~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960~

"Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart"
~ Kahlil Gibran~

~Ben Franklin ~ 

"Let the beauty we love be what we do."
 ~Rumi ~

**********

Why did I pick these quotes?  Well, if you follow me on Facebook then you recently discovered that I am seriously considering having dreadlocks put in my hair.  Yes, I said SERIOUSLY.   Do you need a moment to get over the shock?

I have been mulling this over for a long time and finally brought up the subject with Gareth tonight, to discover that he is completely supportive of it.  I was almost knocked over by that revelation because he likes my hair longer and is really lovely about complementing me on it and doesn't much like shorter hair on me, and to be honest, I look hideous with short hair as we discovered in September of 2008 when I got all of my hair cut off.  If was just barely below my ears.  It was awful!  Just awful!   I cried for months!  Thankfully my hair grows insanely quickly and it's now pretty long again, and that's even after getting a couple of inches trimmed off over the summer.  Anyhow, he knows I'm getting pretty frustrated with my hair.

Dreadlocks are attractive to me for numerous reasons but the biggest one being the low-maintenance factor.  I know people don't automatically think they aren't a lot of work.  Initially when you first get them put in, depending on your hair type, it might take a little work...the dreading itself, possible waxing and depending on how you have your hair dreaded, there's a little more work at the start.  In the long run though, they are very low maintenance and even fun to play around with, and if you take care of yourself and your dreads, they look great!   Hell, I could even decorate my dreads for Halloween, Christmas, Easter...you name it - I can find a matching hair bead for it!  And hey...ever hear of Jingle Dreads?!?!

Seriously though, my hair screams 80's!!! Bon Jovi!  I HATE Bon Jovi...My big. bossy hair begs to have blue eyeshadow smoothed over my eyelids, big gold hoop earrings dangling from my ears, and Lip Smackers lip gloss rolled on my lips.  It's got tight curls on all of the bottom layers and big, floppy lazy curls on the top.  It costs more money than I care to keep spending on products...smoothing gels and creams, straighteners, glosses, and conditioners just to name a few!  As far as the blonde?  Yeah, I'll keep that up because I'm far too vain to go gray, gracefully and I've discovered that with dreads, it's a lot less expensive to keep them blonde than it is to keep my highlights going.

Don't believe me about the 80's hair?  Behold, a chunky monkey version of Blair from The Facts of Life!  I took this earlier today...

I woke up this morning with a hangover headache.

Alright alright, it was in fact probably a wee bit of a hangover.   Gareth came home from work last night and knew that I hadn't had a great deal of time yesterday to really delve into all of the comments that were left on yesterdays post, or the waterfall of emails it elicited and was a bit worried that once Gaby went down for the night that I'd spend hours on the computer, frustrated.  So he took Gaby and I to dinner where I ordered my first ever Blue Moon ale.   I am not a fan of beer, ales, stouts, or even alcohol in general. I don't think they taste that great.  I drink a few times a year. I try not to overdo it because I've been known to snowboard down the stairs after having a few too many glasses of wine.  Oh...that would be the stairs IN the house!

I don't much care for beer because of the aftertaste it leaves in my mouth and it just doesn't taste good to me.  However, I thought the Blue Moon looked good for some reason so I ordered one with my meal.  A tall one.  A really tall one.   Our server told me it was her favorite ale and it had a slightly nutty/citrus flavor. 

It arrived at our table with an orange slice perched on the side of the glass.  I took a first tentative sip and discovered that I liked it.  I really liked it.  Hey Mikey!  She likes it!  

Sorry about that last line.  You'll only get it if you're as ancient as I am.   Anyhow, that first Blue Moon went down extremely well and Gareth, that cheeky bloke I'm married to, asked me if I wanted another? If I didn't know better, I'd say he was trying to get lucky!  

Magically, another tall frosty citrusy (that's not how that's spelled, is it?) Blue Moon landed in front of me. And down it went...albeit a bit slower than the first.  

 

By the time I got around to finishing my second ale, my cheeks were bright red and my nose was bright enough to light up a runway in the middle of a blizzard.  Or that's the way it felt anyhow.   I handed the car keys to Gareth and tucked my hand into the corner of his elbow as I weaved my way out of the restaurant.

