What I Received Wednesday

A much needed prayer in my inbox

Gracious God, it seems that what most holds my attention are those things and people that I can see, touch, hear, and feel. Yet, in the moments of my day when my mind is still, my soul is quiet, and my breath is slow and even, I can almost detect a whiff of your presence. These precious times are all too fleeting; they slip away almost as quickly as they come. The phone rings, my child cries, a colleague needs my assistance, or my mind just simply gets distracted. Help me know, O God, that you are still present with me, even in my distractions and interruptions. But also help me savor those spiritually centered moments so much that I will make room in my life for more of them. When I am impatient because I can’t see, touch, hear, or feel you, let your love seep surely into me until my heart turns back to you in surprise and delight. Amen.

source: explorefaith.org I must have signed up for something, but I don’t recall exactly what. I don’t recall going here, but am grateful I did at some point.

A thought on blue paper

Here now, is the right place for you to wrestle before the divine face. If you remain firm, if you do not bend, you shall see and perceive great wonders. You will discover how Christ will storm the hell in you and will break you beasts.

source: bottom of my purse, written in my hand in black marker. author unknown.

 

Second Hand Offerings

I was weighing and measuring. I was a bit ill with the rush caused by their early arrival. I was in pajamas. My dirty clothes, underwear visible, laid on the floor of our hotel room. I had dawdled because I believed I could. Dawdling, as it usually is, was a mistake. Now these people were here and I was smiling and getting ready as if I was late for work. I listened as the woman, who wore black socks with her blue marbled crocs and one line of black eyeliner across the bottom of her eye, told of a school reunion and the perils of Katrina while I put on my mascara. I listened as this man asked my husband questions about the canoe trip photos on our camera. I gathered up my dress for dinner.

I prayed in that nutso sort of way I have for an openness of heart while applying lotion and dressing in the tiny bathroom. When I emerged, I saw their disconnect. This man, sitting in our hotel room, putting my canoe hat on his head and chuckling nervously, is a stranger to me and to my husband even though he is considered his father. The undertow was strong in their stream of small talk. The man knew it, felt it, because after all he is a sailor, who is familiar with tides and winds and hidden pulls. The obligation was evident in my husband’s stance and response. This man was trying so hard to connect.

The woman was watching her husband. Wearing the mask of non-chalance, she sought approval by means of prestige. Her father and family did this or that. This painting came from here or there. These are her pieces and she is moving in this or that direction. During this visit, he did not, as he did when I first met him, present the book of diplomas and ship photos. He was treading and listening.

During dinner, the man would preface stories by saying “I may be exaggerating” or “I could have the details wrong.” One story told was about Terry’s older brother. This man relayed it with the pride and awe that parents have for their children. He had not been present. I realized, in the car crash kind of way, he knew his children and grandchildren as if they were characters in a novel. I heard in his voice the longing to be a placed closer to the middle of these stories that weren’t really his.

His wife, in the way women do, was pulling stories up from memory that had been delivered by others about our lives. She dropped tidbits before asking a question. She was weighing and measuring too. She gauged responses to her knowledge before either changing the subject or moving onto the next topic. She retained her watchful, bored look.

While I ate creamy shrimp, I looked to my sweet husband’s face for a response when a story was relayed or a detail was dropped. I only heard the “yeah” that acknowledged a partial listen and saw his jaw tighten a couple of times. He is stoic. Sometimes Terry would ask a question. Sometimes he would offer a small story of our own about the children. Sometimes I would chime in, but was aware that it may be best to simply sit and chew.

When the man began prefacing his questions and stories with “Terry knows I was a bad father,” while lingering over the plate of fried seafood, I could not hold my face as well as my husband. My eyes filled with compassion and my brow furrowed. I spun the noodles around my fork. I wanted to whisper the forgiveness that wasn’t mine to give. Following neglect, I craved the same reconciliation as he. I always have. In my life, I have needed this given to me and needed this given by me. I couldn’t look at his wife.

In the driveway, I hugged them fully. I prayed silently that this small act would provide comfort and worth. This second hand offering was all I could do, all I had to give.

