Thoughts from the Road

There's so much space.

Not in my car, mind you.  No, that is packed to the brim with as much of my life as I could fit in a VW Bug.  Just around.  There's space.   Space for imagination to roam.  Space for tall tales to grow.

Space.

I am not, and never will be, a desert dweller.  It's so dry - too dry.  But I have to admit that Disney certainly gets their landscapes right - I felt like I was driving through Cars.

The bugs on the windshield are a nice touch, don't you think?

210 miles into New Mexico every thought cleared from my mind except one:  What the actual f*** am I DOING???

Six miles later I thanked God and the sky for the torrent that expressed the sadness I couldn't.  On and on we drove, eastward, through all that space, cutting in and out of rainstorms as sudden and angry as my grief and fear.

I like the driving.  It's surprising, if I'm honest.  I wiggle and fidget and can hardly sit still at a desk, but driving hours on end seems to fit well.  I enjoy the sense of kinship I feel with other drivers, even the faceless long-haul truckers.  Especially the long-haul truckers.  I can identify them by their cabs, and I want to wave as we pass each other, following those unwritten rules of road etiquette.  Instead I just tap my thumb on my steering wheel and whisper, "You're doing great, girl," though whether I'm speaking to my car or myself I don't know.

I'm a terrible travel buddy, able to sit in silence for hours, listening to podcasts or music, or just caught up in my own thoughts.  What do I think about that conversation?  How different would that experience have been if I had acted on impulse instead of following whatever social script has been downloaded into my brain?  What will my job be like?  Do I already love my empty, little apartment?  (Yes.)  What are my characters doing?  When will I be able to let them soar again?  What will life be like in Nashville?

My mom doesn't mind the silence, either.  She says I'm the perfect travel companion.

I'm so glad she's here.

Every so often we pass a cross on the side of the road, and this is somehow a great comfort to me.  These odes to loved ones lost not only offer a reminder to be careful, but are evidence that we will never be forgotten.  After all, if a stranger moving her life from Santa Barbara to Nashville can see them and offer a silent prayer for the unknown, then how many others do the same when they pass?  In Orthodoxy we do not offer "Rest In Peace" as a wish for the dead, but rather, "Memory Eternal."  May his/her/their memory be eternal - everlasting - ongoing.  I feel as though, in the split second it takes to zoom past, the memory of these people is, indeed, eternal.

We are now over halfway to Nashville.  I haven't yet changed the clock in my car to central time.  I don't have it in me.  Not yet.  I am in between homes right now.  Once I'm there I'll make the change, but for now I'm appreciating that feeling of connection with my California tribe.

Amarillo smells like cow dung, and somehow this makes me sadder than I think I would be in another place.  The sad and tender part of me feels the smell as an insult, even though I normally wouldn't mind it.  Tomorrow we land in Little Rock, and I hope - oh, I hope! - it smells better than here.

 And then?  And then Nashville!  And then my sister, my brother-in-law, my four incredible and hugable nieces.  Friends and relatives and a church community, all already rooted, ready to make me feel like less of a transplant and more grounded.

And then the adventurous side of Steph will be bigger than the sad side.

Pray us there, friends.  Love to you all.

Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

On Fear

When I was young I made the Powers-That-Be turn on the lights inside the Haunted Mansion.

I know.  Cool, right?

Except it was my terror that made them do it.  Memory is faulty, and I was very, very, very young, so I don't remember much about it.  Here is what I can recall:

Sitting on someone's shoulders (my mind says my Grandpa's?  But that seems crazy....So maybe an uncle?) as we walked from the elevator to the Doom Buggies, clutching at his forehead in horror as I sobbed, "Turn on the lights!  Make them turn on the lights!" over and over and over again until suddenly the lights flickered on.  I remember my Grandpa saying, "Looks like you're in luck."  And I remember the relief.  That's it. I don't know if we all left the Haunted Mansion or if it was just a parent and me.

Just terror, searching for something to ground me to reality (in this case the feel of skin beneath my fingertips), and then relief.

