Phoebe

Phoebe texted me out of the blue.

Seven years had passed since we last spoke – 1,000 miles and a lifetime between us. We drifted apart as life happened. We communicated through Christmas cards.

She wanted to catch up.

I met Phoebe at my first job out of college, in the barren wastelands of central Illinois. She was a new immigrant from Asia, and in the small red neck town I found myself in, she was the coolest one there. We would walk to house parties, taking pulls off of a flask of rum. We’d go dancing at the night club an hour away – dressed to kill – or grab drinks at the bar down the street. We’d swap boy stories, hang out, have lunch dates, and I learned a great deal about her culture and way of life back home. When we hung out with her crew, I was often the lone white girl, who was a full foot taller than everyone.

She worked second shift, I worked third shift with her then-boyfriend Alex, an American. Alex helped me learn my trade and I kept up with him for job references. When they got married, I was a bridesmaid.

We kept in touch after I moved to the coast for several years. Once the kids came along, we drifted apart. I got a phone call when she found out she was pregnant with her first. I learned of her second child on social media. I haven’t seen her since 2009 and never met her kids.

I was surprised to see her texting me after all this time, but my heart was happy. I missed Phoebe. We talked on the phone that night. She sounded good, she caught me up on all the local gossip, as she and Alex are still in the same town. We talked about the surface level things – fond memories, how “things were currently going well,” both of us still unsure of the other – I wasn’t ready to spill my heart of the past years with anxiety, infertility, and alcoholism. Maybe for another conversation. Her accent was as thick as ever, my ear no longer trained to it. It was never like that before.

We ended our conversation with her and the family possibly coming to visit in the fall.

A few days later, Phoebe texted, Can you talk thru text message?

Sure, I replied. This was bizarre, but okay.

All the pieces clicked in her next message.

I’m not in a good place. I’m leaving Alex. I can’t take it anymore. Can you help me restart my life? Maybe I can get a job by you?

What?

Long story short, Alex cheated on her several years ago and they got through it. The other woman recently waltzed back into town and Alex got a burner phone to communicate with her behind Phoebe’s back – despite his denials of contact. It was a mess that involved the cops at one point when their argument got out of hand over the situation.

I offered for her to come to my beach for a few days, get out of the situation to think clearly, and said several times to get professional help. Counseling in these situations is so important, whether they stayed together or not.

She began to price airfare and planned a long weekend visit in a few weeks.

And then I got this message:
Things are better. We talked it out and I’m leaving for a visit to Asia soon and I don’t have the money to fly to North Carolina right now. But thank you so much for listening and supporting me! I promise I will come down sometime this year!

I told her the invitation was open and that if she needed time to get away, I was here for her.

This was all several weeks ago.

I texted her today, to see how she was doing. Things had returned to normal – the other woman was gone and the harmonious matrimony continued.

I hope stays that way.

Chantel

I still vividly remember the first time I saw her.

It was 2 weeks before my wedding. I was moonlighting on third shift, helping to cover a coworker out on FMLA. I got off shift that morning and hopped into the car with my fiance: we were driving to Virginia to meet his sister, her husband, and my oldest soon-to-be nephew and 2 nieces.

I tried to sleep in the car, but it was a fitful, unrested sleep. I was an overtired, grumpy, frazzled, dehydrated, stressed out bride who was about to meet extended family for the first time. And I was a hot mess.

I managed to pull myself together by the time we arrived in their driveway, and that’s when I saw her from the passenger side of the car: a cute little 9 year old with light brown hair and big expressive brown eyes was playing in the yard. This had to be Chantel. We locked eyes. I had never been an aunt before. We started quizzicaly at each other, unsure of what all this meant. I remember she gave me a big hug, as we got out of the car, and were ushered into the house, welcomed with open arms.

Through the years, I’d watch her blossom into a teenager. What began as her watching me put on make up in the morning morphed into me asking her for make up advice. Her make up game was on fleek, as the kids say nowadays.

