled out my Bible and looked up the verse. One I noted I'd highlighted some time ago:

Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity.

As I sat at my desk thinking about this passage my first thought was, well I'm not that young. But then I thought about one of the women I sat across from yesterday. She is 90 years old. She'll celebrate her 62nd wedding anniversary on the 28th. And as she held my hand as I helped her out to her car, she squeezed it and said how happy she was that us girls were doing this. How great it was going to be for us.

And I thought about that again. She said this was going to be great for me. And I agreed, but didn't really process that. I had been thinking this whole time about how great this going to be for the church, and for the women of the church, as if I wasn't a member of either of those groups. But in reality, this is about me just as much.

Yesterday I got to speak to several women who I only see in passing during worship. I got to look at their nametag, make eye contact, and connect on a different level. I got to hug women I sometimes don't see for months at a time, I got to be in fellowship with these women who I'm really excited to spend more time with.

Yes, I hope to set an example for others. As a Christian, I try hard to do that always (and often fall short). But I hope that other women in our church, and in our conference, and in our larger denomination, see us, the women of Hollywood UMC, myself included, as an example.

We have awesome plans for our new group. We want to help women, children and youth in our community and around the world. We want to laugh and love and be in fellowship with one another.

I think about being called a girl yesterday and I smile, because to most of the guests from the other UMW groups, many of us are just that, girls. We're young blood in a thriving ministry that's doing amazing things. We're not desperately needed but we are needed. We are needed to set an example for each other, for those who came before, for those who'll come after.

I didn't learn how to be a United Methodist Woman from a book or a program. I learned it from the women in my life, the women in my church. I learned it from watching my mother who's had UMW meetings and activities on her calendar since before I was born. And I'm excited to continue that tradition out here on the west coast. Here's to our first year, Hollywood UMW!

What's Next?

You think I know what's next?! Hah!

On this past Saturday, Angela and I got home around 4:30pm. We'd both had acupuncture treatments in the morning and then headed off on an unexpected trip to Urgent Care. (Angela's foot is fine, it is not broken. It is still swollen. The very kind Cedars doctor did not know what was causing it. She has prescriptions and directives and medicine and herbs and a recommendation for a podiatrist.) We had missed another appointment and had finally had a quickie lunch about 3pm. It had been an exhaustive day, mostly mentally, a little emotionally, and we knew we had to head out again in less than 90 minutes. It was 95 degrees in our house and we both collapsed onto the bed in Angela's bedroom with the AC blaring. She looked at me and asked, in her little sister voice, "Can we watch West Wing?"

She let me pick the episode. I'm a completist and so I started back at the beginning, with the pilot. Though trust me when I say I can quote just about any episode along with the actors in the show (at least for the first four seasons, don't get me started on the seasons after that, I've already jumped into that conversation once this week). We watched the episode and it was like a salve on our day. There were no phones to distract us, no closing of the eyes to keep us away, we just watched. We watched the show that we've seen dozens of times. And at the end of it, when Martin Sheen's character, the President of the United States, says, "What's next?" I felt my soul stir.

On any given day I know what's next. Lunch, dinner, laundry, appointments, even social media postings. I have a pretty good grip on this organized life I lead. I like things in their place, I like looking at the calendar and seeing what's to come, I like knowing what the plan is. That doesn't mean I won't go with the flow, chuck it all to have an adventure, or have ice cream for dinner, but I do like a certain sense of control.

And last February I lost some of that control, in a professional sense.

I'd just finished an almost two year project, making my web series THE COUCH. In that time period I'd also written other things, including brand new drafts of two pilots and a feature film script. I'd started another feature film script and done a lot of other very cool things (i.e., shadowing the director Rocky Carroll on the set of NCIS). And I had announced that I was going to direct my first feature film, a film I'd written. Things were going pretty well in my little corner of the world. I felt like I finally had figured out the beginners' Hollywood game, just for a moment or two. I'd won a couple of awards, we'd had not one but two premieres of my web series, and people could finally see something I had written, on a screen, just as I'd imagined they'd get to see it one day.

But then along came February. And even though I knew it was coming, it was still really hard. My producing partner and I decided to split up. We were not a good fit anymore and we both knew this. We had a very cordial meeting on a rainy Wednesday afternoon and afterwards I'd felt the sense of lightness, the release, I knew so well. I knew this needed to happen. It didn't make the conversation or the emotional experience any easier. But the next day, when I sat down at my computer to write, I knew I was servicing only the story and myself. And that's the way it needed to be.

