Finally, 'fore!' in California!

Saturday was a beautiful day in Los Angeles. It was 66 degrees and sunny. Perfect golf weather made even better by the knowledge that there had been a snowstorm in the east the day before. So when a co-worker of Angela's found out we had never played golf, never even hit balls, in California, she decided Saturday would be the day to remedy that.

It's true, even though we've lived in California almost four years, I've never swung a club here. I moved my clubs around in the garage and thought about it many a time but life always got in the way. But guess what? There's this pretty famous public golf course just a few miles from our house down Pico Boulevard right across from Fox Studios. I drive by it numerous times a week. I watch people in golf wear, people in sweat pants, people who can't hit the ball, people who probably should be across the street working, all playing but until this weekend, it had never been me.

So off we went on Saturday. Our new friend Susan and her husband are golfers and she grew up just down the street from "Rancho" so she showed us the ropes. The place was packed, as it is most days, but we managed to get two stalls next to each other after only a few minutes. Between us we hit a couple hundred golf balls (I have the blisters still healing on my hands to prove it) and had so much fun. We had brunch at a nearby restaurant after and just reveled in the idea of being in Southern California in February, playing golf.

And we found out several members of our Bible study are golfers so I sense another outing soon...

Second Lenten devotional of the season

The second Lenten devotion I wrote that appears in the Hollywood United Methodist Church booklet:

Mark 1:9-15

Jesus was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.

There’s a comment in my Student Bible that says Jesus preferred rural and small-town areas and spent amost two-thirds of his working life in the remote northern regions. I really like the picture of Jesus this paints in my mind. He loved small towns and he loved spending time with people, one-on-one and in small groups. Yes, he spoke to larger groups as well but most of the stories we know of Him tell of Him with just a handful of people.

I love small towns. I grew up in one. I moved to an even smaller town for college. Then I moved to a relatively small town in Arizona. And yet, here I am in Los Angeles, the second largest city in America. And yes, at some point every day, I ask myself why.

The answer? Because there is the potential here to affect change, to be bigger than oneself, to make a mark not just on my small corner of life but on the world. And I sense Jesus knew that as well. And yet…I find myself wondering what it would be like to be in the wilderness with Jesus. Not necessarily to be tempted or spend time with the wild beasts but to spend time with my Lord, one-on-one, in quietness.

So can we do both? Spend quiet time “in the wilderness” with God and yet live in the big city? Yes, I believe so. And often times, it’s after coming home from that wilderness that we are able to see things so much more clearly. After Jesus left the desert he proclaimed the news: “The kingdom of God is near. Repent and believe the good news!” And hopefully, after spending time in the wilderness, whether it be while being tempted or just quietly contemplating life with our Savior, we all will come out proclaiming the good news of Lent and the Resurrection.

Prayer:

God, please help us to realize that the wilderness can be a place of growth and rejuvination no matter the trials we may face before or during.  Amen.

First Lenten devotional of the season

The first Lenten devotion I wrote that appears in the Hollywood United Methodist Church booklet:

Joel 2:13

Return to the Lord, your God, for God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love.

The beginning of verse 13 says to “rend your heart and not your garments.” In the time of Joel, people tore their robes as a outward sign of remorse but that isn’t what God wanted. He wanted people to change. He wanted people, honestly and with their whole hearts, to come to Him, to be broken in front of Him. And I’m pretty sure that’s what He still wants from us today.

God doesn’t care whether or not we go to church, wear a cross around our neck, or carry our Bibles through town. He never has and yet, so many people still to this day, believe that’s what matters most. That if you act like you’re a Christian, you love Jesus more and in turn, He’ll love you more.

But that’s not true. What’s true is that God’s love is available for the taking. It’s right there, no matter what we’ve done or not done to deserve it. “God is kind and merciful. He takes a deep breath, puts up with a lot. This most patient God, extravagant in love, always ready to cancel catastrophe” (The Message).

I like the image of God taking a deep breath. He’s patient, like our parents were when we were younger and just learning how to do things. He’s trying to teach us how to love Him. How to accept His love. He’s reminding us that no matter what, He’ll be there. He’ll never leave, never give up.

Lent is a season of preparing. Preparing for the death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ. But it’s also a season of hope. A season that ends with an amazing sacrifice and the most awesome display of love any of us could ever hope to receive. Believe in it. Rejoice in it. Celebrate it. Live it.

Prayer

Lord Jesus, help us to change on the inside, not just on the outside. Help us to accept your love and then share it with others. Amen.

Taking action because cancer sucks

Cancer sucks.

That's about it, right? If you know anyone who's had cancer, is fighting cancer, or who has lost the battle, you get it. You know just how much cancer sucks.

But guess what? There's something we can do about. You and me. We're able to walk, we're able to run, we're about to give $5 or $500 and try to help find the cure. Because it's out there. You know it. I know it. The people in our lives fighting the fight believe in it.

For me, participating in the EIF/Revlon 5K isn't just about raising money. It's about raising a voice. It's about yelling, as loud as we possibly can, that we want to do something about this problem. We want to show the people in our lives we care enough to put our money where our mouth is, so to speak. It's about taking action.

2011

If you are able, please consider donating here. If you're so inclined, say a prayer for Marilyn and Jim, the two people I walk in honor of. If you're interested, read more on why I walk here, here and here.

And thank you. For giving this fight a voice. For taking action.

The Lint Trap

Last year a former co-worker of mine from Arizona invited me to join a Facebook group she'd created. She and another online friend had decided to give up FB games for Lent and write instead. So they created the FB group which we loving call the LINT trap now and we were each challenged to write for 40 days in a row. Most of us (there are around 20 members) met the challenge. I wrote every single day of Lent last year even the day my Grandmother died and the day we buried her. Those days were short little sentences and phrases, maybe a paragraph but I wrote. Because I am a writer. Runners run. Smokers smoke. Writers write. 