The teenage years became fraught with angst and rebellion, accentuated with drugs and sex, probably steaming from the abuse she had suffered and never treated. I’d call her out and try my best to show her I would always be there and love her despite her many lapses in judgment. Her parents kicked her out of the house several times for having drugs and basically threw up their arms with frustration in terms of helping her professionally and emotionally. She’s currently living with a friend’s family at age 19, in between jobs again.

She needs someone to show her the love of the Father. And so I remain, checking on her through text messages and sending birthday gifts.

I was in town, visiting her family without my husband, a few weeks ago. While she was invited over for dinner, her lack of communication skills kept her from stopping by. It was no matter: I had already arranged a lunch date with her before I arrived.

* * * * *

Almost to the day, 10 years after we met in a driveway, I picked Chantel up in a stranger’s driveway. She was at another friend’s house, in the middle of absolute nowhere. She looked like she had dropped some excess weight, as her belly ring was clearly on display, and wore the light aroma of of marijuana as she slid into the passenger seat. Both of us were nursing a hangover: I sipped too much wine the night before and had a splitting headache. She had done shots (“Only like 6 or 7” – I kindly informed her 4 was binge drinking – she had no clue) and spent part of the night throwing up. She had been arrested again last month, this time for petit larceny, after failing to say no to a friend’s suggestion of putting unpaid merchandise in her purse. She was on probation, of course.

I swear, her communication skills and insecurity will be the end of her.

This was demonstrated again in her failing to pick a spot for lunch. “I don’t know, what do you want?” I pushed her to make a decision and she finally chose Red Robin, a fine choice, even though my Lenten fast meant I wouldn’t get my favorite bottomless root beer float.

Our conversation was surface level, but by the time food arrived we were in a deep talk about her insecurities, her inability to express her desires, and how that was making her life very difficult. She knew that stealing was wrong, but she lacked the fortitude to say no, blaming it on being tired after a long day, wanting to go home, and the “Sure, whatever” mindset she has when making decisions that directly affect her.

She acknowledged what I already knew to be true, but she has a streak of lip service behind her. Chantel’s words and actions are light years apart.

After lunch, I drove her back to her current home and I felt that tug from the Holy Spirit to pray with her. I struggle to say Grace before meals in a group setting, but I obliged.

“Can I pray with you?” I asked as she was about to leave the car.
“Sure,” she replied.

I held her hands and spoke His words over her. They flowed out, like a poem. I asked for her protection and that Chantel would know how beautiful, strong, and loved she was. There were tears in her eyes at the end.

Before she left, I told her not to spend dwindling money on weed, as I could smell it on her. I hugged her tight, told her I loved her, and to call me if she needed anything.

And before I knew it, I was flying south on the interstate, heading for home.

I hope Chantel’s future is brighter than her past. But only she can make that happen.

Open Prose Letter to my Niece Chantel

Dear Chantel,

And so, it happened again. You got caught – this time by the police – with drugs. As tears welled up in my eyes, as we again had a conversation about making better choices and moving forward out of the fray, you are back to where you were a year ago. I don’t understand how someone like you, with their whole future ahead of them, continues to make these choices that do nothing but keep you down.

I keep asking myself why. As I thought about it, I think I nailed down your life motto, which seems to fit all the trouble you find yourself in as of late:

I do what I want. The rules do not apply to me if it conflicts with what I want.

I wrote this prose – more for me, than you – to get all of things feelings off my chest.