As we made our way home Gareth mentioned that we were running really low on milk and should probably stop and pick some up.  Right at that split second my bladder commanded my full attention and I looked at Gareth and told him to go straight home because I had to pee like a racehorse!  It didn't help matters that every single bump he went over damned near sent me into the land of near-incontinence (let's keep in mind, I've had FIVE kids!), and then Gaby kept kicking the back of my seat.  I felt as if the two of them were conspiring to see who could make mommy pee her pants first!

I jumped out of the car and nearly fell flat on my face trying to wobble my way up the front stairs and into the house and then sprinted for the loo!  Relief!  And with it came almost instant sobriety.  That's just the way my body works.  I spent a little time working through the avalanche of emails and comments from earlier in the day and eventually climbed into bed and only to fall into a fitful sleep full of dreams about some sort of bizarre elephant-lion hyrbid.  I'm sure those dreams were a mixture of the Blue Moon and the fact that I fell asleep watching Planet Earth on the Animal Planet channel.  

I woke up seriously craving a huge bowl of Shredded Wheat and glass or orange juice.  This is par for the course when it comes to the night after I've over-indulged when it comes to alcohol and left my liver begging for it's life!  I always want Shredded Wheat.  Some people swear that a huge greasy fry up will kill the hangover whilst others say it's surely a little of the hair of the dog that bit you that will have you feeling aces in no time flat.  For me, it's always Shredded Wheat.  I was practically salivating over how badly I wanted a bowl of the brittle hay-like cereal.

I took a couple of bowls down from the cupboard, grabbed the Rice Krispies for Gaby and the Shredded Wheat for myself and went to grab the milk out of the fridge.  I lifted the gallon milk container and to my horror there was barely enough left for Gaby's cereal and not a drop more.  Shit!

I looked at the box of Shredded Wheat and my empty bowl and stood there, lower lip hanging out whilst I listened to the sounds of Snap, Crackle and Pop taunting me from Gaby's cereal bowl.  Bastards!

I sat Gaby down with her cereal and a glass or orange juice and thought about how a fried egg with a little bacon and toast didn't sound so bad after all.  I dug around in the meat drawer in the fridge and grabbed a pound of bacon then turned a burner on the stove on and banged a pan down on the stove top to heat up.  I really wish I hadn't  "banged" the pan down so hard.  My head is still reverberating from the sound. I opened up the package of bacon and the smell that hit me nearly dropped me to my knees.  Cheeses of Nazareth, how old was the bacon...that pig had surely passed it's "Best By" date.  In between dry heaves I scanned the package and the best by date made me gag even harder...December 15, 2009!  Shit!

OK, so I guess it's just going to be a fried egg on a piece of toast, with a glass of orange juice.  I dropped a tiny pat of butter into the heating frying pan and as it sizzled away I removed the carton of idiot proof eggs from the fridge and set them on the counter.  I opened the carton and to my horror discovered that the only thing remaining in the carton where the cracked and empty shells of eggs I'd used for something else.  Like an idiot, I'd put the empty carton back in the fridge.  Shit!

I shoved the empty egg carton into the trash bin and plopped myself down on the couch, completely disgruntled, head pounding, and stuck my lower lip out as far as it would go.   No milk, no eggs...no breakfast! 

Gaby had been watching my entire tantrum and bless her heart, offered to share her now-soggy Rice Krispies with me.  She said, "Mumma, you gots to have some breakfast! It'll make you poop!"  I told her I was good and that she was such a sweetheart for offering to share her own breakfast with me.  I stood back up and went over to the fridge, opened it and just stood there and stared into it.  Maybe I was hoping for something to jump out at me and offer itself to me.  The only thing that looked remotely appetizing was some leftover meatloaf from Tuesday's dinner.  The thought of a cold slab of ground chicken, oatmeal, eggs (dammit, that was what I used the last two eggs for!), onions and Worcestershire sauce, working it's way down my throat did not sound terribly awesome.  But then I spotted it...a loaf of bread, some mayo and the last bottle of Coke in the fridge. 