I spent the spring getting pilots ready to be sent around town. I worked on a feature film script that's been nagging at me for a while now, and now we're here. And once again, I had no idea what's next.

It's not a new feeling for me. It's not a great feeling for me. But it's not an unexpected or an unwelcome feeling either. Since moving to Los Angeles over 11 years ago, I've never known what's next. I've never known what the next job will be (the life of a professor with just a simple master's degree who works on a one-class contractual basis). I've never known what the next email will bring (maybe it'll be a producer who's looking for my script or a writing partner who has feedback). I've never known what the next thing will look like (had you asked me prior to THE COUCH, I would have said, nah, I'm not interested in making a web series).

Is this any way to live, you might ask? (And folks have!) Well, it's the only way, for now. Being an artist, a writer, I have to forge my own path. I have to figure out how to do this thing called writing. Called filmmaking. Called life. There's absolutely no blueprint. There's no college then professional program then residency then blah blah blah. Oh, Lord, how I wish there was. There's no one saying well if you work in an agency, and ready 1804 scripts, and write 932 pages, you'll get staffed on a TV show. There's no one saying well if you keep teaching, and write seven pages per night after grading middle school essays for three hours, every night for fourteen years, you'll get to join the union after selling your first feature. It just doesn't work that way. Oh, if it did...

And so I'm left right now, today, asking myself, asking the universe, what's next. Do I have a plan? A little one. A sketch so faint in my mind I only think about it in fleeting moments when I'm about to go do something else so it doesn't scare me too much. Because when it's all on you, when you're back to being just you in the partnership, it's terrifying. At least in this business. In this life.

Will I still direct LOVE AND EMBALMING FLUID? (click on the title and read it right now!) Well, that's one of those faint sketches that terrifies me. Maybe is the answer right now. If I'm in the room with other filmmakers at some event, holding that oh too expensive glass of crappy white wine, the answer is a strong YES! Of course! But when I am sitting here at my desk, in my rented house, I think THAT IS RIDICULOUS. Do you know how much money it costs to make a movie? Even a little tiny movie? You'd have to do a Kickstarter. And you don't want to. You'd have to empty your little tiny savings account. And you don't want to. You'd have to put yourself out there in such a scary scary way. And you don't want to. But maybe I will. Maybe I will one day soon. We'll see. Right now, I'll push that thought that's barely even a thought really far back in my brain. Where it's safe and only a little frightening.

Will I keep writing? Now that has a definitive answer. YES. A MILLION TIMES YES. I haven't stopped. Yes, there have been breaks. I've spent a lot of time in Michigan this year. (Will my voter registration be there in 2020? Maybe! she kids!) But I've also spent a lot of time working on projects I'm really really passionate about. I revamped my entire female Navy SEALs pilot BLACK SQUADRON (click on the title and read it right now!) and I love it. I want to see it made by amazing women. And just yesterday I finished the first full draft of a feature film script tentatively titled HALF OVER. (you cannot click on this one, no one has read it yet except Tami, not even Angela! It's got a WAYS to go before it's fit for public consumption!) It's about a woman who gets to the half way point in life and has some decisions to make. Hmmmm...where does she get her inspiration, one wonders?! And this afternoon I'll get to work rewriting it already, because I really really love this story and can't wait for others to read it. And I have a plan for putting it out into the world. I'm excited to try the plan out. I can't promise it'll work but I'll try my best.

So, what's next, eh? Well, we'll see. We don't know. I don't know. None of us knows. And that's terrifying. And exhilarating. And so I'm gonna hold onto that part, because it keeps me going.

Typos, vegetables, and spoiler alert -- how I DO NOT have cancer

I am a writer. I write. I write to make sense of the world. To make sense of my world. To make sense of what's happening to me. To those around me. I use my words. I hand write lists. I write letters and cards the old fashioned way. I write. I am a writer.

And yet, for the past few months, I've been at a loss for the words. The right words. No, really, any words. I've been at a loss of how to process something that happened to me this spring.

It was Monday, March 18th. I was just getting into the groove of being back at my desk, I was deep into what I hoped would be my last rewrite of my SEAL team drama pilot. I'd had to deal with just one health thing since I'd been back from my extended winter in Michigan helping Mom recuperate from her hip replacement: an ultrasound of my liver, gallbladder, abdomen, all that good stuff there right in the middle of my body. I was supposed to get this test back in the late fall but insurance was being difficult and my doctor wasn't hurrying them or me up so I pushed it.