****language warning****

Late to high school
Skipping class
Maybe not show up
Truancy and tardies
Notes home for skipping
Your message to others
Has been the same
Since high school
I do what I want
Fuck them

Smoking pot in the house
Carrying at school for friends
There are rules and consequences of this
Your response
:
Fuck that
I do what I want
I am in charge
Not you
Fuck you
And get out of my way
Before I fuck you up

Stealing a car
And narcotics
May be against the laws of this state
But it didn’t matter right now
In the moment
Because you’d say
I do what I want
I needed the high
You have no idea
What’s going on in my head
Only way to get there was to drive
I do what I want
Fuck you for not understanding

Breaking the rules
Of the state or of your parents
Don’t mean shit
You’re only sorry you got caught
Sorry you’re going to get chewed out
And stonewalled at home
Showing up for a court date
Is a minor inconvenience
But it will happen again
Because you simply do what you want
Getting drunk
And getting home
Were top priority
What you wanted in that moment
Not your safety
Or the safety of others
The rules of the road don’t apply in these situations
You do what you want
Fuck them for getting in your way

If you’re prosecuted for intent to distribute
It won’t stop you from doing it again
If you want to do it
You fly under the radar to evade capture
You will still drive
You will still smoke
You will still do hits
You will still sell
You will still do what you want
When you want
Because you always have
Fuck them if they try and stop you
You are in charge
You do what you want
The rules serve as only boundaries
To remain undetected

If you kill someone in a car accident
Driving home from a party cuz you were legally drunk
But the least drunk of your friends in the car
It won’t change nothing
You do what you want
Someone dying won’t change your wants
Unless your wants change
History tells us it won’t
But I hear you loud and clear:
I wanna get high
I wanna get fucked up tonight
I wanna get laid right now
I wanna take nude selfies for likes
I wanna forget my pain
I wanna take hits til I can’t feel
Cuz that’s what I love to do
It’s what I want
I’m gonna do what I want
Fuck you if you get in my way

A trail of destruction
Strained relationships
Fines
Legal woes
Maybe even jail time
Will follow you
Until you decide
To want different things
Like abiding by laws
And taking care of yourself
Right now it’s all noise
It’s all a stalling tactic
Because in the end
You’ll do what you want
Over and over
And over and over again
That is your narrative:
I do want I want
The rules do not apply to me
If it conflicts with what I want
And fuck anybody
Who tries to stop me
From getting what I want

And with everything that’s happened
Everything is right on track for you
You’re getting what you want

But I am always here
Watching
And praying
For you
That you will seek help
From a therapist
From the Lord
From me
So we can help silence
The demons
The drugs cannot do

Bons baisers,
Aunt Simonne

 

Michigan Musings: Lake Huron Adventures of the Past

Nearly every summer in the 90’s was spent on the shores of Lake Huron.

They were all adventures.

My dad’s sister had a cottage on the lake in Port Austin in Broken Rocks – it was more of a house than cottage. I spent my days with my cousins, climbing on the giant boulders that jutted out from the land into the vast lake.  My one cousin and I would dig for clay at The Cove and then we fired the pots we made in that night’s beach campfire. I hunted crayfish in the shoals and attempted to net hundreds of fish that ultimately got away.

Swimming was by far my favorite. My feet adjusted quickly to Huron’s unfriendly rocky bottom and choppy waters. I couldn’t wait to get in the water.

My first brush with death happened in the lake when I was 9: the small sailboat my dad and I were on capsized when the wind changed directions and my dad wasn’t quick enough with the sail: I got trapped under the boat momentarily. My dad was freaked out, but I thought this was a great adventure. We had life jackets on, Dad was here, what could have possibly gone wrong? Ah, to view the world as a child.

I learned how to ride horses at the local riding stable. It was western trail riding on old nags, but that didn’t register to me. This was another adventure, quite different from my normal life. The trail leader said I was a natural on horseback and I began taking English riding lessons back home. The only problem was barnstorming: the horses knew the trail and once they realized they were heading back to the barn, where food was, they took off like they were wild mustangs. I had one horse take off into a gallop on me – mind you, I’m not wearing a helmet – and grabbed fist fulls of mane to stay on! I made it back okay, but ever since that time, I’ve been spooked with speed on horses.