I can tell you that was pretty much the most amazing meatloaf sandwich I have ever eaten.  And my hangover headache?  Gone.  Not a trace left. Looks like a meatloaf sandwich is my new Shredded Wheat!

As I was putting away the mayo and the rest of the meatloaf I noticed that a rather large jar of maraschino cherries had been tipped over in the fridge. The lid was laying at an odd angle against the jar of cherries and thick, red, cherry syrup was dripping all over the inside of the fridge and down the back, and in between the drawers and onto all of the produce.  

Shit!

**********

Thanks again for all of the lovely, heartfelt and supportive comments on yesterday's post.  I have some final thoughts on some of the stuff that was mentioned and alleged as a result of the post and the comments it generated, but I'm gonna give it a day or two before delving back into it.  I still have about a hundred emails to sort through and read (or trash - that Peggy sure is a verbose creature!), and it's going to take me some time to mull it all over.  I am still confused as ever.  But then...that's nothing new.

Sometimes I feel like that lone tree...standing there alone, reaching towards the sky and hoping for a break in the clouds in order to embrace the light.  It's not a "depression" thing...it's more of an attitude towards spirituality and whether I am indeed able to wrap my arms around something that at times seems so cold and distant and completely unavailable to me.

I want to take a moment before I descend into a vat of bitterness to say thank you for all of the comments, discussion and your willingness to share your own spiritual beliefs with me and with those who read about life here in the asylum, on the first part of this discussion.  So many times discussions about religion descend into heated verbal wars which never get anywhere.  I was honestly expecting a little more animosity when the post hit Twitter and Facebook, but it never went there.   I am not expecting the same result from this post...especially because I'm "calling out" someone as it where.  Maybe that's not even a good turn of phrase to use.  By the time I'm done with this, maybe I'll have thought of something better to say.

I can say without a doubt that this will be one of my longer posts.  It's also going to be one which might make those of you who are very steadfast in your walk with Christ, uncomfortable.   I might use words which you'd prefer I didn't.  Here's the thing...when I get into the place I'm in right now, I use words that some consider profane, vulgar, or rude.  It's just who I am.  I am after all, human and I sin.  Although I'm not real sure about profanity being a "sin" as much as it is something that most think of as really ugly.   Bottom line...this is me, ripping myself open and putting it all out there.  I'm in pain right now - spiritual and emotional, I'm angry and I sure as hell am bitter.  Very bitter.  Having these thoughts and feelings roll around in my head is akin to chewing on lemons laced in vinegar.

I'm also going to admit to something I've never spoken out loud to anyone except my oldest daughter and only those very close to me.  I hope you don't think worse of me after reading this...however, I'll understand if you do.

**********

I've written briefly before about my inner battles with Christianity.   I was in a really bad place then, having literally just gone through the "Very Bad Thing" and was also in the midst of trying to help Meaghan deal with issues relating to her paternal family on the east coast.   In retrospect, that post barely touched on the crux of what I'm truly going through and in order to understand that, I think you need to understand me and my history with church...or I should make that churches as I've been to a few in my 41 years.

When I was a baby I was baptized into the Episcopal church.  Back then it was a much different church than it is currently.  I remember always being awed though, even at such a young age, by Jesus' sacrifice for us.  To this day it still moves me to tears to read about his Crucifixion.  When I was 9 my family (just my mom, step-dad, and myself - my mom was pregnant with my first sibling at the time), were baptized into the Mormon church. By the time I was 17 my parents and my then 3 younger siblings had their names officially removed from the record of the church.  Mine wasn't because I'd never been adopted by my step-father and never sealed to my parents in the temple...or so I was told.  The thing about being a Mormon, for me anyhow...I didn't really see it as any different than any other religion.  I never lost track of my own personal relationship with Jesus.  I never saw myself as anything other than an ordinary Christian, even whilst "being Mormon."  Sure, Mormons do things differently...they don't smoke or drink alcohol, try and abstain from caffeine and have certain rituals they adhere to.

