Frequent Bouts of Crying

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My breathing is raggedly out of control. Too fast and yet not able to catch up.
A gag fills my throat so words are forced quiet. All I can do is let tears fall to where they tickle my chin.
My surroundings are the same, but they no longer compute in me as they did. They tower over my withering self. They look darker, scarier.
Reality sifts like sand so that I consider vomiting all my emotion on my bare feet.

I look closer. Coral polish is beginning to chip from the nails and there is new ink. I read what I paid to have burned into my skin and realize, this is exactly why these words are precious to me.

beauty for ashes

They sink into my soul, lifting me out of the waves of panic and centered to a larger perspective. Even if momentarily, I am calmer.

Three months ago I had a chat with my doctor about how difficult it was to express emotion. I couldn’t cry when I felt like I wanted or needed to. Compassion was merely a swell in my chest. Anger…well, I’ve never struggled to let that be known.
“It’s a good indication that we have you on too high a dose.”
Admittedly, the numbing results were a relief at first. I wasn’t having panic attacks ten times a day and I could drink coffee like a Seinfeld cast member. But then it was as if something was missing. Like pieces of my vulnerability and personality weren’t available to anyone except me.

So while I wait for my brain to regulate serotonin levels from this new drop in dosage, I breathe deep into my gut and initiate my five senses. My sweet Linnaya (my therapist) tells me to do this.

I hear a bird. The wind. Yikes, the wind is kind of scary. It brings dark clouds and tornadoes. No, no stop it. The bird.

I smell…ew, I smell socks. Not helping the nausea a bit.

Okay, I feel my hands on a blanket that gives me safety in the way my childhood covers kept me protected from robbers. You know, were they to come. 

I can’t think of any more senses because all I hear is that bird. 

It actually works at relaxing me, until I hear the tribute song for Paul Walker and suddenly I find myself hunched in sobs like I’m grieving a long lost brother. I cry for his friends, his family.

“Symptoms of withdrawal may include frequent bouts of crying.”

Over celebrities who died too young?
Over cute, nerdy kids in glasses who are running down the sidewalk?
Over every, single note remotely near the key of D minor?
Over my husband walking in from the garage?
Because I see nothing of the sort in your notes.

So I let the tears come, and keep spreading the ashes.

“It will pass,” say the experts.

And I’ll be holding the beauty.

Why We Need You

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“…when the story of earth is told, all that will be remembered is the truth we exchanged. The vulnerable moments. The terrifying risk of love and the care we took to cultivate it.
And all the rest, the distracting noises of insecurity and the flattery and the flashbulbs will flicker out like a turned-off television.”  -Donald Miller, Scary Close 

If you haven’t been stuck in a car outside an elementary school pick-up line, quite frankly…you’re among the few still sane in this world. But if you’re like the rest of us, you know what that 20 minute standstill is good for. All those texts. Just as many stray eyebrow hairs. (What is it with daylight bringing those suckers front and center?) Screaming toddlers who throw sippy cups at the dashboard. And of course, catching up with the other soldiers in the trenches. I like to call us moms.

It was on such a day, as I was likely checking my teeth, that I spotted her. I knew her car from when our girls weren’t in kindergarten. Before they dumped their Crayolas into a big bin together. Back when they wore pink tights and tutus and were barely potty-trained. Back when we each only had the two children.

I waited for her to look up, the timing of this particular social medium still a mystery to me. Eventually her head turned and I shot my hand in the air like I had suddenly noticed her too. But she didn’t wave back. Oh, she didn’t see me, I thought.
Except we quit talking. She wouldn’t return my texts. News traveled that they were moving. And I was crushed.

It can be daunting, can’t it? Friendship isn’t always like those flowing beach novels. It isn’t as faithful as a Thursday night sitcom from the nineties. We try, we get hurt, and somewhere deep inside we make a vow to never let it happen again.