A few years later I made them stop Star Tours mid-ride.  It was the same sort of thing, although this time just my mom and I left the ride, and I definitely recall that walk back to meet up with the rest of the family.

We've all been there, guys.  Don't deny it  (Love you, Mama!) 

I'm not bragging at the power I apparently hold over Disney ride operators.  (Not much, I mean.)  No, my point is this:  My fear is big, and loud, and demands to be heard.

Now, I have mixed feelings about fear.  I mean, if you look over the history of our species, fear has been a good thing.  Fear keeps you from stepping too close to the edge of a high cliff.  Fear redirects your steps when you hear a roar from out in the darkness, assuredly saving you from ending up in the belly of some great beast.

Or, if you're a small girl with a vivid imagination...

And impeccable fashion sense, clearly.

...Who has against her better judgement entered a Haunted Mansion, been herded into a secret elevator and then told - essentially - the only way out is to follow the choice of a hanging skeleton...

...Been plunged into a darkness filled by screaming people...

...And then suddenly finds herself in a dark hallway with pictures that only prove the house is, indeed, haunted...

It's waaaaay scarier with the lights out, folks.

Well...Fear steps up to the plate.  Fear reminds you there are GHOSTS INSIDE.

Fear is there to warn you when something may hurt you.

There are many who will tell you that fear is a liar.  I disagree.  I just think fear is really good at its job.  Seriously, Employee of the Month, time after time after time.  And let's be very real here - fear is good at its job because there is no way to be a human being and not be hurt.

One of my favorite quotes from Welcome to Night Vale

Fear has had a lot of practice.  Fear has been hardwired into our DNA as surely as joy, sorrow, delight, or anger have.  Fear may go even deeper, existing on the same level as thirst, hunger, the need to breathe.  Personally, I believe those who say they have no fear are either lying or foolish - or both.


Fear is not the voice to be shut up and ignored!  Fear is that friend who has your best interests at heart but just never quite hits the mark.  You know the one.  Maybe the Christmas gift is never right, but is given with a good spirit.

Maybe words are awkwardly phrased and the hug too tight/loose/long/whatever - but you can tell the intention is there.

Fear isn't out to get us, it's out to help us.  So instead of ignoring its voice, we instead need to turn and face it and say, "I hear you, fear, and you're not in charge here."

Boom.

That's it.  It is as simple and as difficult as that.

So whether I'm walking the sinister hallway toward the Doom Buggies and am feeling that familiar lick of terror along my spine (every time, guys), or I'm finally telling people that yeah, my agent has put the pitch out to a few editors and some have asked to read the complete manuscript - fear doesn't get to keep me from doing something I know is good.

Remember that time I said guilt could hand me the roadmap but didn't get to come along for the ride?  (No?  Let's change that.  Check it out here.)   It's kind of like that, except that fear has a seat in the car.  The backseat...and fear is an avid backseat driver.

Ideally fear will be passed out, though...just sleeping the drive away.

I just don't have to follow its direction.

Another winner from WTNV

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Fear and Worth: An Update

I know this update is overdue.  Really.  And I'm sorry its taken so long to post.  The thing is, it's taken a long time to sift through the chaos that is my brain as of late.

Seriously.  Chaos.  

I've been processing a lot of new stuff, and - in case there was ever any doubt - it all circles back to my writing.

The other day I was making some guacamole at work and was imagining out what I would say if I were speaking to a group about writing.  (Incidentally, this is not just vain daydreaming, folks: Doxacon.   August 2017. Washington, D.C.  Be there.)  I kept coming back to the idea of talents, specifically the biblical parable of The Talents.

For those who are unfamiliar, there is, in the Bible, a story Jesus tells about servants who were given talents (a type of money).  Those who invested and used the talents were rewarded, while the poor sap who was so afraid of losing it he buried it in the ground was definitely not rewarded.  He was cast out into a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Just a quick side note here.  At the time this parable was told, weeping and gnashing of teeth were expressions of grief.  As with anything biblical, there's a plethora of ways to interpret this story, but the most straightforward seems to be this:

We are given talents.  If we use the talents we are further blessed.  If we hide our talents we become grief stricken.  