 

Swamp Nudity

Hot and sticky

We have successfully made to what I call big water – flat, wide and murky brown. We have left the shade of the groves and the sun is hot on our heads, shoulders and backs. We have become a human buffet for biting bugs. I can hear them buzzing. We have seen deer running through the stew like banks and swimming across the water. We have seen snowy white egrets perched high in moss covered trees and at the water’s edge. Their necks lurch from gentle “S” to straight arrow before flight. Sometimes they call; sometimes they don’t. We’ve seen and heard wild canaries and other nameless birds. We’ve glided through the creepy swamp spiders’ webs that cross from one branch to another over the water. We have not seen a human for hours. We have not seen an alligator.

“I’m getting in. I’m hot,” I say to Terry as I pull off first my socks then my shirt. Shoes were gone miles ago.

“Here?” he asks with slight confusion and alarm. We have barely talked while gliding.

“No, over there, along that bank, by those palmettos.” I, immediately, begin to paddle from my front seat as if leading the way, as if I can steer the canoe. I am naked before we reach the bank.

On the Half Shell

I dislike being naked in front of my husband. He has the quick eye and sharp criticism of any man tripled by the fact that he’s an artist. It is how God made him. As I step from canoe to muddy bank, I think this. Insecurity rushes causing goose flesh in oppressive humidity. Perhaps he sees me as Botticelli did Venus. Perhaps when winter’s coolness replaces summer swelt, I will find on the hearth one morning a rendering of me on half shell with his careful signature and cross in the corner. The angels and trumpeters announcing the birth of beauty will be replaced with egrets, swamp spiders and alligators. The sandy beach will become this soupy slick black mud on which I now stand. Crushed and split clam shell remnants will have to do as my womb. I long for the sun to be a bit more muted here to hide the wear of my nearly forty year old skin and muscle. I wish that my hair could wrap luxuriously, seductively, yet innocently around my body to cover my desire.

Playing it off, I put my arms across my chest, bending slightly to peer into the water. I ask with furrowed brow if Terry thinks I’ll get stabbed by a submerged mangrove or random bush when I jump in. That would be painful and bad. I ask how since the flooding has sliced the bank straight like cake I will get back ashore. I ask if he is going to get in too. I fill the air with randomness as I ask God over and over for him to not see me shiver.

Filling My Ears

The earth is odd in its marriage here between mangrove and palmetto, cypress and pine, Spanish moss and beachy sand patches. The woods I peer into are lush with overgrowth. When I look up, I am awed by height and beauty. The air is thicker here. The earth is thicker here. I feel thicker here, more full than on a normal Thursday. My sweet husband is looking me at me like I’ve lost my entire mind. I am standing naked in the swamp, getting ready to jump in. It is hot. I am unafraid of brown water. He mentions alligators as I, self-consciously, lean over the water and ask random questions. As I take one knee, I pray this is a good naked pose and touch the water. I continue with randomness until the words fill my brain and my mouth and the alligator and snake talk dulls.

Mary Oliver writes of an alligator crashing through the woods towards the water with “its tail flailing like a bundle of swords.” She writes “and that’s how I almost died/ of foolishness/ in Florida.” If the birds warned her, she didn’t speak their language. I could be her right now, naked in the swamp, focused on myself, bent over this water. I could tremble, grasp these purple flowers from the bank and think “in the end,/ this is not a poem about foolishness/ but about how I rose from the ground/ and saw the world as if for the second time,/the way it really is.”

I didn’t get into the water. I laughed and climbed back into the canoe. As we paddled to the middle. I looked at the shore and wondered if I should dress myself, cover up so I don’t burn. I chose not to just for a few more moments.

 

Maps

We’ve had rain in the Southeast. Lots of rain. Lots and lots of rain. The flooding of homes, schools and roads in areas has been frightening. The trees no longer able to grasp hard soil have toppled into roads and onto houses. I imagine they groan before surrendering. I know I do on certain days.

All of this rain caused the tidy map Terry held to become suggestive instead of clear. He prefers direct routes with clear signage, preferably with arrows. Water goes where it wants and laughs at maps with wicked delight. I am not much of a map girl. I am wired differently. I need directions when going to new places, but prefer directions that say “Turn left at the Chevron that sells Krispy Kremes, sign in window” or “You’ll drive past cow pastures for about an hour and a half. Roll the windows down and sing. The cows like it” which is how the directions to a girlfriend’s house read. Toss in a few road numbers and I’ll get there, about 20 minutes late as usual. This causes a bit of frustration – his solid plodding and my twirling aim.