My parents had very grave theosophical differences and that's what led to the rift.  I never harbored any ill will towards the church.  More than two decades have passed since I left the Mormon church and I've come to realize that due to my own theological education, I would never return to active membership in the church again.  However, I've remained close with a lot of my friends (most who I grew up with) who are generations-long Mormons. It was in fact the Mormon church which helped my family when Joshua died.  I've never held any animosity towards them and never will, despite my own theosophical beliefs that differ from those of the church.

From the time we left the Mormon church my mom went on this spiritual odyssey of sorts that took her through several religions including a more potent version on Episcopalian-ism and even Wicca.  Oh and take it from me, don't ever get a Wiccan a fancy decorative broom as a holiday/birthday gift.  They don't really see the humor in it. 

My mom did her own thing (she's Jewish and says she's always felt as if she has been and is completely happy with the path that's taken her life down.), and I moved out and got involved with the boy who would become my first husband.  I had no idea what "charismatic evangelists" were until I met his family and I can tell you I was not prepared for the rapid immersion into something which seemed so incredibly foreign to me.

I'm pretty simple when it comes to how I worship.  I like the quiet and serenity that a worship service in a traditional church offers.  I feel a sense of peace and, well - OK, "communion" with God.  I like traditional hymns and a heartfelt sermon.  I guess I'm just a traditionalist in that sense.  So when my former husband, my then- fiance, took me to his church it scared me a little bit.  I could not figure out why people were almost dancing and standing and waving their arms around and speaking aloud, and there was a band on the stage - a real band with guitars and drums and a keyboard.  I'd never heard some of those songs and felt lost at sea amidst a bunch of Christian rockers. 

If all that wasn't already enough, a couple of people around me started talking in some sort of language that sounded like a mixture of Indian and Chinese with some Spanish thrown in.   I had never in my life heard of "speaking in tongues" and thought it was little more than emotional babbling.  I was ignorant.  Mormons and Episcopalians don't speak in tongues.  This was entirely new to me.

If I'm being honest, it felt distant to me and I wasn't comfortable (but I'm not in any way saying that people who do worship this way are wrong to do so.), with that kind of worship.  However "M" (my ex), assured me that in time it would be like home and in the meantime he and his family would pray for me and have their pastor pray for me.  Okie dokey.   I figured it would be like getting used to a new pair of jeans...after a few squats and stretching them out a bit, it would be a comfortable fit.  Those jeans just ended up getting tighter.  

At one special service there was a well-known pastor from South Africa who'd come to speak to the congregation and he had an "altar call" after the service and M asked me to go up there. Um...OooooK. We stood around the altar whilst the pastor went around anointing everyone's neck with oil.  The minute he anointed them they fell over.  I watched both of M's sisters go down, then his mom, his dad and then he went down.  The pastor got to me and I prayed that God would guide me and help instill a deeper love for his Word within me...and then I was anointed and prayed over and the pastor stepped back and then...nothing.  I just stood there.  The pastor moved on and every single other person that took part in that altar call fell down and I was the sole person left standing.  Yeah, you can imagine how odd I felt, standing there alone whilst everyone around me was on the floor passed out.  I should have taken that for the omen it was.  Instead, I ended up feeling like I had this big sign on my forehead that said, "Relationship with Jesus - You're Doin' It Wrong!"

Fast forward a few years and I still have what I thought was a great personal relationship with Christ, but I just wasn't sure about the whole charismatic/evangelistic thing.  Then my world collapsed when Josh died. We were living in a small mountain village at the time and I was lonely and for a time had turned back to the Mormon friends I had up there, and the church.  I knew it wasn't what I believed in but I needed the friends. M hated it.  M organized a prayer meeting for me with people I didn't know.  That was the night we lost Josh.  He felt the Mormons were devil-worshippers and that I needed help being pulled away from the church.  So now in addition to having lost this wonderful child, I have all this guilt heaped on me about it being my fault...had I not gone back to the Mormon church there never would have been the need for the prayer intervention, we never would have left Josh with that sitter and well...you can paint the rest of the picture yourself.