I am a writer.  Writing is one of my talents.  It always has been.  In elementary school I crafted stories out of those, "write a sentence for each spelling word" assignments.  In high school I could certainly write essays well, but the creative writing was where I excelled.  And I have always, somehow, known that someday my words would be in print.  Back when Border's bookstores were still around I used to go and find exactly where my book would sit on the shelf.  It was my sacred ritual.  I couldn't leave the store without at least visiting my books' future home.  Even now, in the jumbo makeup store that has since taken its place, my eyes flick to that spot on the wall as I enter.  

My identity as "a writer" has always been there, whether I have actively used and invested (in) my talent or have hidden it away, buried deep beneath the surface.

Remember this picture?

Taken right after a rare manicure, apparently.

I posted it a few months ago.  I gave it a silly caption about being nervous to send my work off and said that even though it didn't necessarily count as a submission, it was the first move of a game called, "How Many Times Do I Get To Submit This?"

Well, I have an answer.

One.

One submission.

In a twist I was not even remotely expecting, my first submission resulted in representation.  I went to a conference to meet my tribe and to gain some guidance from a real, live agent as to how I should go about taking my next step.

Now, barely three months later, I am googling terms like, "comp titles," and asking my agent - my agent!! - questions that must seem obvious and remedial.  I am telling my friends and family that, oh yeah, we'll start pitching at the end of this month, and will see where things go from there.

What.
Is.
LIFE???

I am so excited - SO EXCITED!!! - I can hardly think straight.  It's difficult to stay in this current moment.  And I am terrified.  Which is why I haven't posted anything about this until now.

#truth

I am afraid.

I am afraid that I'll talk about this most recent update - signing with an agent - and then, poof! it'll disappear.  Deals fall through all the time.  I am afraid this will be one of those.

I am afraid that I have forgotten how to write a book.  The book I've written is the first of a series.  I have to write the rest of it.  And what if somehow I can't?  What if I've forgotten what it takes to put one word after another after another after another...?  What if I only had one book in me?

I am afraid to put myself out there.  In writing one must be real, must be true.  Even in fiction.  Especially in fiction.  I am afraid to show people my insides and have them find me wanting.

Which leads me to my main fear, the one that drives the others:  I am afraid I am not worthy.  I am afraid that there's been some crazy mistake.  I wonder, Who am I to be so presumptuous as to assume that my work is good enough?  

BUT CLEARLY IT IS.

I'm shocked that someone believes in this story enough to help it get published.

BUT CLEARLY THEY DO.

I'm just Steph, standing here, holding this freaky, little story - and it is a freaky, little story.  But I am also a writer.  And it is time for me to uncover my talent, and to take that risk of using and investing it.  Who knows how long this ride will be?  I certainly don't.  But I promise now that I will ride it out.  I will keep sifting and processing and facing those fears.  And though I and my words are works in progress, we'll get there someday.

Taking a page from Stuart Smalley's book now.

Current goal.

Adventures in Party-Going -- OR -- Don't Ever Trust A Chatty Bank Teller

The bank teller smiled and began printing out my receipts.  I smiled back and gave my normal answer to the typical and thoughtless question of, "How are you doing today?"

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you." Winsome smile.  "How are you?"

He was alright.  His feet were hurting.  He was pretty sure he fractured his finger but he decided against going to the doctor because, after all, what can they do about fingers except ice and tape?  He was having surgery next week.  Oh, it was alright, just a part of life.  He wasn't looking forward to being laid up in bed for recovery, tough.  This would be knee surgery.  Yeah, knee surgery wouldn't be too fun, you know.  But it's cool, it's alright.  No big deal.  "Oh, hey, next week we're having a little kick-off party here.  It'll be really fun: we're going to block off the parking lot, we'll set up tents and tables and have food and stuff.  It will be really low-key, like an open house.  You should stop by."

A party?  I thought it sounded great, so I said, "Sure!  I'll tell the people at my office, and we'll check it out." 

I walked back to the office and told the others about the kick-off party.

"Umm...We should go."
"There will probably be free stuff."
"I wonder who is catering..."
"Yeah, let's be sure to do it!"

