Cursing is not perfect. I get that. Sometimes I wish I didn’t curse. But retaining my right to curse has helped me build a strong relationship with God.
It’s easy to think that I’ve got to “clean it up” for God, that I’ve got to be the BEST POSSIBLE ME before I show up with God. This idea is based on a notion of God as a mean, distant grandparent – a grumpy old God who doesn’t like children and complains about my dirty jeans, my muddy sneakers, my messy hair. That’s not the God I need. Read More
When I began trying to connect with God (to see what I mean by “God,” click here), we had a lot of hard feelings between us. I was angry. I spent hours and hours as a kid looking for another family for my brother and me, but help never arrived. (Did I ask anyone for help? No. But that’s another post.)
So I was mad at God. But what do we do when we’re mad at God? When we’ve got a God, but we think he might not be good? Read More
Ok. I know what you’re thinking: All right, all right – Gratitude, I get. But – what the fuck – anti-gratitude? Yes. Anti-gratitude.
I came across this idea sitting in a Borders (remember those?), having just moved to this super cute suburb of Chicago, not knowing many people yet. I grabbed some books and headed down to the children’s section with my son. While he played with their toys, I stumbled upon spiritual magic.
Whoa. I have had a hell of a week.
My husband and I had one of those arguments where you are feel like you are underwater and then you hear yourself saying these terrible things like I AM DONE WITH YOU and I AM GIVING UP ON YOU and you feel like WAIT – WHAT AM I SAYING?
And then I hear him saying, “I just really needed to tell you that,” and I’m thinking WAIT? WHAT? I MISSED IT but I don’t want to say that because it seems like it will prove every bad thing he seems to be thinking about me.
That I am selfish, and I don’t listen. That I am a bad mother and a worse wife. I get it into my head that he thinks that if I just did whatever he wanted all the time, then we would be happy.
I know that’s not true. That’s not what he thinks. He has been the kindest person to me, the most reliable, the most supportive.
But I am cracking under the weight of this conflict. Read More
You may be struggling with the idea of God. Even if you BELIEVE in God, you may be wondering what the f*ck is wrong with God LOOK AT THE WORLD or wondering what use God is if he/she/it loves us but does not seem to help us.
I get it. I grew up in a tough environment and even though I “believed” in God, I thought that God cared about us in the same way I care about ants: I’m not going to burn them to death with a magnifying glass but I don’t go too far out of my way to avoid stepping on them.
Basically, I believed God “cared about us” (maybe, kinda) but that this care didn’t translate into any action whatsoever.
My husband and I are planning a trip to Hawaii. Just the two of us. We are celebrating our marriage surviving after nearly TANKING a few years ago.
Now, four years later, we are better than ever. There are no guarantees, but so far so good. We’re celebrating.
Basically, in my mind, I’m already swimming in a cove surrounded by sea turtles. Digging my toes into the sand on the beach outside of our hotel. Wearing a lei at a luau.
How the fuck did I get here? How did I get this amazing life? Read More
This weekend I made a critical error and ended up on a play date I didn’t want to be on. I’m sure this other mom has her good points, but I wasn’t in the mood to hang out with a stranger, and it wasn’t what I had in mind when I texted this kid’s dad to see if they wanted to go on a hike with me and my son. He said the kid was with his mom and he wanted to forward my invitation to her. I paused, unsure how to say NO, THANK YOU. So, I ignored that little voice inside and said, “Sure! Sounds great!”
My mistake. Read More
When I was four years old, I remember my dad looking up at me often from his black and purple bong, his cheeks puffed out, letting the smoke out slowly and saying, "What?" or "I don't do drugs." Shrugging.
This was the 1970s, people. Not 2017 in Portland, Oregon, where there are more weed dispensaries in business than Starbucks and McDonald's put together. No. This was central Illinois in the late 1970s and it was very clear to my 4 year old self that the shit going down in our house was SECRET and that, beyond that, it was ILLEGAL and that HE COULD GO TO JAIL. Do you hear me? My dad, MY FUCKING DAD, my beloved, Jovan-Musk-smelling dad, the one who told me ghost stories on long drives through the country, the one who took me for corndogs before going in to the night shift at the factory, this dad, THIS BELOVED DAD, could go to JAIL. Read More