As we come up this week to the one-year anniversary of our LINT trap, a member posed some questions as we get ready for our next 40-day challenge. Below are my answers to her questions and my own ramblings about writing during Lent and every other day of the year.

As a Methodist I grew up without the concept of giving something up for Lent unless you were Catholic then it seemed the only difference was you ate fish on Fridays. But my family never ate fish so it didn't really affect me. In college I think I tried the giving up thing but it never felt right. Usually I try to 'do' something instead - spend the time in extra study or whatnot. I am not sure this year; I am all over the place spiritually, mentally.

Why do I write? I write because I don't know what else to do. I've always written. I can still see the first top-bound spiral legal pad I picked out at Wal-mart and filled. Then the next. It's just who I am. Some people date inappropriate men. Some people tell bad jokes. Some people make really good banana bread. Some people do surgery on brains. I write. And I don't know how to stop. I don't know what I would do if I had to. In fact, the other night, I thought about stopping. At least stopping the journey to write professionally. I said the words out loud - "I'm done". There was talk of packing boxes and getting a job as a secretary somewhere innocuous. And then I started hyperventilating and shaking and it was horrible. I had this physical reaction (and I am sure some of that is still the emotions of the whole last month but...). So that's that. I just can't stop. I can't. Physically or emotionally. Because apparently if I try, I freak out. Physically and emotionally.

And here's the weird part (at least it seems weird to me): trying to squeeze my soul out through my fingers never scares me. Writing my novel, never afraid. Writing script after script or blog post or devotional, never afraid. Living life every day, making grown up decisions, dealing with people: fear. Lots of it. But when writing? Never. And that tells me all I need to know. That being a writer is who I am and what I should do, what I have to do.

And yes, I often feel like someone, mostly the characters, is speaking through me. I don't really feel like its God or some higher being, I just feel like it's the stories themselves, they're begging to come out, and when they do sometimes I don't recognize them. I wrote a short story in college about a car accident. In it a girl realizes that she'll never be the same because the boy she loved but never told dies. When my writers' group read it, they all thought it was my story. It wasn't, it was that character's. Same goes for scripts - I just type the words. The voices, the truths, they come from some greater place, some place far away. I'm just the reporter. And I love it. Every single moment of it. Even when I hate it. I love it.

Where will I hang my lanterns?

Aaron Sorkin & Steve Zaillian

Last night I attended the Writers Guild's Oscar- and WGA-nominee panel "Beyond Words" and as I always do after these things, I came home inspired. To write? Well, yes. But not just write, to write well. To keep at it. To become better. To become the best. Because up there on that stage, those were some of the best.

This week I've been working, not writing per say, but rewriting, editing, and proofreading. And while, to the average person, that may not seem like a big job or even much work at all, I have to say -- it is. It really is. As I go back through my portfolio and read scripts I wrote almost three years ago and scripts I wrote three months ago, I see how much I have changed, how much I have grown as a writer. It's not visible to the novice eye but to me, I feel it in my bones.

One thing Aaron Sorkin said last night stayed with me and I rushed home to write it down before I could forget (because while I can write all the words in the world, I cannot memorize them to save my soul).

Get to the end of what you're writing and start again. Then figure out what to hang your lanterns from.

To me, that was the essence of what the writing process is all about -- rewriting. It's about getting my stories out there, down on paper, so I can see what I have to work with. Then it's about the cutting, the piecing back together, the figuring out what's best, what works (that's where you want your lanterns) and what doesn't.

And I realized, that's what I've been doing this week. I haven't been creating anything new. I haven't started a fresh spec or a spankin' new pilot. I haven't freewritten or crafted dialogue. But I have started again. I've been going over and over what I have to make it better. To make it the best.

And to me, that's what life's all about. Doing our best, doing everything we can until we can't do anything more. Because if that's not what it's all about, then why even try?

Normal is good

Three weeks ago today I was in the ER. Part of me feels like it was a lifetime ago and part of me feels like it was just yesterday. It's been a really long three weeks (just ask Angela: the best sister/friend/nurse a girl could ever ask for). I had to first recover from the allergic reaction that sent me to the ER. Then I had to recover from the drugs and treatments they gave me in the ER. Then I had to recover from the drugs they sent me home with and I took for over a week afterwards. Then I had to deal with the panic attacks and the exhaustion and the fear. And all of that isn't gone yet. This weekend I had a hard time both Saturday and Sunday. My brain still insists on practicing swallowing which in turn, causes pain and irritation when I swallow which starts the anxiety again. It's quite the circle and most of it happens in my brain. It's a lot to deal with but deal I am. I keep reminding myself I am fine and I will be fine. I am lucky and blessed and grateful and all that. All of that.

Last Wednesday I went for my first walk post ER. I walked to Angela's school, we went to lunch, and then I walked back home. The 50 minute (or less if I push it) round trip took me over an hour. My lungs burned a bit on the way up the hill from our house toward Olympic Boulevard. But overall, it felt good. Really good. Oh, and on top of it all, I'm still dealing with the lingering cough/cold/sinus infection that inspired all of this drama. But it felt good.

This morning I got up and walked 45 minutes. I stretched and kicked and moved my arms and legs and worked out. And it felt normal, which is way better than good. Way better.

Three weeks. Three weeks. Some of it's a blur. Me on the couch, sleeping, drinking drinking drinking. So much water to flush it all out. Some of it's very clear. Me trying not to itch. Me trying to calm down.

Three weeks. I am so thankful to be moving on. To have a normal day today. To workout, to do laundry, to go to work, to make dinner, to write. Normal is good. Today is good.

All Will Be Well

If you haven't heard the song "All Will Be Well" by The Gabe Dixon Band, do yourself a favor. Find it and listen. It is amazing. It's what I've been listening to on a loop all afternoon (and really, for last month of so.) I heard a few lines of it at the end of one of my favorite sitcoms (Parks and Rec - the episode where April takes Andy on a road trip to see the Grand Canyon) and instantly had to hear the rest. (God love iTunes!)