We usually stopped for dinner at one of the restaurants in the small downtown – Chuck and Jane’s was our top spot. Evenings were spent eating ice cream and walking along the breakwater at the marina.  I loved the gift shops – Finan’s and the Dime Store – they had everything a preteen girl would want. I especially loved the cedar boxes – I have 2 of them with a horse on it – and Port Austin, MI was stamped in the lower right corner of the lid. My grandma couldn’t come downtown without stopping for bread and other delicious items from Murphy’s Bakery. For a special treat, we’d drive to Grindstone City’s General Store: they had the best ice cream in this hemisphere. This is not a hyperbole, this is fact.

Once I was a teenager, we began to stay at Ray’s (my mom’s cousin) quintessential cottage a few miles down the road in Caseville – its musty cottage smell is forever etched in my memory. The beach there had a sandy bottom, a welcomed relief from my aunt’s beach. This cottage is special to me because 2 things happened here that still ring true in my adult life: I officially became a Christian and began mapping out my family tree. I still walk daily with the Lord and am now writing down 20 years of genealogical research into a book.

As the years went on, it became me, my sister, mother, and grandmother in Port Austin trips. We’d stop at the IGA (a grocery store) in Bad Axe and get all the supplies we’d need for the week. Shopping with my mother and grandmother, this was a 2 hour excursion, which I always dreaded.  I wanted to get up to the cottage as soon as possible and see my lake! The foodstuff could wait.

Ray was there with his wife when we arrived. There were 2 cottages on the property – they would stay in one, we’d stay in the other. Ray was old enough to be my grandfather. My sister and I went fishing with him on his boat and caught so many lake perch our live wells were filled to the gills! Ray’s navigational systems weren’t working, so we had to stay within sight of land – but Ray started chasing schools of perch, as fishermen tend to do, and the next thing we know, we’re surrounded by water. It was I who got us safely back to shore after I found Sebewaing’s lone water tower in the distance.

There was no TV here. This was long before the internet was ubiquitous (I would go a whole week without checking my email!). I truly unhooked from the world I knew, the craziness of my household. And I loved every minute of it.

Watching the storms roll in on the lake was better than TV. I collected zebra mussel shells as if they were conch shells. The waterslide in Caseville proved I could get over my fear of heights. My 82 year old grandmother beat me in mini golf at Sandy Dunes. I would run the fitness trail at Port Crescent State Park, usually with my Dad when he showed up for a couple of days. Countless walks on the beach, watching the sunset, campfires every night – I never got bored and planned to move here alone after college.

These summers moulded my heart to love the beach life, which is part of the reason I live in the coastal Carolinas. Like so many others, I can sum up my childhood summers in 2 words: Port Austin.

If I could do it all over again, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

Pray & Prey

All the #churchtoo hash tags on my Twitter feed reminded me of a fellow youth group member in college who could classify as a preditor.

I would know. I was one of his complicit prey.

Word had gotten around church that I was newly single. I looked okay on the outside, but on the inside I was in the deep throws of an existential crisis coupled with an identity crisis. My ex was an emotional abuser, and I got too caught up in his web of dysfunction.

It was during this time that I learned when I hit rock bottom, I will find a shovel and start digging.

Jacob was the shovel.

Jacob had asked for my phone number and he was the full package: handsome chiseled features, very muscular, highly intelligent – an all around sweetheart who loved Jesus. I was giddy. I never thought a guy like Jacob would notice me.

Sure enough, he called me to hang out one evening. After a false start, we ended up back at my apartment to watch a movie with my roommates. Jacob put his arms around me and pulled me back onto him. This was nice – a little fast – but nice. In the course of a few minutes, his hands started to wander. I politely stopped him several times.

If I wasn’t in such a state of complete breakdown, I’d like to think I’d have rebuffed his advances. But when you’re already careening out of control and extremely comfortable with your sexuality, you make certain allowances that otherwise wouldn’t make sense.

He suggested going back to my room and I agreed. I tried to explain to him how crazy my life was, but it came out jumbled and it was clear he was not understanding. The spell wore off after midnight. We didn’t have sex, but we defiantly knew each other better in the physical sense.