And then March 18th happened. I dropped Angela at school and headed up to Alahambra. This drive takes anywhere from 25 minutes to two hours. That day it was quick and I got to my appointment early. But I had to wait. And then when I got into the exam room my doctor was a little distracted. She had to find my test results. She had to read them. And then she turned to me and said, we need to do a few more tests.

I didn't like the sound of that but I wasn't concerned. Over the past few years I've gotten used to tests. Ultrasounds, blood draws, etcetera. She said she'd order more extensive blood work and an MRI. Ooh, that's new I thought. Alright. So we ended the appointment rather quickly and I went out to wait for the orders.

I grabbed the paperwork from smiley Becky at reception who always is so sweet even when harried and I was on my way. And as I stepped into the elevator I realized something.

The blood work orders were for an ancreatic cancer test. First, the paper had the word cancer right there at the top. CANCER. Second, what was ancreatic cancer?!?!

I don't think I cried. Maybe tears sprang to my eyes. I realize this now mostly because the man standing outside the (oncologist) office smoking gave me a double take and then a really sad look. I moved on to my car.

I vowed to myself not to Google anything. But I broke that vow after getting home, after talking to Mom who was Googling as we talked, after deciding I would only Goggle 'ancreatic'. There's no such thing I quickly confirmed. It was a typo. The code of the blood test was in fact for pancreatic cancer. I shut my laptop. I vowed to myself again.

It took about seven hours to get all the way through my brain, the idea that I might, just maybe, have pancreatic cancer. I was relatively fine all afternoon. I worked a little, putzed around, and didn't know what to think. But by that evening it had sunk in. There was a bit of screaming, really loud screaming, and lots of tears. And then the reminder that I wouldn't know anything for six weeks, when my next appointment back at the hemo-oncologist's office was.

What followed was four weeks of life. Four weeks of worry. Four weeks of normalcy mixed in with periods of complete dread. Utter paralysis. I would lie in bed at night and contemplate what this meant. And I couldn't even figure that out. I couldn't wrap my brain around anything related to actually dealing with cancer. The furthest I got that first night was the idea that I might not be around to see the next season of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I don't know why that particular thought stuck in my brain but it sure did. And every night I'd lie down, exhausted after a full day, after a late night reading, and I would not sleep. I could not sleep. An hour here, an hour there but rarely much more strung together. That was a new phenomenon all in itself.

And then here's a twist to it all -- I was about to have an MRI done. It was scheduled for 10 days after my initial test order. So Angela and I talked with our beloved Trace and decided the best course of action leading up to the scan was a vegetable reset to clear the abdomen for the scan. This meant that beginning the very next morning I would eat vegetables for every meal. And then once a day I would have a small portion of lean protein and one serving of fruit. No carbs. No oils. Lemon juice and some salt for seasoning. Because I NEED SALT. (In fact I did not ask Trace about the salt. I just decided.) No sugar. Nothing but water to drink. VEGETABLES. FOR EVERY MEAL.

I started on Thursday morning. After a whirlwind grocery store trip the night before I cooked myself some spinach, mushrooms, onions, and asparagus. I added some cherry tomatoes and lemon juice. It was light and lovely. I started my day. For lunch I made myself a bit of a taco salad - but just the vegetables. There wasn't much to do except chew. And chew and chew. And chop. Vegetables require so much chopping. A lot of prep. But alas, we were in this.

By Friday I decided a soup might be good. I make delicious soups. I make stews and chilis and they are what Angela and I eat for almost every lunch during the school year. I make them by the gallons and I freeze them and they smell so good and taste even better.

This soup was horrific. It was really almost so bad that I couldn't taste it. I got down maybe a cup full and it was thrown away. No soup. I ate some strawberries that day like they were the most expensive and best meal on the planet. I barely ate anything else.

Saturday morning we volunteered at the Ronald McDonald House in Pasedena. It was a lovely morning spent preparing a BBQ for the families, playing with the kids and socializing with other church members. But when lunch rolled around and I was only nibbling on raw onion slices wrapped in lettuce leaves Angela was beginning to see a problem. When a friend wanted to know why I wasn't eating we told her what was happening. And that made it more real somehow, we'd only told a tiny handful of people up to that point and I was having a harder and harder time coming to terms with the tests, the diet and the what ifs. Seeing the reality of saying this thing out loud was almost too much to bear.