Moving along several years, I've left M, I've had a nervous breakdown, the kids are living with him and I'm trying to figure out how the hell to put my life back together.  I go church when I'm not working, on the air, or at school.  I still pray but it's different.  I'm not altogether trustful of a God who would rip a child out of my arms.  I'm not sure I can ever give my whole heart to a God who would intentionally inflict this kind of pain on a mother or a child and take the life of a two year old in such a painful and cruel way.  It's a very cautious relationship with God.  

I work through all the changes and switched radio stations over the years, moved several times and attended various churches with friends.  One of them was a church that...well, I don't even know how to explain it.  The women were all modestly dressed as well as the girls.  No females were in pants, anywhere.  The preacher was jumping around on the pulpit and the organist who had to be Little Richard's white twin, was banging out some old time tunes on the organ with a little bit of hellfire and brimstone added for effect.  And then the weirdest thing happened.  The men and women in the pews started to scream and yell and flop around on the floor.  At first I thought someone was having a seizure but then everyone started doing it.  Even the small children were in utter hysterics.  I eventually discovered that this was called "being slain in the spirit" and despite having attended a couple of services at that church with a friend (who I could swear suffered a head injury on one occasion after flailing around on the floor), I was never myself, "slain."  It might sound sacrilegious, but I'm grateful for that fact.  I reckon that if the Spirit decides to show himself within me, he'll have more sense than to throw this here fat woman on the floor...I probably wouldn't be able to get back up without the help of a few EMT's.

By this point I'm seriously starting to consider the fact that I have sinned by such incredible proportions that I'm just some sort of "Christian dud" like the fireworks you get that never go bang!   I assume that I've committed a couple of serious sins and this is God's way of punishing me.  He takes my child and then numbs me from feeling any sort of connection, genuine connection with him again.  In short, I felt shunned.

Why?

I'd had two abortions while I was with M.  One before we got married and another shortly before we split up.

Two.  Two abortions.

I figured that God was just evening up the score.  I took two lives and he took one back.  It pissed me off though.  I didn't think it was a fair trade but then who am I to call the shots?  I'm just a mere human.  A sinner.  A mother who failed her son and probably doomed him before he even took his first breath. 

Yet I still hung onto whatever tatters of this vitriolic relationship with Christ for the very simple reason that I do believe in him, despite everything, I do and I want to see Joshua again.  With everything in my being I do believe he's in Heaven.   But something tells me that God doesn't play like that.  I don't remember reading anything in the Bible about asking Jesus to be your personal savior just so you can see your dead son again.  

Several years down the line, another divorce, I finally get it together and have my life moving ahead in the direction I want it to.  I had begun the reconciliation process with my children from my marriage to M, have dealt with breast cancer, and been blessed with a child who I was told I'd never be able to have because of what chemo likely did to me and because of my obesity.  Gaby was a miracle.  A miracle we almost lost.  I did seek the Lord when her life hung between the living and the valley of the veil.  I told God that it was a deal breaker if he took her away from me.  I know he doesn't play that way.  I know he doesn't take bribes, even if it is you're soul we're talking about.  I won't lie though...I had several moments when I thought to myself, "OK, tit for tat.  There's still another soul up there, a life I took that has to be paid for and the sonofabitch is probably going to collect on that debt after all!"  Crude, but looking back on my journal, those are the exact words I spoke.

Gaby made a miraculous recovery and look at her now.  She's amazing.  Four years down the road and you'd never know how perilously close she came to dying and how terribly ill she was at birth.   When she's being defiant and a pain in my ass, I often think back to those really scary days in the NICU and watching her hooked up to all those machines and sedated out of her mind on Morphine.  I'd rather have a million toddler meltdowns than go through having another babe torn from my breast.

Despite it all I still feel like God doesn't really like me much. Hell, I rub a lot of people the wrong way and maybe he's not down with some of the stunts I've pulled.  I wasn't present for a lot of my older children's lives and despite them having forgiven me (no one else has, but they really don't matter...or at least I keep telling myself that, and honestly I wonder if my kids really have forgiven me, they're young yet.), maybe God hasn't.  I guess the abortions may have forever placed a huge scarlet letter "A" on my chest as well.  A is for Audrey...Asshole...Abortion...and Absent in the eyes of God. 