The week passed and yesterday, at about 3:15, I realized it was the day of the party.  No one else in the office could make it - people were very busy - but I decided I would brave it on my own.

"Be sure to bring back stuff for us!"
"Do you want a bag?" - "A bag??  I'm not showing up with a bag to bring back goodies.  Sheesh.  Honestly."

Shaking my head at the idea of bringing a bag to put goodies in, I walked the short distance to the bank, without a second thought to my outfit: yoga pants, an Oxnard Fire t-shirt, tennis shoes, and a neon green running jacket.  After all, I was only heading to an outdoor open house.  No biggie.

I saw the Country Catering truck in the parking lot and smiled.  At least the food would be good.  I couldn't see any tents or tables, though, but that didn't concern me because I am a doofus.  I kept heading toward the bank.

As I walked closer I noticed the people around me seemed very well-dressed.

Very well-dressed.

I suddenly started thinking about my workout clothes.  Steph.  Turn around.  I ignored the little voice in my head.  No, I told myself.  This can be salvaged.  Just act like you belong and you'll be fine.  I saw people had name-tags, so I figured I would go inside, get a name-tag, make a charming little joke about being under-dressed, and then hob nob with a few people before grabbing whatever stuff they had and heading back to the office. 

I was inside the bank, which was full to overflowing with formally attired grown-ups, and had just grabbed a sandwich and was looking around to see who I should talk to about getting a name-tag when someone coughed into a microphone.

"Umm, excuse me?  Is this thing even working?  Yes, everyone.  Everyone!  EXCUSE ME!"  Alarmed laugh.  "Yes, it's time for us all to go outside for the ribbon cutting ceremony."

At first no one moved.  People shrugged and went back to their conversations.  Then I saw a cheerful-looking woman holding a Corona move to the door.  People began moving out, and before I could find a plate for my sandwich I was hustled out the door.

"So, are you here to put out a fire in case one gets started?" A woman asked me.
"Oh, no, haha my office sent me over to represent them at this little shindig."
"Oh, good for you!"

I nodded - incredibly confused by that little exchange - and walked out the door, into the parking lot.  I walked between two parked cars, and was going to keep walking away when from out of nowhere people were suddenly filling in the space around me.  There was nowhere to turn, except back toward the bank.  Stuck, still holding my sandwich, I tried to pay attention to what was being said.

The same woman who had directed us outside was saying something about the bank, how it was opening, blah blah blah, the mayor of Goleta will say a few things.  Mayor?

The mayor.  Of course.  And there I was in my lime green workout clothes.  Awesome.  I clapped by patting my free hand on the top of my sandwich holding hand and ignored the confused glances that were being sent my way.  The mayor said some things, people tittered and chuckled, and then as I thought I would be able to make my escape, more people spoke.  Just as I was in the process of imagining myself in a really lovely pencil skirt and blouse - with rocking heels, of course - the man next to me raised his hand and smiled at the people.  Every face was turned toward us.  I turned and smiled at him, barely able to hold back the laugh that was building inside me.


I leaned against the car I was standing next to so people could see him.  What, exactly, was this car I was leaning against?  It was certainly smooth...Oh!  A Lamborghini.  Neat.  Why not?  There was a Porsche on my other side.

I leaned to the guy standing beside me and whispered, "My office sent the wrong representative to this thing."  He laughed, but I could see what he was really thinking:  This is obviously some person who walked by and is here for the food.

I looked down to see the sandwich still held in my hand.

I smiled - because the newspaper was there taking pictures - and kept my chin lifted.  I laughed when people made jokes.  I nodded sympathetically as people prophesied the amazing things this bank would do in the community.  And then, just as soon as the pictures were taken, the words were spoken, and the people were ushered back inside, I walked briskly away, holding my sandwich.

I was back in my office by 4:15.

I don't know that I will ever trust that teller.  Ever.  Again.  Who knows at what fancy event I'll end up under-dressed next?

But the sandwich was good. 

Just A Story Written For LOG...