Here are the lyrics:

The new day dawns,
And I am practicing my purpose once again.
It is fresh and it is fruitful if I win but if I lose,
Oooooo I don't know.
I will be tired but I will turn and I will go,
Only guessing til I get there then I'll know,
Oh oh oh I will know.

All the children walking home past the factories
Could see the light that's shining in my window as I write this song to you.
All the cars running fast along the interstate
Can feel the love that radiates
Illuminating what I know is true,
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

The winter's cold,
But the snow still lightly settles on the trees.
And a mess is still a moment I can seize until I know,
That all will be well.
Even though sometimes this is hard to tell,
And the fight is just as frustrating as hell
All will be well.

All the children walking home past the factories,
Could see the light that's shining in my window as I write this song to you.
All the cars running fast along the interstate
Can feel the love that radiates
Illuminating what I know is true
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

Keep it up and don't give up
And chase your dreams and you will find
All in time.

All the children walking home past the factories
Could see the light that's shining in my window as I write this song to you.
All the cars running fast along the interstate
Can feel the love that radiates
Illuminating what I know is true,
All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

All will be well.
Even after all the promises you've broken to yourself,
All will be well.
You can ask me how but only time will tell.

You can ask me how but only time will tell.

All will be well. I know this. I really do. And I love this song for reminding me of that.

A long few weeks

I'm not gonna lie. It's been a long few weeks. Really long. I didn't expect this. When I went to the ER I guess I thought I'd be treated and I'd bounce right back. I'd be fine. Not the case.

Physically, I am better each day. It took me an entire week to get rid of the hives and swelling and itchiness and just that feeling of being sick. And then it took me another week to get rid of that constant feeling of exhaustion. I slept a lot, which is unusual for me. I didn't write. I did the bare minimum. And finally, I went back to work on Friday. It wasn't bad really (remember, I work from home, which is such a blessing right about now) but it tired me out and that in turn made me feel ridiculous. 

Also, I've developed a new affliction: panic attacks. I guess that's what they're called, I haven't been formally diagnosed or anything. But the night before I went to the ER I had my first. I felt horrible, my body seemed to be rejecting life, and without me realizing what was happening, I panicked. I'm not unfamiliar with these episodes. And I'm not unsympathetic to people who have them. I know how very real they are and I know how horrible they can be. I live with a person who experiences them. I have other family members who have them and close friends who have them. But I've never had one. Never. Well, now I have.

The panic set in and it didn't leave for a few days. The ER cured me but didn't mend me. There's a big difference. A week later, through sobs, I told my family I'd get help and help I got. My awesome acupuncturist gave me herbs and exercises and I felt better. Until this Saturday. It happened again. See, for some reason my brain has decided I need to practice swallowing and breathing. And when I catch myself practicing something I've managed just fine for over 34 years without practicing, I panic. I feel like there's a golf ball in my throat. I feel sick. I think about the not breathing thing and those few moments where I was sure it was over and I get even more panicked. It's not very fun. 

And then it happened again the next night. But I have an awesome sister who helped me through it, gave me the herbs, didn't roll her eyes when I took my second shower, and then watched funny TV with me. And I survived.

Logically I know all will be well. Physically I know I am okay. The steroids do take a while to leave your body but they do leave. I know this. But patience isn't always my strong suit (you'd think it would be since I am a 34-year old unmarried woman who is trying to be a screenwriter in Los Angeles, but no). And one of the things that's gotten me through the week is thinking about Abraham. Yep, the guy from the Old Testament. Last week our Growth Group at church did a little study of him. Turns out none of us knew too much about him and yet we kept bringing him up during our study of the book of Romans. So one of the guys in the group took it upon himself to present a little history of Abraham and it was fascinating.

See, Abraham was just a regular guy who didn't get what he wanted in life. Like a lot of us. He wanted a kid, an heir. And by the time he was old, really old, he'd realized this wasn't gonna happen. But then God came down and spoke to him (face-to-face, which is really quite something) and told him to be patient, it would all work out in the end. And guess what? Eventually it did.

I keep thinking about how Abraham didn't quite trust God the first or even the second time He told him this news about a child. And how I don't always quite trust God that everything will be okay. I'm not saying I think I shouldn't be anxious or anything, it's just...well, I need to work at it. I need to work on my patience. And letting myself go at my own speed, or God's speed.

Last week I made sugar cookies. I wasn't feeling up to sitting at my desk and writing but I was feeling antsy. So I made the dough. I rolled it out. (And rerolled it, sugar cookies can be tricky.) I punched hearts out with my cookie cutters. I sprinkled them with sugar and then I slid them into the oven and waited. It wasn't a quick process but it was satisfying. At the end I had a table full of pink, purple and red Valentine cookies to share with family and friends. And I guess that kind of how life is. It's not quick. It's not perfect. It's often fraught with disappointment and pain. But when it's all said and done, you have this wonderful thing to share.

I'm going to work on patience this week. On listening to God. On healing my body. On cutting myself some slack. On writing a really great script. On being a better teacher. On thinking about others but not at the expense of myself or what I need. And I'm going to share some of these cookies.

So, I'm allergic to something that's supposed to be good for me

Sunday afternoon a yellow box appeared on the kitchen table. And since then it has moved around the house - to the kitchen, to the coffee table in the living room, to my bedroom, it took a ride in the car with me Monday morning, and now it's residing in the front of the hall closet. I don't need it sitting out anymore but I'm also a little terrified to put it too far away.

In the yellow box? An Epi Pen. A shot of epinephrine, or adrenaline. And until this weekend I had never held one or given one a second thought. But now, I find myself thinking about it. A lot.