All of this brings us to here and now.  There have been a few more bumps in the road but nothing we haven't dealt with.  I've realized that my attitude has a lot to do with how I fare through these trials.  So many times it's how you react to things and whether or not you're going to consciously decide to get through it, or bitch and moan and groan your way through the mud which ultimately dictates whether you'll survive.  I've done a lot of all of the above, but like I said, am learning to react differently and see the solutions instead of seeing the problems right off the bat.

The thing I can't see my way through though is Christianity and after reading Jennifer McKinney's ("MckMama" from My Charming Kids)  blog and hearing about her remarks at Blissdom '10, I'm even more pissed off and bitter than I was before.   I've been reading JM's blog for a long time.  I cried and prayed when Stellan was so close to death's door.  I sent money and gift cards when the need was great and continued to pray...not because I wanted anything in return but because it felt good doing it and it was the right thing to do.  The entire time though I had this niggling feeling that would remain after reading some of her posts that left not only me, but a lot of people feeling like she was inferring that she was somehow more special in God's eyes because he was healing Stellan. 

Oh and before you even go there...no I don't really care about all of the other sins of omission that JM has copped to or the other controversy that seems to surround her, her finances and her relationship with her husband.  I don't care about those things.  I care about the fact that she seems to be saying she and/or Stellan are somehow more special and important in God's eyes.  Stellan has been cured!  He's healthy and perfect and beautiful and ya know, that's awesome.  Truly it is.  I used to hate going out to her blog during the time that Stellan was hanging by a thread because I was so afraid that I was going to read that the worst had come to pass.  I'd tell God, "Come on Dude, don't do this to someone else that has such deep and abiding blind faith in you...that would just suck ass on an epic level!"  Thankfully and blessedly that adorable kiddo is healthy and will probably go on to live a long and happy life! 

This is what makes me so damned angry though, and I'm not the only one saying it.  JM is so convicted of the fact that her child survived because of God's love.  So where does that leave women like me, and the millions of others who love Christ and believe and have accepted him as our savior but have lost children?  I'll tell you were it leaves us...it leaves us feeling like we don't rate in God's eyes and that we're second class citizens and our kids weren't worthy of God's healing love.

JM continues to go on about how Stellan was this miracle of God's love.  Well hell woman...what about the doctors?  Or were they connected to this spiritual miracle as well and worthy of God's love which lead their hands during Stellan's life-saving ablation?  I guess the world-class neurosurgeons that worked for hours on Josh, into what seemed like an endless night, didn't rate either, if that's the case.   So not only did I fuck up and end up dooming Josh, the surgeons and all those people who cared for him must not have cut it either.

And finally, what about all the other hundreds of prayers that went out the night Josh died?  Were those prayers not deemed worthy enough ...did they fall on deaf ears?

Just writing this rips me apart because I know damned well that it sounds bitter and jealous and almost hateful towards a woman I don't even know.  Maybe I am.  I don't know.   And yes, nearly 20 years after Joshua's death I'm still wounded, and raw and bleeding from the hole his death tore into my soul and my entire person...and the void it created in my relationship with Christ.  I'm still left reeling and awash in an ocean of grief, feeling like God didn't love my child enough to save him.

Or maybe, just maybe, at the end of the day it all boils down to the simple fact that I'm not the right kind of Christian.

Gaby is, without a doubt, a HUGE fan of movies and in particular, musicals.  So it didn't come as any surprise to me that she fell in love with "Mama Mia" which we picked up last weekend.   I thought it was going to rank pretty high on the "Cheese Meter" but I found myself singing along and actually, dare I say, enjoying it! 

We've watched it no less than 10 times since last Saturday.  Well, let me rephrase that.  Gaby and I have watched it no less than 10 times since last Saturday!  Gareth has been fortunate enough to escape the daily reincarnation of ABBA, to his office.   Is it any wonder I'm walking around singing, "Money Money Money" at the top of my lungs...all damned day long?

I've also made the discovery that Gaby inherited my total and complete lack of eye/hand/mouth coordination and unfortunately has no rhythm, just like her mama!  But that doesn't stop her!  Oh no! 