A few months ago I was asked to write a story for a LOG activity.  This is what I came up with.  Figured I would share it.

The Young Boy grumbled to himself as he stomped toward the well.  This was not a man's work, gathering water.  He hunched his shoulders against both his anger and the heat of the afternoon.  His mother had sent him to the well, too caught up in caring for the Boy's crying infant sister to gather the water herself.  She had yelled at him of the importance of water.  Would he rather them all die of thirst than swallow his pride and carry one jug?  And after all, he was still just a Boy, while she was his mother.  He must listen to her.

The Boy could not deny the importance of water for survival.  It was true that every creature, every living thing needed the water.  Living in the small, Samaritan town, the Boy was well aware of this need, even at such a young age.  The weather was harsh and unforgiving, and if a person was careless or lazy he would regret it greatly.  But at eight years old the Boy chose not to consider this.  He kicked a stone out of his path, cringing when he felt the pain in his toes.

As he approached the well he stopped abruptly – Photini was walking in the direction of the well, carrying a large jug.  Everyone in town knew of Photini.  The Boy's mother would be horrified if she thought he spoke even the shortest greeting to this woman.  He was stuck, unsure of what to do, when he noticed a Man sitting at the well.  The Man greeted Photini kindly, then asked if she would give Him water.  The Boy wondered briefly if this Man knew the kind of woman he spoke to, but then realized with shock that He was a Jew!  What on Earth was he doing speaking to a Samaritan woman, especially one like Photini?

The Boy inched closer to the well, curious to hear what the Man was saying.  “If you knew Who was asking you for water, you would ask Me for water, and I should give you living water.”  Living water? The Boy thought, amazed.  He had never yet heard of living water.  He stepped closer, eager to hear more.

Photini and the Man were speaking about her life – the Boy wondered if he should cover his ears – when she suddenly ran from the well, leaving her jug behind.  As she ran past, he heard Photini calling out about the Messiah.  The Boy looked back toward the Man, who seemed to be watching a group of men walk up the hill toward the well. 

“Come see me, my Boy,” He said.  The Boy jumped; he had thought he went unnoticed.  The Man turned toward him, and beckoned him to come.  The Boy nervously walked forward.  “What is living water?” he asked the Man.  The Man smiled gently, and reached out to touch the Boy's shoulder. 

“It is the water that I give.  Whoever drinks of this water will never be thirsty again.  The water that I give will become a fountain of everlasting water, springing up into eternal life.”  The Boy simply shook his head, not understanding what the Man meant, but knowing somehow that this was important, that this Man was no ordinary man.

“I'm sorry.  I don't understand.  How could anyone not need water again?”

The Man chuckled, and reached into a pack that was resting at His feet.  He pulled out a small, clay cup and a leather strap, and began wrapping the strap around the cup even as He spoke.  “Tell me, my Boy, why you feel water is so important?”

The Boy thought this was a silly question, but he answered anyway.  “It gives life.  No one can live without drinking water.  We would die without it.” 

“This is true,” the Man answered.  “You mother, your father, your baby sister – all of you need water to live.”  He looked up and smiled at the Boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Him.  “But would you like to know a secret?”  He leaned toward the Boy, who nodded and came closer to Him.  “Your soul,” the Man touched a finger to the Boy's chest.  “Your soul needs something else to live.  Your soul needs Me, and my Father Who is in Heaven.  And I will give your soul living water.  And it is through Me that you will find eternal life – life that far surpasses your life here on this earth.  Would you like to hear something else?”  The Boy nodded again.  He had felt power in the simple touch to his chest.  He felt as though his whole body was shining.  The Man looked at him as though He knew what the Boy was feeling.  “Whoever believes in me, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water,” He said.  “I give you My living water, and you pass that along to others, who can pass it to others, and so on.”  He handed the Boy the cup, which now had the leather wrapped around it in such a way that the Boy could wear the cup around his neck.  He did so now, feeling that the cup was somehow sacred.  He knew he would never lose it, even if only because it would make him think of this Man.