For the past month, yep, a month, I've had a cold. Yep, the usual winter fare that I always seem to pick up no matter if I live in Michigan, Arizona or sunny southern California. So while in Michigan I went to Urgent Care, was diagnosed with a sinus infection, and given antibiotics (specifically a penicillin-based antibiotic). I took them for ten days and eventually started feeling better. We all had the crud in Michigan and I knew it would eventually pass. I felt great the day we traveled back to L.A. and the day after. However, that next Monday I woke up feeling like I had felt before I'd gone to Urgent Care. Sick again. Sick still.

I fought it for a week and then gave in. Obviously the sinus infection wasn't licked and I had added a nice deep cough to the mix. So the next Sunday off I went to Urgent Care, here in L.A., and was again diagnosed with a continuing sinus infection and given a prescription for more antibiotics (specifically a stronger dose of penicillin). I took the antibiotics for six days and was to take my last doses on Saturday. But then on Saturday I woke up covered in hives.

At first I thought, okay, this isn't horrible. It's a few hives in a few spots and they really itch but I've had poison ivy and it was worse so I can deal. Angela went off to our local pharmacy to get me some Benadryl and talk to the pharmacist. Between her advice and my mother's and the fact that the hives were doubling every few minutes I decided to head to Urgent Care. Off we went.

And I have to tell you, the folks at the Urgent Care I go to are great. It's a night and weekend operation that works out of a doctor's office and they've been super helpful to me over the last few years. Once there the doctor confirmed that I was having an allergic reaction, most likely to the penicillin, and gave me a steroid shot as well as a prescription for oral steroids, more Benadryl and Pepcid (which somehow reacts with the Benadryl and helps it last longer). So we headed home, Ang headed back to the pharmacy and I settled in for an evening of trying not to itch.

It was a very long evening but as I headed to bed that night I felt a little better. I was drinking water constantly, taking all my meds and thinking maybe I could swing church in the morning, if the hives on my eyelids completely disappeared overnight.

And then I woke up Sunday morning.

My hands had swollen, not just my fingers but the palms of my hands too. And the bottoms of my feet. And the hives were back in full force. So Angela went to church and I took to the couch. But by 1pm we were headed back to Urgent Care.

Again, the folks there were great. Before registering me (i.e., billing me) the receptionist, who I know well by now, took me back to the doctor and asked if I should be seen or be sent directly to the ER. The doctor (a UCLA resident who I'm sure works in the ER most days, so I was not worried about my level of care at all) examined me thoroughly before deciding she could treat me. They tested my kidneys, my lungs and sent me home with that damn yellow box.

(And oh yeah, that box wasn't cheap either. My parents are awesome, that's all I'll say.)

So Angela and I went home and tried to settle down. I monitored the swelling closely and just as I'd notice my pinkie feeling better, my bottom lip would start to swelling incrementally. It was another long evening. And not just because of the physical issues, but I also experienced something new: what I think was my first (and second, third, etc.) panic attack. I knew things weren't right. I knew I didn't feel well. But I also knew we'd done what we could, we trusted the doctors and we had to wait this out. So I waited. That night Angela slept in my room, I wore winter gloves to stop from itching in my sleep and no one got much sleep at all. And when the alarm went off and I sat straight up in my bed, I knew it was game over. Something else had to be done.

I got up and went to the mirror and I couldn't really see myself. I wear glasses and contacts so that's not unusual but even when I squinted, it didn't work. I turned on the light and realized my face didn't look like me. I turned around to Angela and she made a sound and jumped out of bed. Within five minutes we were somehow dressed and in the car on the way to the ER. Luckily Angela's been there several times and we live just a couple of miles from Cedars-Sinai Hospital. There wasn't any traffic and before seven we were there. It's a good thing. I was dizzy and shaking and it was getting really hard to breathe on my own.

The hospital staff was excellent. They took me immediately in, and I was in a bed in the ER within minutes. The doctor and nurses who treated me - giving me my very first taste of Epi - were great. I was given IV steroids, Benadryl, Zantac, fluids, etc. I was given more meds. And I started to look and feel like myself again. I shook a lot from the IV, and they had these really nice heated blankets they put over me. Angela was allowed to stay with me the whole time and use her phone so she could keep my parents updated. And best of all? By the time we left, just over six hours later, the swelling in my face was completely gone.

That was three days ago. It's Thursday now. I'm still on steroids (tapering down through Saturday) but haven't taken the Benadryl in hours which is a good sign. The only evidence of the hives is faint. I feel exhausted and physically off a little but that's to be expected according to everyone, my body had to fight kinda hard this weekend to keep going.

And that yellow box? It's still close by, mostly for peace of mind. Hopefully in a few days it'll be shoved to the back to the closet and forgotten, never to be needed again.

I am grateful. I am thankful. I am blessed. But most of all? I am conscious of every breath I take, literally and figuratively.

Letters from the past

Yesterday I got a call from one of my favorite people. She had been going through a box of letters and cards she'd found in storage and wanted to read me something. It was a letter I had written her circa 1996, when we were in our freshmen year of college. Yes, back then we wrote letters. See, she lives in Texas and at the time, I lived in Michigan.

In the letter I talked about taking working to save up money to buy a modem and enough money to pay for Internet services. I didn't yet have email and I was hoping to get it soon. Can you imagine? I'm having a hard time remembering a time before Facebook let alone before email. I do remember it being a year or so after that before I would get my first email account (the one I still use daily!). Gosh, that was SIXTEEN years ago. And yet...it seems like only a few days ago.

That's why I love letters. I love anything in written form. I can recount whole relationships with letters and cards and notes I have in Rubbermaid under my bed. My mom has been cleaning out my grandmother's house and I love when she brings home drawings or cards from when I was little. I love seeing the handwriting of those I love. Is there really anything better than finding a letter or a card in the mail?

It's hard to picture sixteen years from now - and know that there won't be such a box filled with memories from today. People, at least the people in my life, don't send notes and cards like they used to. Now we have Facebook and texts and, if it's a long drawn out affair, the old-fashioned email. But looking (and hearing) back on those memories is something special.