“…it is a surrender. We open up to another person, and to God, our particular questions and dilemmas.” -Emilie Griffin, Small Surrenders

It would be a tragedy if we were to stay safe. My heart, your heart is beautiful. And it is desperately needed in this culture. Even the parts you don’t like about yourself, they are a piece of the beauty too because something incredible happens when we say we struggle, fail. It allows another the freedom to say, “Me too.” It allows the Spirit to start changing and growing us.

“How can we be loved if we are always hiding?” -Donald Miller, Scary Close

When we offer the wisdom of our life experiences and the truth of our inadequacies we harvest an intimacy with someone who will be there when tragedy strikes and we are brought to our knees. We share a bond that pushes us beyond stagnant faith. We live out the love of the gospel, because don’t think for a minute it won’t stretch us to also love well in our communities.

Been hurt? It’s okay. We all have.

Follow me through Lenten season at southeastcc.org/lent

I’m No Good at This

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It’s become quite clear I’m no good at this Lent thing. If my earlier description of face-planting on my bed from lack of coffee wasn’t enough of a clue. But when you come from an environment of rigidity and religion into one of truth and freedom, it’s difficult to invite restrictions again. Still, I see the value and I’m in this.

The two days I’ve been assigned to write so far have paralleled chapters in Small Surrenders about prayer. And each time I rolled my eyes. Griffin touches on the feeling of “fear of consolation in prayer.” That is not where I find myself at all, I thought as I read it. Most of the time I bounce from one drop-off lane to another, barely eat a sensible anything, and then hope God knows my heart as I shamefully find that scrumptious side sleeping position in my mattress. How am I supposed to pen anything introspective here? If nothing else, I am afraid of my constant failure. 

Ah, and it comes into focus. Both ideas are fueled by one thing. To quote one of my favorite authors, Brene Brown-
“…shame is the fear of disconnection. We are psychologically, emotionally, cognitively, and spiritually hardwired for connection, love, and belonging. Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.” 
And what is prayer but speaking our truest selves in the most significant relationship we will ever know? At our core we long for emotional intimacy, love, and a sense of a belonging. We’re women, for Pete’s sake, whoever Pete is. Prayer is our avenue to this with our Father.
So how’s your journey going? Did you fail and give up, or want to? Does shame keep you locked from trying again? Do you fear that the joy you are experiencing won’t last and is somehow a reflection that you aren’t going deep enough? Take heart, friend. We are all in this lesson of grace together. I believe with my whole heart that God is not disappointed in you. Rather He misses you, pines for the time you will come back, loves you with a “perfect love casts out all fear” kind of love, and cannot wait to hear from you. He is perfect so we don’t have to be.
So go ahead, scoot on into His arms and tell Him all the things. Even if you’re afraid.
 
References: Emilie Griffin, Small Surrenders; Brene Brown, Daring Greatly; The Holy Bible NASB, 1 John 4:18

Follow me and some amazing women as we continue blogging through the Lenten season at southeastcc.org/lent

A Letter From Heart-Pup

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Today is our birthday. Can you believe it’s been ten years since Dad picked me off the gift shop shelf? It was a happy place with all the balloons and cheerful t-shirts but, I was mostly glad to be chosen. Sure, somewhere I was manufactured, stuffed and threaded and given a tag. But the bunny in that book is right. You aren’t really alive until you love.

Those first days you slept a lot. I sat in the corner of our Pack ‘N Play, listening to the cadence of your small breaths. So tiny that sometimes Mom would lick her finger and put it under your nose. I’m still not sure why she did that. Even your cries back then were soft. That of course took no time to change and soon I was grateful to be there to comfort you since you usually felt safe when I was close.

Remember how it felt like a tent when they put us in your carrier seat and took us places? Dad would find a big blanket, the one our sister uses every night now with the pink ribbon around the edges, and he’d snuggle us together between the straps. Then he’d hide us so the cold couldn’t reach and I remember how I was so content in there with you. You found my ear once while you sucked your thumb and slowly, this became our rhythm.