He requested I drive him back to the dorm at 3am, less than half a mile from my apartment. The conversation was terse, compared to what happened between us a few hours prior. He threw a casual “see ya” over his shoulder as he left the car.

I regretted it. I was disgusted with myself. His scent was still all over my sheets, but in the morning light, it smelled bad.

I didn’t hear from him in the following days and our group met on a few nights later. My heart raced as I walked to the building. I tried to catch his eye, eager to read his expression. We made eye contact: it was a quick expressionless glance, like when you almost bump into someone in a busy airport.

That was it.

Oh, I thought, as the reality seeped through my body. This is how it’s gonna be: all over me in private, ignore me in public. While I was disappointed, I also knew it was stupid to think he wanted something more. The situation a few nights previous was obviously about the physical rather than the mental, emotional, and spiritual. Just what I needed: another guy in my life to treat me like crap.

I wish I could say the story ended there.

But it didn’t.

It happened again.

And again.

While I’ve never done drugs, I’m sure Jacob was cocaine in the human form. I knew it was a bad idea, but I loved the high – it boosted me out of the hole I found myself in, albeit temporarily. I loved the rush, the impulsive nature of our aimless fraternization.

I was eager for another fix.

As time passed, I was slowly coming out of my self-induced haze, longing for the comforts of emotional sobriety. What if I was leading him on? I paused as I was leaving his dorm room, leaning against the door jamb for support. It was time to clarify things.

“So,” I began. “Where does this leave us?”

“Right here,” came the sarcastic reply and a smile.

“No, really. Where do you see this going?”

Jacob stopped and turned to me. “I am not in a place in my life where I would be a good boyfriend to you, I can’t be what you would need in a relationship.”

It sounded like a pre-recorded message, a backhanded complement, but I took his words at face value.

“Okay,” I said, as I drifted into the hallway and closed the door behind me.

That was fine by me.

It stopped right then and there.

I’d like to point out that all of this was consensual between Jacob and I. He never forced me to do anything. I take responsibility for my actions.

Then I got back with my daft ex, because I was young, stupid, and apparently masochistic at 21.

But that’s when the prowl started.

My boyfriend didn’t want to attend formal several months later, so I went alone. Jacob was there, handsome as ever. He tried to get me to come back to his dorm afterwards and I explained I was with someone else and not interested. Jacob tried to persuade me otherwise. He pulled me close when we were alone, and I pushed him away. “I have a boyfriend, we can’t do this, ” I said and left his presence.

I can’t remember the circumstances, but I had something to drop off at his place months later. He had moved out of the dorms and into a house. He gave me a quick friendly tour, no vestige of our history showed.

“And this is my room,” he said as we stopped at the door. He came from behind me and used his body weight to push me on the bed. We fell on the bed together and I knew what the look in his eye meant. “I have a boyfriend,” I said, slightly worried about how this situation was going. Again, he tried to charm me. “No, I have to go.” I sprinted out to my car before he had a chance to stop me.

That was our last encounter.

The following school year, Jacob was a distant memory. A girl named Hannah started coming to our group. Hannah was not only stunningly beautiful, but wholesome and kind. She was in my Bible study. I had just taken a big swig of soda when Hannah said she had an announcement: “Jacob and I are officially dating.”

It took everything in my power not to spit the soda across the room. She took her purity seriously, and while they made a handsome couple, I certainly hoped she knew what she was signing up for with Jacob.

I did not mention anything to her about my experience. Maybe she knew about Jacob and I, maybe not. I didn’t want to reveal my previous indiscretions; there was also the possibility of Jacob amending his ways.

They got married and have children. Occasionally a picture of them will pop up on my feed, all smiles. I wonder what their marriage is like and if they are truly happy beyond the pictures.

The shine of youth is gone for Jacob. The sculpted muscles have given way to age and fat; he looks well into his second trimester now. Those bright eyes and boyish grin still come through, but I know what lies behind them. Hannah still has a better body than my barren athletic one.