Back then I was thinking of moving to New York. I thought California was too far away. I was babysitting for the first time two little girls who are now out of college and all grown up. I was studying psychology and hating it. I was looking forward to the marriage of said favorite person - who now has three little ones!

Memories. In whatever shape or form or picture are so important. Lately I've been looking back, which I think is so important in moving forward. Looking back and holding tight. And to keep it going, I'm going to go write some letters and put some stamps on them.

610 Bates Street

This is a blog by my sister, Angela Knapp. It's beautiful. She's beautiful.

"One of the things I needed to do during the three weeks I spent in Michigan over the holidays was to sort through some things at my grandmother's house. When she passed away in the spring her house was just as she had left it. My mom, aunt and uncle have been working hard to sort and box up everything to get the house ready for sale. It is a difficult job, both physically and emotionally.

Some of the items have gone to predetermined people. Grandma had "given" pieces of furniture, dolls, and dishes to us before she passed. Those were the easy things to distribute. Now it comes down to who wants what and how it will be displayed or stored. My parents have rearranged things are their house some to accommodate some larger pieces including a leather chair that belonged to my grandfather and he promised to me before his death in 1988.

When we went over to the house I was overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of stuff that can accumulate during a lifetime. Everything I looked at brought back some memory of my grandparents. It was so hard to choose one or two things that would assimilate into my life. I asked my mom what would happen to it when the family too had chosen their treasures. She looked at me sadly and I knew. It would be sold or donated to charity. I cannot describe the sadness I felt and feel about the life someone built being tossed away. It made me angry and I wanted to leave it all the way it was, untouched.

Later that night after thinking about it some I had an epiphany of sorts. The stuff doesn't matter. The important parts of my grandmother are still being used by the people who inherited them.

My mother, the oldest of three siblings, has my grandmothers amazing ability to feed people. Having 100 people for dinner doesn't faze my mother nor did it my grandmother. Food was such an important part of my childhood as we gathered around the table for every occasion to celebrate each other.

My uncle Tom, the middle child, has a love of tinkering. He loved racing his car and being around old cars, restoring and driving. My grandmother loved this too. When she died she still had 3 antique cars in her barn.

My aunt Marie, the baby of the family, got my grandmothers love of sewing. She is so talented at weaving fabric together to make beautiful quilts and a variety of other projects.

The oldest grandchild, my sister, got my grandmother's love of writing. My grandmother wrote in a journal everyday about the happenings of the day. My sister continues the tradition and is working toward being a professional writer, my grandmother was so proud of her.

Next in line by age is me. My grandmother and I shared a love of children and making sure the next generation was better than the present one. She served on a committee that restored a one-room school house and was a space for children to go on field trips to see how the children of the past learned.

My cousin Nicole is the next oldest. She and my grandmother shared a love of nature. My grandmother loved flowers and plants and always had large prosperous flower beds. She would spend hours tending to them. Nicole has this same passion and loves to plant and tend her flower beds as well. She works in a nursery where she shares her knowledge and love of nature with her customers.

John is the youngest cousin and he too has inherited wonderful things from my grandmother. He is analytical and detailed. He has a passion for things of the past and is a hard worker. My grandmother was all of these things. She loved to know how things work and ask questions. I see those same traits in John. They also share an affinity for beer :-).

While struggling with the physical belongings from the house I now see that it is what we take away from the person in our hearts not our hands. I did take some crystal that I carefully carried on the plane and a globe from an amazing trip my grandmother took to Australia. They are little things that will be physical reminders of her love and who she was, not what she had.

As we drove away from 610 Bates Street for the last time I was overcome with emotion knowing that someone else will soon occupy the house to begin making their own memories."

Looking back...and looking forward...

We are nine days into the new year. 2012. At moments it is hard to wrap my brain around the fact that this is where we are. This is what I've chosen. This is where I am. In time. In my life. In physical location. In emotional space. In life.

I had a wonderful holiday vacation in Michigan, 21 days worth. I had been so looking forward to the trip, for months. We bought our tickets back in September and the anticipation grew quickly. I love Christmas. I love visiting friends and family. I love the idea of laying on my parents' big couch, sipping peppermint cream flavored coffee, reading, looking at the lit Christmas tree. It was such a needed few weeks.

It was insanely busy at times too. We arrived in Michigan Saturday night before Christmas. Sunday morning there were two church services, caroling to shut-ins, and a Christmas tea that night. It was a whirlwind that pushed right into Monday which found us cooking, baking, wrapping, shopping, cleaning, you name it, we were doing it! Thursday we hosted an open house for some 85+ friends that went on for eight hours and was a blast. Friday found us starting four days of Christmas celebrations with our three different families. Add to that decorating sugar cone trees with the grandneighbors, fighting off sickness (by the next week all four of us in our immediate family would find our way to the doctor and/or Urgent Care for bronchitis and sinus infections) and it was just a very busy time.

But through it all we laughed. We played games (Scattegories Categories and Wii Family Feud are new family faves). We shared books and stories (I read SEVEN books!!!). We ate too many cookies and not enough ham (stop by 822 North Michigan in Howell and you can have a sandwich). We spent long afternoons with friends and family. We celebrated holidays and birthdays and naptime. We did it all.

So by the time Saturday rolled around, as much as I hated to leave, and as much as I tried to pretend there weren't tears in my eyes, I was also realizing it was time to go back to life as it is most of the year. It's not that this vacation was abnormal and regular life is normal, it's just that it's time to refocus and begin the work of living every day again. Moving forward with workout routines, weight loss plans, writing samples, job applications, networking, etcetera.

So here I am. Looking forward. Looking at what this new year will bring. I'm back at my desk. I'm still feeling the affects of the illness that had a hold of me several weeks' back. I'm slowly returning to post-vacation life (just ignore the open suitcases scattered throughout the house). I've got my fingers on the keyboard again and things feel good.