I hadn't eaten much in twenty four hours. And my body sensed that something was amiss. By the time we got in the car and left the volunteer event I was crying. After the hour drive home I was sobbing. I couldn't do this. I was so deep down hungry. So physically hungry. But that wasn't all. I was scared. So it wasn't just a diet change. It was an emotional change. A potential life change. It was too much.

We called Trace. We made a new plan. And I set off to the grocery store determined to do better by this body I still had. Thoughts can go dark quickly, I realized, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to deal with some mental illnesses on such a moment-by-moment basis. Here I was a week into my newest health crisis and I was not handling things well at all.

But at the store that afternoon I got some of the newly added items Trace suggested: sweet potatoes, other potatoes, more chicken, more fruit, avocado. She explained that I could not fail the test by eating. See, in the past twenty four hours I had convinced myself that if a vegetable reset was going to help the doctors get a better picture on the MRI, a no food diet might be an even better bet. Somehow I had decided that in order to pass this test, something I realize now I couldn't do, it wasn't pass or fail, it was simply a photograph of my insides, I needed to stop eating. I was starting to realize how me, and people who suffer from eating disorders view the world, and how it affects our every thought. If I just ate less, I would be better. I wouldn't be sick. I wouldn't get sick. I would be fine. But that's not true...I also started to realize what it means to be physically very hungry. A sensation I don't think I've ever really experienced before.

And so I went home that night and I made myself a meal of red potatoes, chicken and broccoli. And I ate until I felt stuffed. And then I had some strawberries. And some blueberries. And then I felt clear-headed. I felt like a weight had been lifted even though weight had actually been added.

The next day we cooked butternut squash. We made more chicken. I snacked on fruit all day. I ate chicken. I ate avocados. I ate more potatoes. And I felt so much better. And yet -- still scared. That didn't go away with the change of diet. I stayed awake each night and read the same short passage over and over in my worn Bible.

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." - Jeremiah 29:11

This was one of my favorite verses before that Monday in March. But during those four weeks I held onto these words as if they were the only life raft I would ever receive. A future. God is giving me a future. I held on to that. I breathed that. I knew God had plans for me. Has plans for me. I knew He wouldn't let me go. And then I would feel guilt believing in that too...

I've seen so many people in my life and the lives of people I know and love believe those same words and experience very different outcomes. Who am I to believe that I deserve a future when others do not. Those middle of the night questions plagued me morning, noon, and night.

The weekend before my MRI I had to change my diet yet again. Very few vegetables. More restrictions. I ate chicken mostly. A little fruit. A lot of water. I began eating chicken and mashed sweet potato for breakfast and not hating it. It's very filling and I felt oh so grateful it wasn't spinach and asparagus with lemon juice and tomatoes.

And then, two weeks later, I spent an hour on a Monday morning getting stuck five times by four different nurses and I finally got my IV. And then I got my MRI. And then I waited two more weeks.

You know how on TV or in the movies, when a character is waiting for test results and the doctor herself calls with good news, or texts the findings or calls them in that afternoon?

That's all movie BS. That's not real. After the MRI I had to wait exactly two more weeks for my test results. And I was lucky. My appointment was scheduled for four weeks later but I called and there was a cancellation and I could move my day up.

And then that fateful Monday morning Angela and I sat in the exam room waiting for the doctor. She was running behind. They didn't know if they had my MRI results. And I was on edge. I was not my patient, level-headed self. The nurse couldn't take my blood pressure because she didn't believe me when I told her there was a larger cuff somewhere in that office and I was ready to fight her. I was sleep deprived and terrified and sick to my stomach. I was sure I was going to throw up right there in the little hand washing sink if my doctor didn't come in soon. And we kept texting my parents that there still wasn't news. And then the doctor came in and she said my MRI looked good. And I remember asking her if that meant I didn't have cancer. Because I wasn't fucking around this time. I wanted to know the answer to the 'ancreatic' cancer question.

And she looked at me and smiled in her slight doctorly way and said no, I didn't have cancer.

Oh the relief that washed over me. The memories of people I've loved and lost washed over me. My life flashed before my eyes, in a good way. There were plans yet to be made. There was a future yet to be had.

And then we drove so far across the county and ate breakfast at our favorite restaurant by the ocean.

And I just kept smiling. And I just kept saying aloud, "Hey, guess what? I don't have cancer."

And I know I was bragging. I know I still am. I know that so many other people don't get to say that. I know people in my life don't get to or didn't get to say that. But for that moment, for this moment, it's my truth. And I feel it in every breath. I don't have cancer.