What is Jacob like now? I wonder if anyone at his current church has a story about him. I wonder how he dealt with the past or if he ever did.

Many years later, I told my good friend Ruth (from the same group) about everything that happened between Jacob and I: turns out I was just another link in the chain. She and many others had a similar experience. Ruth shot him down before anything came of it (as I should have done). I wasn’t the first in the group. I wasn’t the last either.

I was simply another violin in a woeful symphony.

I was played. And prey.

December in Review

While I didn’t have any groundbreaking earth shattering revelations this month, it was a good exercise in focusing on the Holy Spirit.

I don’t post on Facebook much anymore, but I do log on once in awhile to see what everyone is doing. I saw a close friend of mine, who recently had her first baby, posted she and her husband were sick with the flu and asked for prayers that the new baby wouldn’t get sick (baby –> flu –> very bad). Numerous people responded with “Praying!” and “Sending prayers!” Me, on the other hand, felt called to do more than just pray. I messaged her asking if she needed anything.  She said they could use soup, crackers, pedialyte, infant tylenol, and orange juice. After work, I ran to the store and drove out the supplies to her. They were very grateful and the prayers worked: baby stayed healthy.

I also learned of a couple who had finally gotten an apartment, after living on the streets for many years. While they now had running water, electricity, and were out of the elements, the only things they had were the clothes on their backs. I knew I could help: I went to Walmart and bought basic kitchen things: plates, bowls, silverware, mugs, glasses, towels, and pots. Every year around Christmas, I always try to give locally to someone who needs it. I had prayed about it earlier that day, as I didn’t have anyone in mind. Lo and behold, this opportunity rose.

While both of these examples required money and relinquishing plans I had already had, I know it went to a greater good. I know what it’s like to start out with very little, and I’ve been there when I’ve been too sick to open a can of soup for myself, without anyone to help.

In the coming year, I hope to keep myself tuned to those gentle nudging from the Holy Spirit and not to ignore them because they’re inconvenient to me, in time or money: I have been blessed so I can be a blessing.

The Holy Spirit will remind of that in 2018, I am sure!

Of Tea & Prayer

Since I stopped drinking alcohol – my husband was struggling with overconsumption, so it’s no longer in our lives – I find myself craving something more than just water when I’m relaxing in the evenings. With watching my weight now, as I’ve gained 12 pounds in the month of December alone, I’ve decided to go back to an old friend: tea.

As with everything else in my world, life is in a time crunch. Working 2 jobs, managing a household, trying to find time to exercise – so much of my day is about maximizing my time. With this in mind, I put my tea water in the microwave for 2 minutes.

The tea tasted like dishwater. Flavorless, flat, and just plain bleh.

I couldn’t even finish the cup, even with a little local honey in it. Tea has the best flavor when the water is at a high temperature; the microwave heats the water unevenly. All the while, my tea kettle sat alone on the stove. It takes too long to heat up the water when it’s just a cup for me. But after my microwave debacle, I decided to go back to the tea kettle.

For a single cup of tea, it takes 6 minutes and 45 seconds for it to sing (I have to keep it on medium heat or else it will melt onto my ceramic top stove). It’s nearly 3x as long as the microwave. The water from the kettle is not only pipping hot, but brings out the flavor in the tea as it’s suppose to be tasted. Even though it is faster in the microwave, it’s not effective and the end result is less than stellar.

This same analogy can be applied to my prayer life: as a contemplative, spending time silent before God in prayer takes time. It’s not that quick popcorn prayer at the end of a Bible study or a cry for help when something goes wrong at work. Like the tea kettle, the prayer is the real deal; time consuming, but completely worth it.

I found myself drifting back into microwave prayer time. There are a few people in my life who are in desperate need of prayer – which I do pray for – but in recent months I have not sought the deep quietness that comes to me during contemplative prayer. I’m starting to miss it. The microwaved prayers are not cutting it anymore for me.