After we had shimmied through two thick blow downs, we came to a fork in the swamp, a sort of fork. There, in the shape of man’s craving, was a patch of smooth rock. Terry got out of the canoe and pulled us onto it, out of the rather swift current, before consulting the map. On the left was a hip like swoop heading South through a dappled cypress grove. To the right was a narrower swoop with quicker water moving through more dappled cypress grove. The tops of bushes, who weeks before had stood on dry earth, were visible on both sides. Both ways appeared manageable for the canoe. Both ways were not clearly visible on the map. Terry studied the map and talked aloud about which way to head – left or right. I, delighting in the gentle tinkle of water over rocks and the warm sun on my skin, smiled, shrugged and said “Left or maybe right. Both look okay to me.” Terry, frustrated, shook the map at me and told me he didn’t want to get lost. This is how he looked.

 

Entering the Swamp

Canoeing in the swamp, which I have always wanted to do, was my idea for our childless respite. I love to canoe. I love alligators. I love to camp. I love the swamp. I don’t mind mosquitoes much. I don’t mind the humidity. I don’t mind being dirty for days. This without a doubt is a total Cindy type adventure, simplicity at its best. Husband + canoe + swamp + alligator search = pure delight. My sweet husband, who has never canoed in a swamp, has never seen an alligator in person, but enjoys most of camping and doesn’t mind being dirty agreed. I was ecstatic. I couldn’t stop talking about it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In my mind, I was already there in the swamp and it was still mid-September.

As the departure date approached, Mary Oliver verse kept coming to mind. I couldn’t help myself. I googled her at work and drank her verse. Her sensitive hawk like descriptions filled me with deep longing and desire.

To my delight, Terry wanted to put in as soon as we arrived. He, of course, was more practical about location. He had a map. I, on the other hand, didn’t care about much except the proximity of snakes and spiders, my big dislikes. All I needed was water, camera and compass. We put in at the last stop on the map, French’s Landing. It met my requirements for a swamp. Spanish moss – check. Cypress knees – check. Thick murky brown black water – check. Potential for wildlife, ie alligators – check.

As we pushed down the canoe ramp, I could smell the thick mud that sucked my flip-flops and could hear the swarm of mosquitoes buzz around my head. I was so excited I didn’t speak.

Finally out on the water, I grabbed the camera. As I snapped photos, I heard Mary Oliver’s voice inside my head. I was entering the swamp.

Here is the endless

wet thick

cosmos, the center

of everything…..

…Here

is swamp, here

is struggle,

closure –…

hipholds, hummocks

that sink silently

into the black, slack

earthsoup…”

 

For the Love of Lists

Lunch Hour to-do List

1. Run
2. Sweep kitchen and hallway
3. Vacuum living room carpet
4. Shower
5. Find missing purple slipper (Not originally on the list, but happened so for the sheer joy of marking it off, I added it. After the fact.)

I love my vacuum because it sucks

1. Up day old cocoa puffs from the kitchen table
2. Up the convoy of pharaoh ants behind the kitchen sink the rain forced inside. (I grew up calling them piss ants because it really looks like a “stream” of ants.)
3. Up a humongous mean spider that growled at me (it really did)
4. and kills the insects because I watched and didn’t see any escape. I was particularly watching for the mean spider.

Reasons I will have several posts per day for a bit

1. Have failed to schedule early October writing
2. Can not figure out the time thing on the schedule blog posts
3. Write it and forget about it

Random Contents of My Purse

1. Chopsticks – 2 sets
2. Fork, knife, large spoon
3. Tape measure
4. Green Hot Wheels Race Car

Cindy-ims as reported today at work

1. I’m not there yet
2. Duly noted
3. Thank you for the information
4. I’m sorry. Could you repeat that please? I wasn’t listening.
5. I got nothing

Why I Need a Cell Phone with a Camera

1. The full moon last night rising over the Cahaba River. Breathtaking.
2. The double cab pick up truck containing six people at the red light, four of whom wore cowboy hats.
3. The 62 year old man in black spandex at the gym who judging by his glutes does squats.
4. To illustrate why good friends are needed with aforementioned man turned around at the gym. Full frontal spandex is not a good look for him.