The Boy turned to face the group of men who had just reached the well.  They called out to the Man cheerfully – they obviously knew Him well – and the Man acknowledged them with a wave.  He turned to the Boy and placed His hand on the Boy's head.  “Go, my child, and let the rivers of My living water flow from you.  And remember, if anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.  Anyone, my child.”  The Boy nodded and ran toward home.  He was almost to his house when he realized he had forgotten to gather the water.  He looked down at the pitcher he held in his hands and almost dropped it in amazement when he realized it was full.  He walked into his home, feeling lighter and stronger than he had ever felt in his life.  He took the small cup from around his neck and poured some water into it.  With that in hand, he went to his mother and said, “Mother.  Come sit, and drink, and listen as I tell you about the Living Water.” 

Warrior Dash Training - Day 1

Ouch.  That's how I feel right now.  I've only just started training today and it's already hard.  Very.  Hard. 

What's driving me to do this?  I can't really give you an answer, except that sometimes I get pushed in a random direction.  I've learned the best thing to do in these situations is to mentally shrug my shoulders and just go with it.  Only in this case "just go with it" doesn't seem to mean "float along and enjoy the ride."  No, in this case "just go with it" seems to mean "wake up early and kick your own butt, disregarding the fact that as of yet you have no idea how you're getting there, or who is going with you, or any of that stuff."

But I suppose I should back up a bit and explain myself.

A few weeks ago I read a book called The Buried Life.  It's a PostSecret sort of book, except that instead of sharing secrets it reveals hopes.  People were asked one question: What do you want to do before you die?  Some of the answers made me laugh.  Some made me shake my head.  Reading the stories behind how some were achieved made me cry.  See, a few years ago four guys felt, well, Blah.  They were all in different types and stages of Blah, but they were there.  And one day they asked what they would do if they weren't stuck in Blah.  They started throwing out ideas, and then they wrote them down, and between the four of them they came up with a list of one hundred items.  And here's where it gets really good:  They actually set out to do them.  They had one condition, though - for every item they crossed off their own list they would help someone else cross an item off their list.  (It is a really great story.  I would definitely recommend reading the book, or at least going to their website, www.theburiedlife.com.)  When I closed the book I felt inspired.  I don't want to be stuck in Blah. 

As soon as I got home that night I pulled out a notebook and started writing my own list.  Some of my items are silly (#36 - wear a tutu skirt, #14 - Eat a turkey leg), some are serious (#1 - Fall in love, #2 - Get out of debt, #12 - Write a novel).  Some seem outrageously far-fetched (#18 - Go on the Jimmy Fallon Show, #20 - Be the voice of a Disney character), some are a little embarrassing (#30 - Go skinny dipping, #4 - Take a food challenge - and WIN).  And some are very private, a voice to my deepest desires and insecurities, items that only I will see crossed off in the notebook.  I currently have 39 items on my list - with the expectation that more will be added.  None of them are crossed off yet, but I am actively working on it. 

Which brings us back to my "ouch."  Well, almost.  I was recently hired as a youth director and as I was searching for ways to get the students involved AND have fun I came across a link that said, "Become a St. Jude's Warrior!"  I clicked, and was taken to the website for the Warrior Dash.

Excuse me.  I mean, The WARRIOR DASH!!!!

That's what it looks like in my head, at least.  I looked through the site and learned that the WARRIOR DASH!!!! is about 3.2 miles of running with 12 obstacles to get through.  Obstacles such as crawling under barbed wire, climbing over walls, jumping over fire.  Yes.  Jumping over fire.  (Strangely, this has become my favorite of the bunch.)

I (very) quickly realized there would be no way I could take a bunch of high schoolers to do this.  (I briefly imagined myself telling parents, "And then we will swim through dirty water.  And then jump over fire."  Yeah, right.)  But my next thought honestly shocked me.  "Steph.  You can do this."

"Nope." I answered myself.

"Yeah.  Totally."

"I'm sorry...Did you miss the part where they JUMP OVER FIRE??"

"You've done it before -"

"Truesies."

"-And it would be for a good cause."

Sigh... "True."

"Consider it."

"Fine.  I'll consider it."