The first time you called my name it confused Mom, but I knew. I knew right when you said “Butterfly-Pup” that you were calling for me.
“What, Honey? What do you want?”
“Buh-fly pup!”
“Oh, Sweetie that’s a heart. See? Heart-Pup.”
I still like to think my name is “Butterfly” though. Because that’s what you named me.

We spent hours on the princess potty, you reading me stories of other dogs and cats named Oscar or Tilly. I loved your made-up stories. When you’d slide a tiara down the length of my ears or pour me a water in a Tinker Bell tea cup. Your hair was so crazy at times, a fountain spilling from your head because the pigtails had dried it funny.

But I also remember those never-ending nights sitting beside our silver bowl and the clank of your fingernails while you were sick. I stayed until Mom gave me a hot washing. But all that soap was worth not leaving you. I’ve endured plenty of coughing, snot, tossing and dropping. Remember I was lost among the shoes? You had showed me those animals, the elephants and zebras, and then we were going home when I felt the cold tile. There were so many soles and ankles and I just wanted you. I heard you yelling at mom, and I’m so glad you told her where I was because what if I had never seen you again? What if I missed dancing in the living room, hideouts in the front yard bushes where you tell me your secrets, the smell of your face in the morning, the way you’re growing and needing me less and less? But don’t worry about that. Even this is joy for me.

After that I had to stay home more. Mom didn’t want me getting lost so she said I couldn’t come along as much. Remember when they bought the other Heart-Pup that was so not me? You could tell. They didn’t fool us though I was glad you had the company. At least until you brought home Black-Pup. He has been my best friend besides you. He was with me after Nana gave me surgery and new stuffing, when you were trying out your new camera, and the first day you went to school. I don’t know what I would have done all these school days since if it weren’t for him.

What I see, when you aren’t paying attention, when you are busy with your Spirograph or licking your latest wounds from our brother, is a lot of love. Mom sees you, adores you, is so proud of the way you know yourself enough to say your voice in a tone that is not demanding but simply is yours. Dad thinks you are beautiful, gets teary at night thinking of how little time you have left with us. Brother looks up to you. In fact that’s why he’s always trying to be faster, better, right-er, because he knows you’re two years ahead of the game. Sister wants to be you in every way. She wants your clothes, your mature thoughtfulness, your freedoms. And it’s all love. I know because I watch when you don’t.

So happy birthday from me, Heart-Pup. Your best friend who will forever keep your secrets and always be here.

My Third Attempt at Lent

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It was the same as any morning. I dropped my kids while they were still arguing with me over when it is an appropriate time to unbuckle their seat belts (not five blocks from the school parking lot I reminded them), and began to claw my way to the nearest Starbucks. I’ll get tea, which is NOT breaking any commitments, I told myself. Halfway there my tires squealed a U-turn because the ritual- it was the same.

When I got home I lay face-plant position on my bed praying for a B12 shot to the butt and thinking, This is quite possibly the most ignorant thing I’ve ever done. Not so much the idea of a season without, but a season without coffee. In fact, I’m limiting myself to tea and water only. I know. I mean, I have three children under ten years old, two of whom started to run fevers a couple nights before and one who can conjure more curious energy in five minutes than an educational preschool show. What. Was. I. Thinking?
So I started to come up with ways to get around it. There’s coffee ice cream which isn’t technically drinking coffee. Morning Thunder Tea, whose name alone gets my attention. I could smell coffee grounds and maybe some of them would accidentally get sucked up my nose and give me a boost. Or I could keep nibbling (stuffing) that entire can of kettle cooked caramels covered in dark chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt until it’s one big chewy explosion of delight in my mouth but really someone please just…help me!
And isn’t this the crossroads? Help me. Save me from the need for caffeine, that glorious blend of bitter and sweet. Save me from soothing with Girl Scout Cookies, a glass of wine, mindless T.V. watching, and all things that leave me ultimately empty. Save me from myself so there is room for trust. Help me open my hands to more of You.
Then when 40 days has passed and I’ve learned a little about doing without a little, that box of Thin Mints and a full-shot Mocha are mine. In moderation, of course.