Have a look for yourselves...

When she started kicking her feet forward I wasn't quite sure if she was dancing or trying to shake a wayward ball of cat hair off her feet.   She asked me to replay the "Dancing Queen" chapter about 7 times.  She's now working on the scene from "Money Money Money" and looks strikingly like Shirley temple...of course, sans that rhythm and coordination. 

This is going to be one of those videos that I replay over and over and over again...for all of her friends and future boyfriends!

**************

I'm still working on my follow-up to my post from the other day about Christianity.  I'm hoping to have it up by tomorrow. Until then, feel free to continue the discussion...which has been really enlightening and intelligent and most of all, civil!  I appreciate all the feedback in the way of thoughts and opinions on the subject. 

image credit

I have a reason for asking the question stated above.  It's part of this endless battle I seem to be waging with myself and God and others I see out there who...well, who think they have a direct line to God and because they've prayed a certain way, or prayed period, or are righteous enough, that God listens to them and answers their prayers.

One woman in particular has gotten my hackles up and before I start what's likely to turn into a pissing match, I wanted to ask the question...in your eyes, what's the "right" kind of Christian.

I ask this because I know my readers, the few I have, come from varied religious, theosophical, philosophical, educational, ethnic and sociological backgrounds and I'm curious as to what's shaped your opinions on religion - even if you don't believe.  If you don't believe in God, or even if you're agnostic, I'd love to know why?  Or maybe you're like me, waging an inner spiritual war and trying to decide whether good or evil is going to win, or if the whole gigantic good vs. evil scenario that most of us have been brought up with isn't more than just an huge faerie tale to begin with. 

Even if you're Jewish, Pagan, Catholic, Mormon, Atheist, Muslim, or non-denominational, I'd really like to know what you think the right kind of Christian is.  Maybe Christian isn't even the word I should use, because I think it's arrogant to assume that God or whomever the almighty Creator/Spiritual deity is, only listens to "Christians."  And therein lies my point...I think.

Earlier tonight as I sat with Gaby and said her prayers with her, she asked me if Jesus was still going to be in her heart because she had been naughty and told me, "You suck!"  I told her that of course, Jesus loves her no matter what, even is she tells her mumma she sucks. I reasoned with her that I'd already forgiven her (after asking myself where the hell she picked that one up from?), and that she was sincere about wanting to make sure she was still cool with Jesus, so it's all good. Is it...is it really all good?

I'm sitting there telling her that Jesus loves her NO MATTER WHAT.  But I know damned well that there are some Christians out there who, for some reason, deem their prayers more worthy, and for the life of me, I can't figure this out.

Feel free to elaborate in your comments...talk about it.  Debate it, discuss it.  Just let me know, in your eyes, what do you think the right kind of Christian should be? 

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next. Delicious Ambiguity."

~Gilda Radner~

I can't count how many times I've sat down over the last five or six days to try and write something but just couldn't make the words fit into sentences in order to build paragraphs which would eventually resemble a blog post...something substantial.   I've had problems with writer's block before, but never like this.  And to add to the mental pain and fog that accompanies writer's block, I've managed to tear my trapezius muscle and the physical pain is just as intense.

I would love to endlessly bitch, moan and groan about this craptastic weather we're having and how I'm so damned sick and tired of the cold that I've actually brought up the subject of moving to Florida on more than one occasion.   However, I know I'm not the only one who wishes that winter would just take a hike already. I am tired of the cold though and I'd really love nothing more than to sit in a field of emerald green grass, surrounded by blooming wildflowers of every color while the sun warms my shoulders and thaws this block of ice that my heart has become.  I've never loathed the winter as much as I do this year.  Perhaps it's because I'm in a new place and it's been cold, gray and bare since we moved here. 

It's taken my five hours just to get this much written and I feel as if I've been writing for weeks.

This really sucks!

...Yes I know I told you that your teeth would fall out if you ate too much ice cream and yes, I did tell you that ice cream has milk in it and you need milk for healthy teeth and bones, however you have reached your quota of ice cream for the month and if you have any more it means that some poor little boy in County Cork, Ireland won't have any!