When I got home that night I added to my list: #39 - Complete the Warrior Dash.

(It occurs to me now that #40 on my list should be "Stop these weird, little conversations you have with yourself," but they add so much fascination to my life that I just can't bring myself to do that.)

And #39 has a little something tacked onto it, at least in my mind.  Raise money for St. Jude's.  I have an amount I would like to strive for, but I'm still figuring out whether or not it's realistic.  Because the WARRIOR DASH!!!! that I am going to complete is October 27.  3.5 months. 

And so the training began today.  I'm embarrassed to admit that all things considered it wasn't that tough, but still I'm left thinking one thing: Ouch.

Although, let's be honest.  My "ouch" is a far cry from what would be considered "ouch" to those kids at St. Jude's. 

So I guess I kind of do know what's driving me to do this.  The Buried Life.  And these guys:

Tangled in the New Groove of Imagination and Family

I have been thinking a lot about Disney lately. 

I suppose that comes as no shock, considering that I absolutely adore Disney.  I saw Beauty and the Beast recently- one of my all time favorite Disney movies - and completely forgot there were other people in the theatre.  I laughed, loudly.  I cried.  I even hummed along with the music and clapped after songs.  It's true!  And as I watched, and thought about the lessons Disney has taught me, I decided to write the next installment of lessons I have learned from Disney.  So here it is:


- Love is family.  And family is love.  And that is a big deal.
"Ohana means family; family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten." - Lilo and Stitch
"There is nowhere you can go where love can't follow." - 101 Dalmations
"This bond between us can't be broken.  I will be here, don't you cry.  You'll be in my heart.  Yes, you'll be in my heart from this day on, now and forever." - Tarzan

It's amazing how amazing and life-altering the love of a child can be.

- True friendship means that sometimes you have to tell someone something they may not want to hear; you have to hold up a mirror for them to see the truth they may not want to hear.  But you never, ever give up on them.
"And above all, you must control your temper!!" - Beauty and the Beast.  The entire household supports the Beast, even though it seems that he must not have been a very good master at all.  They tell him where he has gone wrong, but never fail to encourage and support and trust in him, that he will be able to figure it out. 
The Emperor's New Groove.  Watch it.
"Once and for all we'll be dared to defend one another.  Once and for all every kid is a friend, every friend a brother!" - Newsies


- It's okay to be tongue-in-cheek and laugh at yourself, as long as you remember that what you do is spectacular, and that it makes you special.  And as long as you appreciate yourself.
Yeah, Enchanted was Disney's way of doing this, and it was still an amazing movie. 

And of COURSE it's okay to sing and dance in the middle of Central Park. 

- Whatever you do, do it with all you've got.  It doesn't matter if other people put you down, or scoff, because all that really matters is that you are true to God and yourself.
"I have watched constantly that in our work the highest moral and spiritual standards are upheld, whether my productions deal with fable or with stories of living action." —Walt Disney


It's okay to lead a life of fiction :)
"Fantasy and reality often overlap." —Walt Disney
"What seems real to the mind can be as important as any material fact. We live by the spirit and the imagination as well as by our senses. Cartoon animation can give fantasy the same reality as those things we can touch and see and hear." —Walt Disney

Just look at what leading a life of fiction did!

- Love is self-sacrificial.  Love means you put down your life for someone else. 
"You were my new dream." ... "And you were mine."  Tangled made me cry - sob - because while Rapunzel was willing to give up her freedom in order to save Flynn, he used his last bit of strength to cut her hair off.  They each gave up their life for the other.  When I saw it I knew - knew - that this was an accurate depiction of what love should be.  Strip away the magic hair and the extreme situation and the beautiful Disney ribbon that made everything okay and you have truth: Love means being a martyr for the other person.  It means putting your life down.  Wow. 

Love is beautiful.

My Blog's Name - FINALLY Explained

I've been thinking the past few days about why I named my blog "A Life of Fiction."  It's always been clear to me, but I know it may not be clear to everyone else. 

You see, I have a fairly strange and bizarre life.  Sometimes I think I actually do lead a life of fiction; at times there is no other way my life could be described.  In college I developed a theory about why this is so. 