 

What I Received Yesterday (Thursday)

Self Laughter

My dear friend, WA Kim, posted a wonderful story about a new barn owl who has come to live in her barn along with a photo. In the center of the photo is a blue circle. I believed it was a recording of the new neighbor. I wondered how in the world she recorded it and if her voice could be heard also. Man, she’s so stinkin’ cool. I was excited. I clicked, I clicked, I clicked, I clicked. No hoots came. Nothing came. I cussed mildly. I checked the media player. I clicked again. Then I realized the blue circle that looked like a clock was indeed not a clock. It was the owl in flight.

Words of Wisdom

I get a lot of junk email at work. Along with two emails about real estate in Lebanon. I received an email with the subject line “New Neighbor.” Reminded of the owl and suspecting some sort of cosmic joke, I opened it. Below is the ending. Yes, I am listening.

My anxiety about handling this situation was gone after this short conversation. Change is something that is constant in all of our lives, pushing us out of our comfort zone. Frequently the only thing we can control about change is the way we react to it. In this case, being honest and establishing my boundaries worked.

What are you feeling anxiety about, changes or aspects of your life? Is it something that can be remedied with a simple conversation, multiple conversations, or other type of action do you need to take? I suggest you make yourself familiar with what you are feeling and why. Be clear about the outcome you want and be honest with those involved. Change doesn’t have to be negative.

Cake

On my way to a different department with my head down reading, I nearly ran into a gal. Literally. I apologized, laughed and asked what kind of Thursday she was having. Then she handed me the cake. “I was told to bring this to you, that you love cake.” Now it was her turn to laugh. “My Thursday is much better after this errand. The look on your face is priceless.” I ate the entire wedge of yellow cake with dark chocolate icing and pink polka dots slowly and quietly. It tasted as if baking gods had whipped it up simply for me. It was divine.

Prayer of Sorts

My dear friend, JE, is traveling in Maine. I long to go to Maine. In a galaxy far far away, I was going to move to Maine. After realizing that in the winter a flag needs to be placed on the roof of the car so its location is known in the snow in order to dig it out, I changed direction and researched below the Mason Dixon line. JE is calling me to say he just saw a moose in the middle of a golf course and a dead porcupine as big as a five gallon bucket, whose quills he just may have to go back to pluck, on the side of the road. He’s sent me photos of white picket fences surrounded my autumn color and three of beautiful water with the caption “Get your canoe!” I could smell the water and feel the crisp breeze. When I called him to ask why in the wide wide world he was taunting me like this, that I may have to put our friendship on evaluation, his reply was I was on his mind and wouldn’t leave; it wasn’t his fault; it indeed was mine. This is JE prayer.

Three Hours of “Free Time”

My chore list is long. I know that I am the a partial cause of its length because I tend to do at the last minute what could have been done a week ago. I don’t like the rush of activity really. To justify my end rush, I tell myself that it’s genetic (my mom always waits until the last minute.), the chore list is exceptionally long for a working mom to handle so some things inevitably will fall down to the bottom and my basket has always had holes in it so things fall out with a splat. Yesterday I grocery shopped by myself for three hours. I went slow. I did not listen to requests, demands or stories. I didn’t appease a single bored intolerant face or heart. I added up the merchandise as I went to insure I didn’t overspend yet got what our growing bare pantry needed to feed, clean and comfort six people. I listened to music I wanted to hear loudly in the car to and from the store. It was glorious. It made me hungry for more time. I doubt I will receive three hours again for months because around here my popularity is enormous (damn.), but I crave it and the freedom it gives any way.

 

A Gift Ending October & Beginning November

My husband received tickets for the Talladega truck races this Saturday. He told me this on Thursday or Friday. I cringed as I waited for the agenda: the times to have bodies dressed and supplies packed, to depart Tuscaloosa, to depart Talladega, to begin Trick or Treating and any other plans he’s already mentally covered. He knows events like this aren’t my thing. He may not have known this agenda added to other agendas is something my heart doesn’t need right now. Then sweet Terry, unknown to him in the moment, said the most freeing thing – “I don’t expect you to go.” My first response to this removal of expectation was the big smile. My second response was the panted anxiety ridden thought of “Where’s the throw back?” If I don’t go, will it be thrown back that I don’t want to do things together as a family and all other negative things that could be said?

