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. 

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.