I appreciate the little things. 

That's all it comes down to.  I take such delight in the lttle things, feel such exultation in small miracles, find such joy in embracing the ridiculous, have such fun in laughing at the bizarre that I tend to be a magnet for amazingly big deals.  Lately, unfortunately, I haven't been embracing the little things.  It's been sad.  I've gotten caught up in life and all its details that somehow I have somehow missed out on what I love so much about LIFE.  In a weird way, I seem to have been so caught up in looking at the forest that I haven't been able to notice the trees.

I am happy to notice how that has been changing as of late.  I think I first noticed it when the other day I checked my Twitter feed and saw that a friend had tweeted 'I'll never get married in a castle. I couldn't bear to hear the pastor say "I'm sorry, but the princess is in another castle".'  I busted up laughing.  It touched the nerd in me, and shot me back to a youth spent playing Nintendo (and watching my brothers and the neighbor play Nintendo). 

It is so nice to be taking joy in the little things again.

And I was pleased to feel that it wasn't just a fleeting thing.  When I climbed into my car the other day I discovered that my CD player had suddenly decided to play twice as fast as normal.  I found amazing joy in hearing SheDaisy sing like the Chipmunks.  I wished someone was with me to share in the moment.  I wanted to laugh with someone.  And then later, at my parents' house, I heard my sister say, "Wait...Is this Later Gater?"  I walked into the living room and saw my family - including my 6-year-old brother - watching the SyFy channel.  They were all totally engrossed.  And the fact that my sister could identify the movie made me smile.  And the evening only got better...My little sister came home from gymnastics and had to get in the shower.  We were all doing our own thing and I suddenly said, "Is that Ginny?"  We listened, and sure enough, Ginny was singing in the shower.  It wasn't one of her usual, tweeny-bopper songs she makes up, but was an operatic scale.  Cat and I looked at each other and laughed.  Topped off by watching Bones with my parents and sister, it was a great day. 

I could feel myself appreciating the little things again.  Which is good, because this morning I had a bizarre phone conversation, and it would have been terribly sad if I hadn't been able to appreciate it. 

Here's a little background information:

-About 2 weeks ago I got a phone call from someone asking me if I was the number for roof repairs.  I said no, and was told some unliscensed roofer had inadvertently put my phone number down instead of his.
-I have been recieving plenty of phone messages since then from people asking if I could fix their roof.
-I kind of feel badly for the roofer, but then I think, He/She put my phone number down...Mayhap it's a good thing that these poor people aren't getting their roofs fixed by him/her.

So here is the conversation I had this morning:
Me: Hello?
Her: Hi.  I am calling to see if you could repair my roof?
Me: Oh, no.  I am so sorry.  I'm not the roof repairer.
Her: No?  Darn.  I really need to get some leaks fixed.  The ad says, "Best prices roof repairs." Is this your number? [says my number]
Me: Yeah, I know...You aren't the first person to call me about this.  But I don't do roof repairs.  Sorry!
Her: Darn it.  I was starting to look forward to having a hot female roofer come to my house.
Me: .....
Her: Really, I would appreciate that more than seeing a man.
Me: tinkling laugh [really, I was just unsure of what to say]
Her: Well, that's disappointing.
Me: Oh, I am sorry about that.  Hey, do you know what company you were trying to call?
Her: It just doesn't say a name.  Sooo...What do you do?  You sound nice.
Me: Uhh...I work with kids.
Her: Well, I have a couple of those.
Me: Oh, neat.
Her: I also have puppies.  Do you work with them?  I can't control them either.  Well, I had puppies but then the puppies had puppies.
Me: [non-comitally] Oh, wow.
Her: [probably picking up on the fact that I was starting to get a little nervous that she would randomly call me back sometime in the future] Well, you probably want to get your phone number taken out of the paper, huh?
Me: Yeah, thanks for the info.
Her: Thank you for sounding so wonderful.  Have a really lovely day.
Me: Thanks!  You too! [hang up]

Yeah...I think I lead a life of fiction.  And, honestly, I love it.