What Engagement Means to a Boy

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The girls mirror each other on the couch with pillows and blankets and fevers. They have made a cocoon out of a comforter, and I nearly dive in with them.
Kyle is keeping his distance in the kitchen, happy to have an all-access pass to our Netflix subscription at the expense of his sisters’ miseries.
The belly of my coffee mug swells against a backdrop of physician notes, a listing of side effects for an antibiotic McKenzie needs. It’s long enough to make a person wonder if it’s humanly possible to survive any given medication.

Though I worry about their health in the midst of spy movies with gadget sounds and words like “vortex” and “Armageddon,” it’s my son’s disengagement that really has me bothered. I watch him as I have so many times and think, How do I engage this boy? What makes him come alive, and let’s do more of whatever that is because I’m terrified of his own cyclone of impending demise into an eternal pit of withdrawal. 

“You’re going with Dad.”
He bends the way he does when he’s feeling intense emotion. “Why? I don’t want to,” he says with a quiver in his voice.
“I’m sorry you don’t want to. Why don’t you want to?”
“Becausssse, there’s nothing to do and it takes soooo looong. It’s so booooring.”
“I’m sorry that it’s boring. Is there something that would make it more exciting?” As in, You’re going so suck it up Bud and find the fun. But less insensitive.
“No.”
“Well, it may be a long couple of hours. Here, let’s pack a few things in case you get antsy.”

I gather a Target bag of goodies and do not insist he change out of P.J.’s. He tromps to the garage door with dinosaur pants stuffed into the necks of his snow boots. It carries a sort of indignation that reminds me he is still alive somewhere in there.

Soon I get a text from him, which I’d like to pause and say is the weirdest. My children texting me. (sigh)
“Hi mom hows ‘i goin’?”
“Hi buddy! Good how are you? Miserable? :)”
“No. Bored.”
“I’m sorry you’re bored. What would make it more exciting?” And I’m annoyed at my own repetition.
“Freddys! We’re here right now.”
“Lucky!!”

Later when I force the T.V. off he wanders around our family room like the vultures in Jungle Book with their British accents and stunted syllables.

“So what we gonna do?”
“I dunno. Watcha wanna do?”
“Don’ start ‘at again.”

 Tap-tap-tap, go the small discs on the checkerboard. They send him into a tizzy of laughter until he can hardly catch his breath. “That is so funny. It was like tap-tap-tap.” 
I laugh because he is, and soon he’s found an energy that will not be stopped.

He blows milk bubbles to the lip of his glass.
He sucks in air as he speaks so the pitch of his voice rises a couple octaves of irritating.
He covers his mouth with his hands and says, “I can’t be quiet.” I noticed.
He scoots a rocking chair around the hardwood and gets his legs stuck in the sides.
He chews up…an eraser.

But he’s back, he’s him and I wonder how, when it becomes obvious.

His dad engaged him.

The night before Chase hit a breaking point with the noise of three children. As he tucked Kyle to sleep I saw them get forehead to forehead in a tender moment amid the most important parenting words I’ve heard: “I’m sorry.” It was vulnerable, priceless. It set the tone for the next day when they downed hamburgers and recited lines of movies. When they hopped in the truck and braved the snow. When they talked about respect with words like s&$!. When they came home as men.

Now please, go disengage. It’s bedtime. 

A Good Christian Girl Who Vowed Never to Read a Word of 50 Shades of Grey. And Then Did.

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There is that tinge of shame when I scroll through Facebook lately and see the stones being thrown to the 50 Shades of Grey movie. “Boycott!” urge the titles. “Stop Pornography!” To which I say, yes. Please. Stop it.
I read the articles of damnation, the strong language in blogs with phrases like “stylized sexual violence” and “abuse” and “twisted.” I get it. And I was there only months ago.