So I'm looking forward, while always looking back. Always carrying in my heart every single conversation, every single hug, every single memory I've made. Now and forever. And all of it, every single second, will keep me going until it's time to go back. Because, really, there's nothing like the thrill of anticipation to get me going. Nothing at all.

Nothing new...and yet? Everything.

This morning at about one o'clock in the morning, I finished reading Rob Lowe's memoir "Stories I Only Tell My Friends". It's a book I bought for my mom for Christmas after I saw her thumbing through it at a bookstore this summer. I wasn't sure if she was just curious or really interested so I thought I'd surprise her. So this week I picked up the book to take a look at it myself and instantly I was hooked.

Hooked. I couldn't put it down. I finished it in less than two days. I was fascinated by his stories, the way he told them, the life he's had and all that I didn't know about his career, and even that which I did know. Basically I knew him as Sam Seaborn, and now as a character on my beloved Parks and Recreation. But it was so interesting to read about his experience, his path, his choices. And to hear him own them all and cherish them all.

As I turned the last page in the book early this morning I immediately wanted to put my fingers on the keyboard. I love when that happens. When I see a movie or watch an episode of television or read something that makes me want to write. To tell great stories too. And that's exactly what this book did. Inspire me.

As most of you know, my journey as a writer has not been short. And it has not been easy. I've been at it for a long time. And it's taken me so many places and taught me so much. And yet, there are times, when I find myself wanting to stop. Wanting to not so much quit writing as quit the pursuit of professional writing. I realize I am probably not alone in this. But I like to think I'm different because well, I don't quit. I can't. To me, there is not a Plan B. There is no other option.

A few weeks ago after a writers' group meeting I found myself surrounded by four fabulous friends and I burst into tears. We'd been talking about jobs and money and how to keep going, how to get that break, any break, that we all so desperately chase. And these were not people I had ever really cried in front of before (sans Angela, of course). I hadn't meant to cry. I hadn't meant to let it all out. But I did and I felt stupid and yet, comforted immediately. My friends smiled and hugged me and told me that it was all going to work out. And then they called me the next day and told me all the same things again (in fact, two friends called at the same time!).

And since that day a few weeks ago I've been trying to figure things out in my head. Trying to make a plan. Trying to decide what's next. But really? There's nothing new in the works for 2012. I have no grand scheme. I have no other options. This is it. I want to be in the show. I want to do this. So this is what I need to be doing. I will head home to Los Angeles in January and I will polish my portfolio and I will do this. Because this is all there is. And yet? While there's really nothing new, there's so much possibility. So very much. So much I can't even imagine it all. And that's freakin' awesome.

So thanks, Rob Lowe, for sharing your stories. Thanks for reminding me that it's all up to me to pursue my dreams. No one else will do this for me. No one else will push me like I will push me. And so, off I go...

Love at Christmastime

As I sit here typing I'm looking down at my right hand where there's a sparkly new diamond ring. Yes, on my right hand. The ring is gorgeous and fits me perfectly and yes, it's new to me. But technically it was new in 1941. It was a gift given to my Grandma MacDonald on her sixteenth birthday by her father. He died shortly after that. For as long as I can remember, the gold ring with the two diamonds set on a diagonal sat on her hand. And now it's on mine.

My mother gave Angela and I both one of Grandma's diamond rings. And to me, it means so much more than the weight of the precious metals and stones. To me it means she's with me. Her life and her stories and her smile are right here, close to my heart.

It's been a long year, missing Grandma. We celebrated our last Christmas with her on December 26, 2010. She was so sick for so long and then when she passed away in March it was a blessing for her but misery for those of us she left behind. I believe in Heaven, and I know she's up there with her husband and her son and her sister and her brother and her parents and all those who have gone before but it's still so hard.

Two days ago we, the grandkids and our parents, sorted through her Christmas ornaments. And I only teared up once (which is more than I can say happened during the writing of this blog). It was a joyous night being reminded of all the good times, all the laughs, all the happiness. And Grandma was right there with us. In the twinkle of the bulbs and the smile I'd see on my mom's or my aunt's face when they'd recount a story of Christmas long before most of us were around.

Losing someone is never easy. Remembering them never is either. But I am so thankful for those who remember her with me. For the ways in which she is with me every single day and will continue to be.

She loved Christmas. She loved holidays and everyone being together. And we loved her. So this Christmas has been the perfect celebration of all of that (she types, wiping tears off the keyboard).

Merry Christmas everyone. It's a celebration of love. One that goes on all year and all our lives.

Holding it together

The advent devotion I wrote for today that appears in the Hollywood United Methodist devotional booklet:  

Hebrews 1:1-4

Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being, and he sustains all things by his powerful word. When he had made purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high, having become as much superior to angels as the name he has inherited is more excellent than theirs.

Sometimes I feel like everything’s held together by that frosting you use on gingerbread houses. Yes, from the outside, it looks like cement. It holds on the red hots and the gumdrops and the M & Ms while keeping your cookie walls standing upright but add a little too much water or not enough powdered sugar and the whole bowl is lost and nothing will stay where it should. And sometimes I feel like life is that way.

Add a little (or a lot) of stress, a job change or loss, a strained friendship or broken relationship, money worries or even a feeling of separation from God and voila! the walls of the gingerbread house that is our life start to crumble and sag. But that’s where this reminder, this passage from Hebrews comes into play. “He holds everything together by what he says – powerful words!” (Hebrews, The Message)

God’s powerful words: he knows what to say to hold everything, including our lives, together. He created us, he created Jesus, he is the reason we celebrate Christmas and Easter and everything else in between. His words are why we are what we are and do what we do. We live to worship him and he will hold us together.