Just last week I was complaining about something and Angela said, hey but at least you don't have cancer and I stopped and smiled and agreed. It's a new mantra. A reminder. A weight. An experience I now carry.

I don't have cancer. I have some issues with my liver and my blood and nothing too terribly new or exciting, in medical terms. I'm managing my health. I'm working on keeping a lot more veggies in my diet. I was impressed that I could cut out some things from my diet immediately and not miss them. And I'm good with that. But that weight, that weight has stayed with me. That experience. That heaviness. That feeling of being hungry. So deep down hungry. And knowing that while I was feeling hungry I was actually craving something else.

I think back to that month, that month where I thought, maybe, where I didn't want to consider, that I might have cancer and I hold my breath. I'm still not sure how to process the whole experience. But I'm finding my way. I'm finding my words. I told a few friends in person. I thanked the people around me who hugged me and prayed for me and loved me when I didn't know how much I needed all of those things. And I am glad for everyone who kept me going that month without even knowing what I was going through. A friend told me I didn't show that anything was wrong and that's mostly because I had no idea how to show it. I couldn't show it. Because if I showed it, I shattered. And that happened a few times. Usually with Angela. Who was my rock. Who was my reminder of what reality was and what it wasn't and that we would be okay because we are always okay.

The day we got the good news, we celebrated with a friend who came way out of her way to check on us and spend some time with us. We opened an expensive bottle of champagne I'd received at the opening of The Couch and we smiled and laughed and smiled some more. We ate tacos and we marveled in mundane things like our favorite TV shows and the day's news.

And now, even a couple of months later, I still catch myself without the words to understand what happened. I think about it and can't quite believe that happened. I can see myself that first day, when I got the blood test orders and I know I stood in the hallway between the bedrooms and the bathroom in my house and I know I screamed. I screamed loudly. I screamed because I couldn't even yet cry. I was in a complete state of shock. I can see myself doing that. It runs on a loop through my brain. But I almost can't believe it was me. I can't quite comprehend that it's over. That I'm okay. Because I can still feel myself screaming. I can still feel that feeling.

It was a very long month. It was a scary month. And not just for me. I know that. And I know that is part of the weight I carry.

I made it through my first veggie cleanse and only had one major breakdown. I made it through my first MRI and only had the IV pulled out once and only lost some blood all over the machine and the floor and the sheets and my gown. I made it through my first cancer blood screening with good results.

I went back and had another blood draw this Saturday. Next Monday I'll go back to the hemo-oncologist and have my regular levels checked. I'm not so scared this time. I know that God's got me. I know my family's got me. I know my friends have got me. I know I've got me. I know that no matter what, I'll be okay. They're not eloquent words. They're not insightful words. Yet. But they're what I've got right now. They're how I'm processing right now. I'm okay, because hey, I don't have cancer.

The Howell Premiere of The Couch

The theater is on Grand River in Howell. It's where I grew up seeing first run movies a few weeks after they premiered in the fancy theater on Grand River in Brighton. It had one screen and good popcorn. 

One of my most favorite memories of the theater is going to see SPEED with my Grandpa Jim Boutell. I was 16. I hadn't seen a lot of R-rated movies (there was no internet or Netflix back then!). But Grandpa picked me up in his truck (I think Angela was there, I can't recall) and we headed down to the theater. We settled in to watch the film. I can tell you exactly where we were seated. And then Grandpa headed out for a moment. And then he came back - with a huge trash bag filled with popcorn. They were going to throw it away, he said. And so we settled in and ate. And ate and ate. And I saw a knife shoved in a guy's ear and I was hooked...

And then on a Tuesday night in December I got to see the title of something I wrote up on the marquee of the Howell Theater. It was so cool. And then I got to witness a couple hundred of my closest family members and friends settle in with their own popcorn and enjoy something I wrote -- up on the big screen. I still can't really believe it happened. 

Wesley crew

My parents high school crew & mine!

It was quite the night. We filled the theater. People who knew my parents long before I was born came. Friends I haven't seen since I graduated from college arrived. A large contingent of my Wesley family showed up, from my WMU days. Family drove in from across the state. Friends of my family who I didn't even know knew I wrote a web series showed up. A dear friend from when we were babies brought her daughter to have her first experience in a movie theater. I really was something. 

We showed the entire series and people clapped and seemed to enjoy themselves. And that's what it was all about. Encouraging people to come out and spend some time with some interesting characters and share in their stories and enjoy themselves. I love that it happened. I love that I helped that to happen. In the theater I grew up in. In the same theater I saw SPEED in. How cool is that???