The mental judgments came automatically. Never. I will never read that crap. It wasn’t something I declared publicly, it was more of a quiet resolve because actually, I know much on the subject of sexual addiction. A subject I take seriously.

Until the first trailer came out and a single phrase wouldn’t let me rest: “You’re the one who’s changing me,” Christian said.

Aw, come on, I thought with the eye-roll of a teenager. That sounds…like a story…worth reading. But it’s, you know, erotica, which clicks off the tongue like a sin and is not a genre I have ever, ever read. Like, ever. 

So I did what I had to do. Cautiously and with copious amounts of trepidation I lifted the book jacket with the silver, textured tie. Two weeks later I finished the last chapter in the series. I know. I can hear your gasps of fright, but just bear with me for a minute.

Here’s the problem I’m finding with these well-intentioned bloggers who want everyone to donate to women’s shelters and scream with tear-stained compassion to save the generations, many of them haven’t read the books.

Since I have, I’ll give you my perspective. It might just be one you haven’t heard.

It’s Not About the Sex
I’m. Serious. In a fierce wrench of irony, this story is about abuse, freedom, and redemption. (Are you gasping again? You’re even covering your mouth with one hand, aren’t you?) Did you know that most addictions start from childhood exploitation? That the cycle of bullying and shame lead a person to try to survive in any way that will allow them to escape the pain of what they’ve endured? Meet Christian Grey. A very wounded man who was objectified first, then finds a woman who opens him to an emotion he’s never allowed himself to feel- love.

“The image of a powerful man who’s really still a little boy, who was horrifically abused and neglected, who feels unworthy of love from his perfect family and his much- less- than- perfect girlfriend…” – Anastasia Steele

I’d even go so far as to say this is an example of the kind of love we’re called to exhibit.

“And it strikes me like a thunderbolt- that’s what he needs from me- unconditional love.” – Anastasia Steele.

It Isn’t a Perfect Story
Duh. You may be completely uncomfortable with all the bombings. The F-kind. You might not be able to read the types of scenes E.L. James orchestrates because you know what it will do to your heart, or rather, your crotch. Great, have boundaries. I’m all about boundaries. I came across plenty that could be triggering to someone who’s a victim or recovering from addiction and it matters. Tread carefully, be aware when reading, and if you find yourself in a real relationship that is unsafe well, run like hell.
Are there ways other than blindfolding to speak the truth of love? Obviously.
Could she have left out all that sex? Yeah.
Was it a little codependent? In the end.

What The Characters Taught Me

“And now here you are- brave and strong…giving me hope. Loving me after all that I’ve done.”
“I’ve avoided intimacy for so long- I don’t know how to do this.” -Christian Grey

There is hope for those who have lost their way. Sure, we all make our choices and some of them have grave consequences, literally. Selfless love, however is powerful enough to bring the darkest of circumstances to light. The deepest of scars to healing. Christian had to face his demons, do the work, and stretch himself consider change that made him more authentic. Anastasia had to ask herself if she could love him through the process.
I suppose if I’m being this honest I can say that I have had to ask the same questions. Do I want authenticity in the face of pain, shame, failure? Yes. When my relationships fall short, wound me, need forgiveness, am I willing? I want to be.

Know Why Society is in a Tizzy
I was raised to be fearful. “Don’t let your lips touch alcohol! Don’t utter a single disrespectful swear word! Don’t even think it,” they’d say at a whisper. These can be helpful principles. Instead, it left me disconnected to the extreme that I was afraid of anyone who didn’t believe the same as me. Of four-letter words that frankly, some situations call for.
I often think of the adulterous woman in the New Testament who was dragged naked to Jesus’ feet. Or Solomon, who was likely a sex addict himself with all those concubines, and didn’t hold back a racy few poems in the Songs. Or David, who was a murderer that needed the sultry legs he saw on top of the veranda. Truth tells me God uses the broken, the damaged, “the bottom of the barrel sinner” (as in all of us who know we need grace). Fear can keep us from coming eye to eye with people who need to know they aren’t alone.