There’s this great book by Max Lucado, Cosmic Christmas, that I read over and over each year about this time. It’s a telling of the Christmas story from the angels’ point of view. But not just the Christmas story – the Christmas war. The fight that took place between good and evil that led, ultimately, to Jesus Christ’s birth. That story, that imagery of a war taking place, gives me hope. God’s words give me hope. Hope that life is worth living and love is worth taking a chance on. Hope that this advent season, as we all prepare for the remembrance of this little baby that God sent as a physical reminder of his love, we will remember not just the stories but the words. And how they are with us all year long, forever and ever, holding us together.

Dear Lord, please help us to hear your words this Christmas season and to be comforted and enriched by them. Amen.

Mom's devotion (guest blogger!)

This is the devotion my mom, Chris Knapp, wrote for the Down Home Devotional put out by Howell First United Methodist Church this advent season:

"The real meaning of Christmas through the eyes of a child"

Christmas was a busy time at our home, gifts to make, presents to wrap, cookies to bake, getting ready for the large group of relatives and friends who would share our holiday.

Christmas Eve was what I remember most, we would go to church, the lit candles, the beautiful Christmas tree, and the organ music. My Grandfather sang in the choir, you better behave, listen, and sit very still or Grandpa would have a talk with you, this was very hard with the excitement of the day. Standing outside in the snow and cold to watch the live Nativity after our service.

We would end our service with Silent Night, my Dad's favorite song. He would say this song is the meaning of Christmas. Silent Night is my favorite Christmas song, reminds me of the days when our life was full of family, love and giving. When I hear or sing this song it reminds me of my Dad and always brings a few tears to my eyes. Think about the verses written below, this is our true meaning of Christmas. He came to save all who believe in him.

Bible Verse Luke 18:15-17

Sing all 4 verses of silent night.

Dear God, I ask that all our church family have peace, love and happiness as you share the true meaning of Christmas this year.

Chris Knapp

Los Angeles in December

Last night I hosted my writers' group's (FOS) last meeting of the year. I'll be heading to Michigan on Saturday (CHRISTMAS! YAY!) and we won't meet again as a whole group until the middle of January. So we decided (spurred by Angela's great idea, yes, she's a part of FOS, a very important part!) to have a little Christmas party potluck-style. And it turned out to be a fabulous evening.

The weather's cool enough to require heat here in L.A. this year (I've spent Decembers here when it's been in the 40s and when it's been in the 80s) which I love (though my checkbook does not) because it means I can light candles (and run the furnace - boo). I love candles. Especially peppermint ones. So last night I lit the candles and we had a wonderful evening. We ate (soup and rolls and chips and guacamole and cookies, too many cookies). We talked about life, about what's going on with our writing, about just everyday stuff. And that's what I love - FOS has become more than just a writers' group for me, they're my friends. I love that we can spend four hours on a Wednesday night talking and laughing and sharing stories, then jump right into a table read of a zombie script.

To me Christmas is all about spending time with the ones I love. The ones I hold most dear. I get to do that in Michigan each year. But now I get to do that in L.A. too. I get to spend time with writer friends, church friends, and all my other friends and to me, that's just freakin' cool.

So while I won't be doing much writing in the next few weeks, I will be doing a lot of living. A lot of listening and a lot of thinking. I'll be spending time relaxing and entertaining and just enjoying the heck out of life. Because, really, what could be better?

So "Merry Christmas" from Los Angeles. (It's only 57 degrees and threatening rain here today so don't hate us too much.) And Michigan? Bring on the snow!!!

O Christmas Tree

Yesterday I performed a spoken word piece at a fundraiser at Hollywood United Methodist Church. I was one of six performers (five other writers and a musician) asked to tell stories of Christmases past. Here's mine:

(And if you'd like to see the You Tube video of the first four performances, including mine which starts around minute 31, click here.)

My birthday is in the middle of October but every year as a child (and frankly, into adulthood as well), growing up in Michigan I would wish for one thing on my birthday: snow.

It didn’t matter if it had been 65 degrees and sunny for the entire fall or that a hayride and bonfire was planned for my birthday party. I wanted snow. You know why? Because it signified to me that Christmas was near. (We won’t talk about the occasional May snowstorms that most sane people in Michigan cursed.)

Christmas.

The golden season. The time of year when no matter what goes wrong or what is happening in the world, all seems perfect. Perfectly jolly and happy and merry.

Christmas.

And nothing symbolizes the Christmas season to me more than the Christmas tree. The green (or white or pink or blue or whatever) fir that adorns living rooms and shopping malls and sweatshirts (the one I wore in middle school that lit up? that tree on that sweatshirt tells you a lot about my fascination with the tannenbaum and a little something about how many friends I had in middle school). And for me, it’s always been the tree that holds a very special place in my heart. Whether it’s the tree of boys (more on that later) or the first tree I bought or the trees I wear continually on my ears all season long.

My obsession with the Christmas tree probably began long before I can remember; at least that’s what we’ll say for the sake of this story. Every year on the day after Thanksgiving, my father would drag the tree out of its box in the basement and he’d set to assembling it. Now mind you, as I got older, I was a big help but as a youngster, I think I was probably hurting more than helping. He’d assemble the tree, swear at the lights that never ever worked, go to the local hardware, buy some more, and try again. This is one of my favorite parts of Christmas and one of things I miss most living 2000 miles away from my family.

Once the tree was up, the ornaments would be unpacked. And in my house, it’s not just a handful of pretty bulbs and some candy canes. There are no less than five television boxes (these are from back when televisions were the size of a Prius) that are full of hundreds of tiny boxes holding the treasures that adorn the tree. And each has a special meaning or memory. To this day I can close my eyes and picture my parents’ tree and my favorite ornaments and tell you if they’re in the right place or not (this is a bone of contention in my family and as my mother proudly told me on the phone a few weeks ago, she didn’t move one single ornament this year because she heard me lamenting in her head about this, most likely ‘sarcastic me’).