So thank you to everyone who was there with me that night. Thank you to everyone who wished they could have been there that night. Thank you to my friends who have encouraged me and loved me every step of the way. I wish my Grandpa could have been there but I know he was watching along with us, munching on the free popcorn the theater still sets out at the end of the night. 

And if you haven't gotten a chance to see The Couch yet, or want to see it again, just click right here. You can have that theater experience right now! 

Red carpets and bedroom offices

It's been seven weeks since the red carpet premiere screening of The Couch. Seven weeks and seven seconds. Seven weeks and seven lifetimes. Seven weeks and seven years. It seems so far away and then a moment later, I feel as if it just happened.

It was a lovely night. So many of my friends showed up. My family was there. People who've cheerleaded me on for over ten years now. For over forty years now. It really was a celebration. A celebration almost two years in the making. And a celebration that was over in the snap of a finger. It really was a lovely night. A lovely blur of a night.

As I sat there, in the pews of the church I've been a member of since I moved to California, amidst people who have loved me and encouraged me, I wasn't nervous. I thought I might be. I'd written this story, that was so much of me, so much of my life, and really none of it at all, and I was asking people to watch, to listen, to laugh, to cry, to experience a world I'd created. This was something I had lived with for so long it was almost odd that others had not experienced it until that very moment. And yet, they hadn't. I had lived with the story, and then the actors' portrayal, and the photos, and the memories, that to be there in that room was just a big exhale for me. A chance to say, this is it. This is the end of this journey. This is the result.

The first scene I ever directed,
as show on the big screen

That night, as I saw an image I directed on the big screen, in the darkened room, and then heard words I'd strung together while sitting in my bedroom wearing my pajamas, I was not nervous. But I was satisfied. This was the goal all along. This was the goal from the very beginning. From the first film school application. From the first day in the lecture hall at UCLA. From the first writer's group meeting in my living room. From the first of dozens of scripts written. From the first moment I thought, I can do that.

I know it takes hubris to say the world needs to hear my story, the world should hear my story. I know it takes a certain bit of self-importance. I won't deny that. I can't deny that. If I did, I'd never put my fingers on the keyboard or pick up a pen. I have things to say. I have stories to share. I have this world, so many worlds, inside of me and they have to come out. It's how I experience the real world. It's how I make sense of the real world. I write about it. And I want people to read what I've written just as I read what others have written and made and created.

The red carpet premiere was a celebration. It was a whirlwind. I took hundreds of pictures, both in front of and from behind the camera. I spent mere moments with people I wanted to talk to all night. I didn't eat any of the lovely food the caterers made. I rushed and rushed and wished I could have slowed everything down and spread it out over more hours, more days. But that's not how celebrations work. Because the peaks are usually tiny compared to the valleys.

And there are valleys. I always want to remind myself of that. And to share that with others. It's not all glossy, filtered photos spread across social media. It's having a terrible cold on the night of the premiere and somehow, I'm sure God was involved, not coughing even once for those few hours at the church. It's things not always going perfectly, and some people not making it even though they promised, and forgetting to take one single photo with someone who cheers you on loudly every single day.

It's the other days of the year when I'm sitting here, in my office, that is also my bedroom, and wondering what I should work on next. It's abandoning a beloved project because the news of real life is too intense to translate into fiction anymore. It's feeling behind on life because I haven't created another new finished script yet this year and it's the middle of December. It's knowing we haven't shot a single frame of our movie yet, and feeling like maybe we never will.

But those valleys are never so deep that I can't see out. And the way up is always right there. I think about what I have accomplished this year. About starting out in January on the set of a hit network show, spending three weeks learning from a wonderful director, who when I saw him again this fall, was even more kind and made me and my work feel important. I think about the table read where over a dozen actors I didn't know spent hours preparing for and then presenting my work to me. So that I could learn. And it was amazing. I think about the Film Independent classes I've taken, the MasterClasses I've listened to, the books I've read, and the work I've done behind the scenes (social media is a lot, y'all. A LOT.). I count up the hours I've spent with people I love, volunteering and socializing and worshiping and cheering and laughing and I realize how blessed I really am. I think about the movie I'm writing -- the new movie, and how it's all there in an outline and how I did that. And how I can already see the first twenty minutes and how they're twenty REALLY GOOD minutes and how I can't wait to sit in a dark room and watch this one. I think about how I'm alive. How I'm loved. How I'm happy. I think about the headaches from my blood thinner and how they remind me that the pulmonary embolism I had almost four years ago did not bury me in that valley. I think about how I get to go spend Christmas in Michigan.