...If you don't eat at least two bites of carrots you'll go blind.

...You're going to make Cinderella cry if you don't at least try a bite of that meatloaf.  You don't want to make Cinderella cry do you?

...You can't get by eating grapes and only grapes forever.  Why?  Here, sit down and watch "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" and pay close attention to a little girl named Veruca Salt! 

...If you watch The Sound of Music one more time mommy's head will pop off her shoulders and you'll be left having to explain to daddy why mommy's head has rolled under the end table and the why the cats are batting at her eyeballs!

...No, you can not have any of daddy's tea!  Why?  Because you'll start talking with a British accent and ask me for biscuits when you mean cookies!

*******

I really need to start getting more creative.  Gaby is on the cusp of being able to read and these little white lies aren't going to hold up much longer!  Heck, half the time, this is the look she gives me when I tell her that she's going to go blind if she doesn't eat her carrots.  Yep, I'm going to have to up my game if I want to stay ahead of this one!

When my niece, Cali, was born in January of last year, (seriously, it's been a YEAR already?  AN ENTIRE YEAR since I got this phone call?), I sent a huge wardrobe box filled with baby clothes to her.  I thought that had made a huge dent in glut of too-small baby clothes...and then we moved and in trying to get rid of nearly 3000lbs of stuff in order to stay within our moving budget, I came to the horrible realization that I hadn't gotten rid of a fraction of all the baby and early toddler clothes that Gaby has accumulated! 

I remember hauling heavy tote after tote out of the garage and up two flights of stairs and then plopping down on the floor of my bedroom and sorting through the clothes I wanted to send to Cali, give to Goodwill or try and sell either on Ebay/Craigslist or at this mythical garage sale we keep talking about having, but yet never seem to get around to.

I took out a small, frilly pink dress adorned with bright red cherries and held it up to look at it.  I could hardly believe that my tall, curly-haired, bedimpled imp of an almost 4-year old ever fit into it.  Gaby was sitting at my desk coloring pictures of mermaids and seagulls and asked me why I looked sad?  I told her that I wasn't sad, just wistful.  She furrowed her brow and asked me "wistful" meant?  I explained to her that she actually fit into that little dress at one time.  I looked at her and smiled and said, "Gaby, whatever happened to that little, itty bitty, bald, chubby cheeked baby girl?"

 

Gaby looked at the little pink dress and then turned back to me with a mischievous grin and replied; "I ate her!  She's inside me!"  Then she broke into a huge smile and started to laugh at her own cleverness! the harder she laughed, the harder I'd laugh and eventually we fell into fits of utter silliness talking about toddlers eating babies and then little girls eating toddlers and I told her some day a big girl would come along and gobble them all up but, not for a long while yet!

 

I set the dress aside and spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Gaby, reading to her, coloring with her (when was the last time you colored with your little kids?  Or even on your own?  For some reason I find it incredibly relaxing...even if I don't always stay in between the lines!),  and making Play Doh pizzas and ice cream cones.  I savored every moment of that afternoon.  As she grows older she'll naturally become less fond of "playing" with mommy and will want more autonomy and the independence to explore a bit of this world on her own...place her feet on the ground, as her own person. 

I Just wish it weren't happening so fast. 

I never did get back to sorting through her clothes.  They'll remain in a self-storage locker until this summer when I can sit down and actually decide what I want to save for sentiments sake and what should go to Goodwill, or to Cali.  Who knows, eventually some of the clothing might even make it into this garage sale we keep saying we're going to have.  In the interim, it's time yet again, to go through her armoire and closet, and weed out the too-small clothing and place it in yet another Rubbermaid tote, to be stored and eventually sorted.  As I sit, and once again sort through those clothes, it will once again be hard to keep from holding some of the clothing close to me in an attempt to try and recapture some of the time that seems to fly by on fairy wings and little girl giggles. 

As it flies by, every once in while I'll try, probably in vain, to catch a bit of the baby...

 

...that was eaten by the toddler...

  

...who, in turn, was gobbled up by the little girl!