He didn’t do that for two days. When they left, I breathed deeply, but was still filled with this fear, this trepidation. I set the timer and meditated the Welcoming Prayer. I picked up the house. I cleaned the disgusting bathrooms. I set the timer and meditated again. I made cheese toast. I sent an email to Dad to let him know I was thinking of him. I made chaps for Landon’s Halloween costume. I remade chaps. The first pair didn’t meet my requirements. I sat quietly on the couch before showering. I sat quietly on the couch after showering. I opened a beer. I logged onto the computer thinking I might blog a bit. Then my sister and brother-in-law came. Time for people not computer reading and catching up.

When Terry came home, I thanked him. This sort of consideration is sexy to me. I want to give him the things he sees as important, the equivalent of my alone silent time. A bit of eye for eye in the good way in gratitude. I don’t know if he’ll label them as sexy or not, but I know the urge, the need to do so in my heart is huge right now. When this blog is scheduled to post later today, I don’t know what will have presented itself, but I know I am praying as I drink my coffee and wake up for it to come.

 

Fling Open the Doors!

I am blessed to have such wonderfully inspiring people in my life. One of the women, TN Kim, who has provided me with hope and freedom, sent me a note via Facebook that I read this morning. Her words and message cause me to joy dance, twirling and saying “Yes! Yes! Yes!” in the kitchen as I get cereal for the children, in the carport as I listen to my husband’s daily task list, here in the office as I type. It brings tears of gratitude and connection. She is my gift from God.

She is a journey girl like me, making connections and sharing the journey with a “thin filter,” as I’ve been told I do repeatedly during October. In my quirky Cindy way, I recite what I consider as my life intent when I faced with such rejection and judgment, when I need to remember. I wrote it about four years ago, during a dark time in my life. It just came out. Now it has become a sort of prayer, more solidified in word, emotion and action.

I, Cindy, promise to openly share to the best of my ability my life journey with honesty and integrity, through joys and sorrows. I promise, above all else, to love people, to find God and His Goodness in them, in the world’s ugliness and beauty, in all circumstances presented to me. I do this with the hope of walking closer to God and with God. I pray I will shine His love for all to see despite my self. All glory goes to Him.

This sort of openness has lead, of course, to judgment and ridicule. I’ve been told I offend and that I need to reign it in because my posts are too open and family and friends read them. Anderson, my brother-in-law, says that blogs are not monitored by the SEC or the FCC so I can write what I want. If I offend, don’t tune in. That’s stinkin’ cool. I needed to hear it put in fun Anderson way, using football parallels. When he said this, I wanted to hug his neck hard until his head popped off.

TN Kim has experienced something similar. She’s been told that she reveals too much. She writes,

“Because, I was told, if I reveal myself, especially the ugly stuff, then what I say might get misconstrued…that someone might say something bad about me. And, yes, that’s already happened.”

This is the ‘Me too’ moment. TN Kim goes onto say,

“And that’s ok. Because there are always going to be those people who want to throw stones. They’ve got their ugly stuff too…they’re just not willing to admit it or share it yet.”

I love it that she uses the word ‘yet.’It gives me hope for my growth and for other’s growth. She sites the adulteress parable saying,

“The Bible points out that the older men were the first to walk away. Interesting…maybe once they began recalling their own sin, they could no longer condemn her…and they knew that they didn’t want their sin revealed.”

“…the longer we keep our junk to ourselves…the longer we keep putting our masks back over our faces…the longer we pretend to have it all together, the more we allow Satan to come in and perpetuate his lies. Satan wants us to hide from each other and become isolated and not live in real Christian community by either trying to make us think that our junk is worse than other people’s junk, or if you’re stuck in the pride of legalism that your junk isn’t nearly as bad as anyone else’s. But both are lies from the enemy, and both lies cause isolation.”

Her goal, her intent comes directly from the Bible, not some great brain spew like mine. She reminds me that God is working in all of us and that His plans will not be thwarted. His plan is that we all will be healed and whole.

“James 5:16 says to pray for each other but also to confess our sins to each other so that you can live together whole and healed.”

Her honesty about her fear when revealing and confessing her sins touches a deep place in me. I, too, have felt bound by legalism. I, too, have allowed to a certain extent the adoption of these “if/then” rules in order to keep peace and comfortability. I want to be loved, supported, accepted for the hot mess I honestly am. Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen that way. Kim says

“You’ll be rejected and judged. And that’s a hard place to be.” This is another ‘Me too’ moment. She, then offers this advice, “If you’re in that spot, all I have to say is, “Run!” Run into the arms of your loving Abba who knows all your junk and loves you anyway. And He will show you the path out of the legalism and bondage. He will set you free.”