And then I think about that hubris again. And I think maybe it's not such a bad thing. That by believing in myself I get to create stories that give people some joy, some entertainment, even just for an hour or two. I get to meet and work with all sorts of amazing storytellers and we get to put on a show and that on Tuesday, I will step into the first movie theater I ever saw a movie in and show more of my friends and family something I made, right up on that big screen.

I saw Speed in that theater. I saw Harry and the Hendersons in that theater. I saw Little Women in that theater. I saw movies in that theater with my sister, with my parents, with my grandparents. With people who will sit with my Tuesday night and people I know are watching from up above. I get to do that. That's a definite peak.

It hasn't all been red carpets this year. And even when it has been, there's always more to the story than what most of us see or hear about. More time is spent alone, in my bedroom in clothes I'm sometimes embarrassed to answer the door in, then dressed up and sitting on a stage talking about the craft. But that's how it's supposed to be. That's the best part of it all. If we didn't have valleys, we'd never realize there were peaks. Glorious, beautiful peaks that make the whole journey that much more beautiful.

Advent Devotion

Every year Hollywood United Methodist Church curates advent devotions on their website. Today my devotion was featured:

Isaiah 40: 6-8

This passage starts with: A voice says, “Cry out.” And I said, “What shall I cry?” 

I read this the Tuesday before our devotions were due because well, deadlines are a writer’s best motivation, and then I headed out to serve at our weekly Homeless Lunch. We were busier than we had been in a long, long time. We served 123 people. We passed out shoes and clothes and deodorant and socks and leftover Halloween candy and smiles. We always pass out smiles. We laughed with our guests. We teased our guests. We hugged our guests. We prayed for our guests. And when we closed the gates for the last time at the end of lunch I looked around and wondered what shall I cry?

 

There is so much need in this world. So much hurt. So much sadness. So much brokenness. So much violence. At our borders. In our schools. In our churches. In our homes. I honestly sometimes can’t handle everything that I’m bombarded with. The news comes in waves that never seem to quit. The fires. The shootings. The poverty. The homelessness. I sometimes ask God how much more? How much more can our family, our community, our country, our world endure? I cry out. So many do. We cry out but we don’t know what to cry. What to address first. There’s so much that needs our attention that we become overwhelmed before we begin. And then we feel worse. We feel useless. Helpless. Heartbroken all over again. 

But then I remembered, standing there looking at the dozen volunteers hurrying around me, at the mounds of clothing we have left for next Tuesday because the Presbyterians have started a clothing drive for us, at the five sleeping bags one volunteer wrote a grant to get, that God is good. Oh so good. He reminds me at the end of this verse: “The grass withers and the flowers fall but the word of our God stands forever.” 

When there is need, God helps. When there is hurt, God heals. When there is hopelessness, God shines. When we cry out, God hears. He hears, and he reminds us of his love in so many ways. In chocolate almonds from a friend. In dry socks for a stranger. In reminding us to cry out and what to cry about and that His word stands forever. He stands forever. His love stands forever. Advent is a wonderful time to remember that. To remember His love. Even when we cry out and don’t know why. 

Our Cruise

We read all the blog posts. We talked to everyone we know who's taken a cruise. We bought all of the medication and sea bands and helpful items suggested. And then we went on the practice cruise.

And Angela did not get seasick!

Not even a little! From the first day to the middle of the third day, it was smooth sailing. We ate, we drank, we danced, we sang, we laughed, we soaked, we napped, we explored, and we didn't get sick. But the smooth sailing did eventually end because, well...

OUR BOAT CAUGHT ON FIRE.

Yes. Let me reiterate that:

OUR BOAT CAUGHT ON FIRE.

There we were, relaxing on the 21+ Serenity Deck, reading and watching the blue skies as our ship travelled between Ensenada, Mexico and Long Beach, California and then, all of a sudden, there was black smoke coming from a lower deck. There was a very distinct smell of fire. There was a mass exodus of people from the hot tubs to go find their children. And then -- well, then there were empty hot tubs. And our Serenity Deck cruise employee was like, enjoy the hot tubs, they're empty now! So we did!