My tree fixation continued on throughout my childhood as I was cast in a church pageant one year as ---wait for it ---yep, A TREE! Now, I like to think this is because I love what the Christmas tree stands for and the important role trees played in the story of Christmas (they did, I swear, that part was just edited out of the Bible to save on printing costs) but more than likely it was because I was (and still am) a horrible actor who, gun to my head, couldn’t remember and recite my name and birthday on command.

So here I was, a tree. My parents made me this great sandwich board that I am sure is still in their garage somewhere and glued cut up pieces of garland to it. And I killed as one of the three trees that year. I’m sure I did… Yes, yes. Very sure.

Anyway, when I moved away from home for college I realized that it was time to start my own traditions. My second year at school I lived in a house with three other girls and three guys. Yep, that meant the girls had control of the house because we outnumbered the guys. So that year we got the employees in the physical plant to bring us a fake tree that wasn’t being used in the cafeteria and we set to decorating it. But we were poor, very poor, college students who had no decorations, no lights, nothing (little aside: one of the guys in the house was so poor he kept his car running by keeping it plugged in all winter. He literally ran an extension cord through a window in the living room out to a heater on his engine block and no, we never thought about silly things like the college’s electricity bill.) And because we were so poor, we did what any sensible young college girls wanting to celebrate the season of Jesus’ birth would do.

We made a tree of boys.

Yep. We spent hours combing through magazines and cutting out pictures. We printed photos off the Internet in the computer lab. And we made hangers out of paperclips. And let me tell you, our house was a very popular one that year. We’d come home from classes to find new pictures added every day. Some from other residents of the house, some from students who’d heard the tale of our tree and found their way over, the door always unlocked, and taken it upon themselves to add to our masterpiece. And before you think we were scary stalkers, the boys were all celebrities and it was all in good fun. (At least that’s what we told the guys in the house when they objected. And if I remember correctly, they eventually got in on the fun too.)

When I started grad school, I moved into an apartment with my sister, Angela, and a friend. Our first Christmas there was a bit more traditional. We put up an old tree my parents’ delivered to us and bought some lights. Then we set to crafting. We found ornament templates online and colored them then laminated them. We took the rings of Mason jar lids and wound ribbon around them. We used glitter glue to write our names on cheap stockings and we spent hours studying around the tree. We didn’t need anything more.

But then when I moved to Arizona, Christmas lost some of its luster. It’s hard to get excited about the winter holiday season when it’s a 110 degrees outside. For the two years I lived in Arizona, there was no tree in my apartment. And for the first year here in Los Angeles, there wasn’t either. But then, I made a decision. I wanted my own Christmas tree. I wanted to start the season well before the day I’d make my way back to Michigan late in December each year. So Angela and I went to Walmart (I am sure Clark Griswold’s family wishes he’d known about Walmart back then) and found the perfect Christmas tree. And now we spend about an hour decorating and then several weeks sitting by it each night throughout the Christmas season.

So my obsession with Christmas trees is a long-standing one, and I’m okay with that. I have these awesome memories of staring at the lights night after night with family and friends (and if I don’t wear my glasses, the tree becomes this impressionist mosaic that’s really cool). I have these awesome memories of fighting over dead lights and broken icicles (you know, the glass kind, that break if you even sneeze in their direction; they adorn every inch of my parents tree and shards of glass cover the house for six months after the tree comes down and most of them are snapped in half). And I have these awesome memories of each and every tree that I have seen and worn and lovingly placed packages under.

I wore the tree pin on my shoe to the performance and my friend Pauley insisted on taking a picture of it!

And while I still have the tree pin I wore back in the ‘80s and I still wear the Christmas tree earrings my grandma gave me back in the ‘90s and I still have the first Christmas tree ornament I ever received (a mouse sleeping in a matchbox that was gifted to me at age two months by another two month old), the tree that I hold dearest and think most fondly of?

That tree of boys.

I mean really, if you can’t have George Clooney under your tree Christmas morning, the next best thing is to have him smiling at you from among the branches.

The storytellers: Chad Darnell, Jay Sowell, David Dean Bottrell, me, April Moore, and George Bellias

World AIDS Day

Angela and I with two of the Compassion Bears collected by Hollywood UMC during the Christmas season.

Today is World AIDS Day. According to the event's website, "World AIDS Day is held on 1 December each year and is an opportunity for people worldwide to unite in the fight against HIV, show their support for people living with HIV and to commemorate people who have died. World AIDS Day was the first ever global health day and the first one was held in 1988."

And while I do not personally know anyone who has died of AIDS, I know plenty of people who are HIV positive, some friends, some I've met at my work with 5p21 - the AIDS hospital in downtown Los Angeles. And I've met many kids at the children's AIDS hospital as well. Each year our church delivers teddy bears, aka Compassion Bears, that have been taken home and loved and prayed over and sometimes dressed up, to the children's hospital in December. We collect money and toys to take as well. Some of my best holiday memories of Los Angeles involve going to the hospital with a huge carload of presents and feeling like Santa Claus, carrying them up the three flights of stairs to the office where they'll be kept until they're delivered. No, we don't personally give the toys to the kids but that doesn't matter, it's still an awesome experience knowing that these children will get something extra special this year whether their families can afford something or not. 

I've been a member of the AIDS committee at my church since the first month I moved to Los Angeles. I was drafted, so to speak, after volunteering to make sandwiches one day. It's a small committee and I love everyone who serves on it. We have a great time making lunches once a month and passing out sticker ribbons a few times a year, the bears every advent season, and collecting the toys. Truly, I am so blessed by the opportunity I've had to help and to give and to learn. Before I moved to California I didn't know anyone who was HIV positive. I didn't know that it's okay to kiss and hug people with AIDS or to share meals with them or to do just about anything I'd do with any of my other friends. I was sheltered and uneducated but that quickly changed. There's stigma attached to all disease, I'm aware of that - whether it's cancer or AIDS or diabetes or migraines. But by reaching out, by praying, by loving, we can make a difference.