This is not some sort of have-to-it’s-the-absolute-best-book kind of rant. Maybe you’ve read all you want to know from this post and I respect that. I also support all manner of efforts to cease pornography. With nearly $3 billion dollars a year in revenue and the average age of exposure at eleven, it’s an epidemic that is ruining our marriages, culture, our souls. It alters brain chemistry, for goodness’ sake. Perhaps we should consider 24,000,000 adult internet sites combined with the accessibility of smartphones which lends me to think, this single movie may not be the ultimate tipping point.
The movie, I have not seen. I may never see it nor am I condoning that it’s a good way to spend your time. You’ll have to decide that for you.

What I am saying is this is a shockingly moving story of the power of unconditional love and healing.

Oh and that women’s shelter? Let’s give whether we see the movie or not.

As Big As

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Even with the swirl of air in the car I can smell her hair. Like some sort of laundry candle from a body care store where they entice me with lotions and potions that mostly just leave me wanting dessert.
I’m reminded of how all my children need haircuts and really, why can I not ever complete the task of making the appointment?

“How old is God? Like, as tall as a hundred million?”
“Bigger. He is forever.”
“Is He like, as big as our neighborhood or somethin’?”
I try to stay focused on my speed. “Or somethin’,” I respond with a laugh.

This is why I need children in my life. For the fun of it.

A Mess of Ski Poles and Hair

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“Since we’re over here let’s catch this lift,” Chase suggested.
“No.” I drew the word out for convincing purposes. “It will be all blacks.”
“Oh come on, that isn’t true. You are killing blue runs.”
“Fine.”
He’s right. I got this. And he wouldn’t really take me on a black run. But also the first time he took me out here he said I’d only need sunglasses which was a tearful mess of stupid. No, no. I got this.

Heavy from the weight of boots and boards we dangled our feet with relief above the slopes. I held tight to my phone knowing I’d already dropped a glove while taking a double selfie. Not smart. I’ll admit.

“Aren’t the kids doing amazing?”
“It’s so cute to see them in their gear.”
“Hey, do you have those snacks I packed?”

We bounced each time our chair passed a pole. The rolling noise of the cables reminded me of those interlocking gears I sometimes see before movies.

As the shack at the top came near, I wiggled and scooted to match the timing. I waited…and waited…and waited too long. What was to be an easy slide onto the mountain became a cockeyed mess of ski poles and hair.

“How are you going to get down? You know these are black runs,” said the attendant.
Or you could ask if I’m still in one piece and stop the lift so I don’t get pulped into a pile. But please, tell me more about how you think I’m a lost fool.
“Isn’t there a blue?” And why is no one helping me up? 
“Stay to that side. Whatever you do, don’t head back here.”
Yeah. I know. I saw those freaks with the moguls and crap. Just, sh.

I got my bearings and ignored the wedgie while Chase strapped his other foot to his board.
I’m ready. I’m gonna show them all how I can take this run. 

And then we got to the first hill. I checked from one side to the other for a way down and nearly peed my pants. This was it. This was the way. My only option.
Chase was already down. I could see him, barely, waving me to stay sideways. Which was great because that was my plan anyway. I felt like the kid at the swimming pool learning to take his first dive by himself. All swelled belly and dorky goggles, unable to move because the water keeps looking bigger and more shark-infested.

Kay. Don’t think. Just go. You can go. Go. 

Slip by little slip I eased down as everyone else flew dangerously around me. Soon my calves were burning. Burning, I tell you. I took a minute to breathe and rest, and noticed Chase pointing again. More angled. More…down.

He’s right. I’ll just, yeah. A little faster. I began slowly, striding in chapters and then resting until suddenly I was falling again. Snow came at my eyes like a blizzard, into my jacket at the neck, and smacking my face. I couldn’t see anything as I held my breath and reached with my poles and boots for some sort of grounding. That’s all I was thinking. Dig with heels. Try the poles. Eventually I stopped in a heap, exasperated and relieved.