And then we were evacuated. And our encouraging Serenity Deck cruise employee vanished, we assumed, to go put out the fire. And while we wanted to evacuate we had these nice big, fluffy yellow towels that we'd "rented" from the Serenity Deck -- under threat of purchase if we failed to return them. But the employee who needed to mark down our returned towels in the binder was gone so...Angela activated teacher-mode and took to signing in towels. And then when all towels were returned and everyone saved that $29.95 fee, we too left what was no longer the Serenity Deck.

So, dripping wet, we moved onto the Lido Deck and we waited. And we waited. And we waited. And we heard nothing. Though we saw families who'd run back to cabins to get life vests and "go bags" (according to one father who's small child was as disillusioned as I was to have to get out of the water, the go bag was important. Both the small child and I were apathetic to this perceived fatherly victory).

But let me just say that one more time for the people in the back: LIFE VESTS WERE DONNED. But not by us. We stayed nice and soggy in our bathing suits and cover-ups. Angela announced she could swim and I wondered if I had time to go back to the cabin to get, not my life vest, but Grandma MacDonald's diamond ring out of the safe...

And when we didn't hear anything else or get any further instructions, we eventually went to our cabins and took showers and dressed for dinner. Because, well I guess everyone else looked nice that night on the Titanic so we figured we should too. (And no, it's not too soon for this joke. It's fine, now. But it was too soon for the piano player in the piano bar that night to try and get everyone to sing along to My Heart Will Go On. We shut her down. Quickly, loudly and in perfect unison).

And then there was a kerfuffle in our hall which we heard very well because by this time there was no AC in our rooms as they'd started shutting down various systems. There was some confusion as to whether life vests were simply needed in a cabin or if life vests were needed because we had to put them on. And finally, I stepped into the hall, holding my mascara, and said, "Do I need to put down this mascara wand and pick up a life vest?" And the kind employee smiled and said no and we all headed off to dinner.

Eventually the captain made an announcement, his first all week, telling us there had been a small fire in the laundry room and no one was injured, everyone was fine. We all took this in and -- well, we went on with our night. Because there wasn't much else to do. There was a formal dinner to be attended, and little did we know, our waitstaff was preparing Baked Alaska for us that they would serve complete with a dance routine that would get hundreds of us up and dancing around our tables. And then there were comedy shows to attend. And finally, last call up in the piano bar to make it to. So that's what we did.

Are we cruise people now? Well, we're not sure.

We had a lot of fun, a surprising amount of fun. It felt like Vegas but so well curated for people who like to be entertained but who don't mind limited options. We went to every show. We did almost all of the activities on board (Art show where they try really really really hard to sell you some terrible art? Check - there was a glass of free champagne at the end after all! Towel folding class where we made elephants out of washcloths even though we weren't the children it was intended for? Check - it was really fun and there were a ton of other adults there! Random dance party in the halls and lobby just because it was a Wednesday? Check - we danced our hearts out!) We relaxed in lounge chairs (though not by the pool because it was disappointingly small and filled to the brim with children) and soaked in hot tubs. We ate gourmet food and tried new things. We explored an island we've never set foot on before (Catalina, where we found a beautiful piece of Chihuly art on a second-story patio!). We didn't miss the internet or television or cell service one little bit (for the record - we made one call, to Dad, on our first day, from the island, to let him and Mom know Angela was doing great!). We made friends with people in the spa waiting room and then had casual conversations with them all week. We won money in the casino (me! And yes, just $8 on the penny slots!). We sang our hearts out at the concerts and piano bar. We laughed at the comedienne we loved. We spent so much time people watching (there are sometimes lines on cruise ships - mostly where food is involved). We won free stuff (me! A scarf at a jewelry store!). And we slept really really well each night, tired from full days of doing everything and nothing at all.

It was a good trip, a good vacation. It was a getaway, which was perfect. We're looking forward to Alaska, most likely via cruise ship. We know fires are rare and that life happens. We swam in the ocean with sharks in Hawaii. We were in Paris the day they evacuated the Eiffel Tower due to a threat. We've stood on the sidewalk outside a Vegas hotel during a small fire. Life is about risks -- and rewards.

And this reward was pretty great. I mean beside OUR BOAT CATCHING ON FIRE! Everything else, really great. Carnival is known as the fun ship -- and they lived up to their name. And every single employee we met was amazing, happy and helpful and kind. We hugged our waiter goodbye on our final evening. We wrote down the name of our room steward who chased us down the hall to gush over the tiny tips we'd left him so that we could praise him on the survey we were promised. We had a wonderful trip -- and are excited for the next!