This reminds me of a phrase from Amy, another woman who unknowingly provides me with inspiration and encouragement, “Take it to the throne, not the phone.”

I am so grateful for Kim’s light this morning. I am so humbled. I believe that she has answered my prayer of “Let your voice, My Father, be heard above my own and the world’s.” God worked through her to reach me at a time when I was struggling with bent back and heavy shoulders. I’m okay.

Kim ends her note with the call I call and desperately attempt to own daily.

Let’s fling open wide the closet doors. I’m not afraid of the skeletons in your closet, and I’m not afraid of those in mine. Find someone to share your story with. They need to hear it, and you need to share it. Be real. Be honest. Be open. It’s freeing for everyone.

 

October Pounding

He didn’t say hello when I answered the phone.

“Are you f-ing trying to kill me?”

“No, not today. But, you know, I’ve thought about running you over with the truck a few times,” I replied without hesitation.

He laughed and told his story of my inappropriate behavior reeking havoc in his world. I listened, rolled my eyes and asked if I should send a formal apology response to his forthcoming “Come to Jesus” email.

“Hell, no. You’re too smart and can’t do it sincerely. You’d be a smart ass and she hates that too – that you’re smart,” he paused, “Seriously? Are you truly trying to kill me?”

“Nope and it doesn’t even sound as if I need to try to make your life hell. You’ve already got that. “Honey” isn’t one of those high rotation words with me, you know that. You know me.”

“Don’t reply, Cindy. Okay?” There was a bit of plead in this voice.

“Duly noted,” I said a bit distracted while opening a new email.

“Cindy,” he said a bit firmer.

“Your request is being processed, Babe. Talk to you later. Okay. Bye, Babe,” I said using the words deemed inappropriate while audibly smiling.

This is the sixth time within three weeks that I have been told by men in all areas of my life that my behavior is inappropriate and unacceptable. To do the math: this is an average of three scoldings, bitch-outs or “Come to Jesus” meetings per week. Mid-October has sucked. I’ve silently screamed “Mercy,” “Uncle,” and the F-word. I’m considering drinking more.

The “Cindy, if you could just…then all would be…and I would want to be and we, said with a plea or paternal force, could be…(insert pleasant peaceful word here. For example nicer, playful, lenient, etc.)” Each man has used nearly the same words which has caused my eyes to bug out of my face and my mouth and heart to cuss. This dear old friend, who I cut my teeth with and who I know inside and out, I pity, but I fear that I too am being choked, my ocean fenced in by other’s reactions and responses to my actions and my allowance of accommodating them. I know that it is true – if I just (insert verb here) then I just may get (insert pleasant word here) until, and only until, another deemed unacceptable behavior comes along. I would eventually resemble the clown fish, zigging and zagging about with jarred movements. Eventually, I would become that poor fish in pet store aquariums, wide-eyed with fear, watching for the green net coming from above and banging into glass.

“Complete vulnerability leads to invincibility” is a phrase given by an acquaintance. He told me that it’s an old hippy saying that didn’t catch on like some of the others. “Let’s face it. ‘Make Love Not War’ and ‘Free Love for All’ have more of a ring.” I laughed at his wit and wondered where he was going with it. This left hand turn confused me. Then he said with sincere objectivity, “More than most I know, you move like this,” he paused,”I admire it. I haven’t reached it yet.” I, in girl fashion, teared up because at that bent back moment, his words were balm.

I have to wonder, under such complete October pounding, that if perhaps I should simply toss in the towel, swim and twirl to the worldly tune, to make nice in order to achieve peace. I don’t believe I will hear from many the very words I use “I want you to be (insert name). I expect you to be (name) all the time around me. I love it when you’re completely (name). I love you. Period. Where’s the discussion here?” Actually, I said this to a dear girlfriend of mine this week. I meant it. She’s stinkin’ beautiful. From all angles. Perhaps I am simply “too much” or “not enough.” Does anyone else experience this? Or is it just me, the “too/not enough” girl? Is their unconformability my problem? My dear friend, WA Kim, has the quote “Jesus didn’t die to make you nice, He died to make you His.” on her blog. Breathe deep. Center up. Where are You, God, is this crap? What is the lesson here? What am I contributing to this situation? How am I promoting all of this negativity? What can I do to improve on while maintaining authenticity here? What the F***?