January has always been a quiet month in my life: the Christmas rush is over, and growing up, there was snow on the ground while nature sleeps. I need to carve out time in the coming weeks to spend some real quality time basking in the Lord. I need to dig deeper into the emotional part of my soul I’m so good at silencing. Using the Examine App is suppose to help, but I never feel motivated.

So here’s to 2018, a year filled with quality tea and quality time with the Lord.

December: Be Tuned to the Holy Spirit

I’m ending 2017 on a note to tap into my intuition – which sometimes gets caught up in the web of anxiety in my brain and I don’t always know which is what.

We so often pray for the voice of the Lord to guide us in our lives. But how often do we listen? I will admit I sometimes feel an inkling, a gentle push from the Holy Spirit and I ignore it because I’m too busy doing other things. Or it’s horribly inconvenient. Or I decide in the moment that it wouldn’t work, wouldn’t be wanted, wouldn’t be appreciated. With the Christmas season in full swing, I thought this was the best way to focus my energy.

What will this look like? I hope to obey the small, sometimes inconsequential voice in my head, urging me to go in a certain direction. I pray my eyes will be open to someone needing help, that I will offer what I can, regardless of the outcome.

I want to leave room to let the Lord lead this month.

November in Review

I did not do as well as I set out to this month. I had every intention of journaling through my Examine App – which I did – twice. With my husband’s crazy work schedule, my mornings and evenings are cut short. I know it’s an excuse that I’m blaming current life rhythms for my lack of self reflection with emotions before the Lord, but that’s what happened.

I did have one rather interesting breakthrough that I did not see coming.

In arguments or when my husband randomly turns into an ornery 12 year old, my default setting is to stand down, shut down, and wait until emotions and situations return to normal before addressing them – if they are addressed at all.

This month, I decided to try a different tactic. It’s not often I fight back or call someone out in the moment. So I did. When my husband got into one of his moods, I spoke in my deeper-toned business voice – the one I used to use backstage to rally the troops – and called his bluff. Oh, I’m out of line? Enlighten me. It was not an emotional, but a logical response. And it worked. The situation defused and I didn’t have to run for cover.

I have to remind myself to be confident and take control of the situation. It’s not a habit yet, but I hope to make it one in 2018.

It’s an interesting end of a month dedicated to embracing emotions. I hope I can maintain the confidence level.

Birthdays of 2018

November has officially arrived in my world and brought the chilly air with it. A mere few days ago, I was sweating on my lunch walk, basking in the warm sunlight, thankful for the last sweet days of summer. It’s a reminder that winter is near and a new year will begin soon.

I spent 2017 being introspective with my project of picking a theme each month to focus on, and with the roller coaster ride that was my year, it gave me an anchor for my restless soul. By keeping my focus on the Lord, I was insulated by the current and sparks 2017 created: I am still standing.

With 2018 not far away, I wanted to do something else as a year long project, but with less focus on myself. I wanted to take the lessons, trials, and encouragement from this crazy year and apply it to others. I also wanted to focus more on my writing to benefit others. How could I accomplish that?

The idea had been rolling around in my head for awhile, but in 2018, I am going to put pen to paper and make it happen. I will send a birthday card, snail mail, to those in my world. The card will be a blank cardstock with a personalized message to the receiver. Store bought birthday cards are super expensive, blandly impersonal, and are usually thrown away. I hate those. The ones I buy are from Hobby Lobby, 48 for $10, which comes out to 21¢ a card. In some cases, I also plan to send a postcard – another perk of living at the beach. If it’s thrown away, so be it. If it’s kept, I hope it will bring a smile, a comfort, and a tangible reminder that someone was thinking of them on their special day.

I have this knack for remembering dates, I love writing, and this may be a great way to reach out to others. It also keeps me on a deadline.

I’m excited to do this, and if all goes well, I may make this an every year thing.