“Oh babe! I’m so sorry.” Don’t think I didn’t detect the snicker in his throat.
“I just,” I said starting to cry. “I can’t do that!”
He laughed. “I know it, I’m so sorry.”
“I, I didn’t know if I would stop and it scared me.”
“You lost a ski.”
“I did?” I looked up Mt. Everest in time to see a sweet man with graceful precision halt where my ski lay. It was easy for him, the way he swaggered over to us.
“Thank you very much.”

We sat there for several minutes while my tears dried at the lip of my goggles. I breathed full, taking in the scene with more respect.

“You ready?”
“I’m ready.”

I bet Kenzie has cried today too. I’m so having a beer tonight.

When Public Service Becomes Personal

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Black rubber swelled like the underside of a bowl where his toes would be. The boots reminded me of ones I’d wear traipsing through overgrown fields with my dad to frosty deer stands where we’d wait for hours upon frozen hours for some action.

As a fireman, he understands.

“We can go inside where it’s warm,” he said.
“Actually, it’s perfect out here. All that adrenaline.”

His only response was a cough. He pulled from the heavens, covered his mouth with a fist, and heaved with his entire being in a sort of rhythmic chant. Tippy-toes, cough. Tippy-toes, cough.
 I noticed blocky, yellow letters printed to the tail of his coat. Images of smoke thick as fog and helmets bouncing and yelling and duty overwhelmed my mind. It isn’t always waiting and casual calls of carbon monoxide to homes of worried moms in sweatshirts who want to wait on the porch. Sure they play PS4 and I don’t know, compare belly button lint? (Who really knows the goings on in fire departments?) Sometimes though, it’s stepping in engine spills to rescue a baby who isn’t breathing from an overturned car. It’s sleeping bags on dirt clods so they can keep the line of forest flames away from subdivisions. It’s testimonies of abuse and time of death.

It’s always nights away from family.

“What ages are your kids?” he asked.
“So, four, eight, and nine-almost ten.” (because for those few months they appear a year apart I seem to need to explain that I’m not insane, or part rabbit)

Tippy-toes, cough. Tippy-toes, cough.

“They go to school over there?”
“No, we’re the one section of our neighborhood that is fed across the highway.”

His partners updated me on the CO2 levels in various areas of our home. They joked about stealing Lucky Charms and I assured them I’d never notice the difference between their mess and my children’s.

Tippy-toes, cough. Tippy-toes cough. “Should be a nice weekend before the snow hits again.”
“Oh is another system moving in?”
“I think Monday,” he said. “But we’ll have the weekend. My kids will love that.”
“How many do you have?”
“A five-year old, ten-year old, and twelve-year old.”
“Do they go to school around here?”
He mentioned a town near us where pine trees abound and acreage is plenty and my heart resides.
“That is such a beautiful area. We’re looking to buy land and build a home there.”
“Yeah, I just needed more…space.”
Sir, we are speaking the same language.

Tippy-toes, cough.

He described how they evacuated because of a wildfire a couple years earlier. I told him how we’d been evacuated from another, one he’d apparently worked.
“Do you know my friend Derek?”
“Oh, yeah I know him.”
“He loves wildland season.”
“Well, it’s what we’re trained for.” Tippy-toes, cough.

The other two came back, giving me no definitive answers because carbon can be finicky, I’m told. They said to tell my friends hello and reminded me that even small amounts of toxicity still deserve a call. As in, I can tell my husband the freaking out was not completely unwarranted? I’ll be happy to let him know this.

Their heavy soles thumped down my driveway while I thanked my glorious neighbor for letting me wake her in groggy haste.

Thank you, new friends. Thank you for helping my home and community be a little safer. Thank you for your time. But most of all, thank you for caring deeply enough to get to know me.