another short write

I'm double dipping again! Here's my newest short write for school. The assignment was to write about an emotion without specifically stating it.

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The lone can of beer he left in the fridge is finally gone. I talk to myself aloud as I do the dishes, none of them his. I don't rinse away the remnants of a meal lovingly prepared and shared with family, but only frozen meals consumed in solitude. The salt and pepper shakers mock me for even they have a better half. It is so quiet. I watch funny videos online and my laughter breaks through the silence like rays of sunlight stabbing through fog. It echoes off the walls and comes back to me sounding awkward. I sort through the laundry; there are no boxers, only lace panties never enjoyed. I turn on a baseball game, though not really to watch. Instead, it fills my apartment with sounds of summertime, home, and of birthdays past.

I used to stay on my side of the bed, but now I take up as much space as possible, every inch rescued from the cold. I lay there childlike stretched and sprawled and contorted in weird positions, clutching a teddy bear. It was his as a child and when he gave it to me it smelled like a dusty, untouched attic. I washed it and a few seams appeared looser than they were before. But the dust was gone, the smell of the forgotten removed. I rub his ear between my finger and thumb as I fall asleep and wonder who it soothes more.

I wake with my feet tangled up in the sheets. I imagine they are intertwined with his, though I know my feet are merely experiencing the effects of a restless night. Being tangled up in the sheets now only has one meaning to me: bad dreams. The only relief is that these dreams are worse than reality. I lay in bed for a moment and listen to the neighbor's dog bark. He wanted to get a puppy, but I told him they were too much work. Now I think to myself it would be nice to have another living thing in this space. I stumble to the bathroom and the toilet paper is on the holder exactly how I like it, not how ever he haphazardly decided to put in on. His toothbrush is not in the drawer next to mine. No razor, shaving cream, or dirty bar of soap is on the counter. I study myself in the mirror. Messy hair and dry skin, but my eyes still sparkle. A new day begins.

confessions and forgiveness

I have a confession.

I just pulled all of these out of my fridge. Most are a month or two old.



I know, I know. Disgusting. A month ago I told my sister not to eat the rice and beans in one of those containers because it was probably bad. And yet it just stayed there. Why would any reasonable person leave spoiled food in the fridge? For months. I'm not really sure my exact reasons, but it probably had something to do with the fact that I like the look of a full fridge, even if it is full of inedible leftovers. But mostly I just didn't want to deal with it. I was sure I'd gag and not be able to handle the smell. And yet the irony is the longer I leave it, the nastier it gets and the more the work compounds.

And isn't that just how unforgiveness works? You let it sit in there to rot away and yet you don't know why. You have no good reason. Maybe hanging on to something you should of let go of months (or years) ago is comforting. It doesn't makes sense, but maybe the truth is that you just like it there. But it does you no good. If you eat of it, it will make you sick. Maybe, like me, you just don't want to deal with it. The work is daunting and unpleasant. Quite frankly, it stinks. But the longer you let it sit there, the more bitter and nasty it gets.

I dumped all of them down the garbage quickly and without apology. I was not sorry to get rid of it. After the first two, I had a new motivation to clean all the junk out. Once I got started and actually did it, cleaning out the fridge wasn't that bad. Maybe you have your reasons for refusing to forgive. Perhaps you never got the apology you think you deserve. Maybe your anger is justified. Maybe you've had it in there for so long, it has become a familiar acquaintance. But whatever the reason, it's rotting inside you and starting to smell. And like dumping out the leftovers, it just might be a lot easier (and rewarding) than you thought!

short stories

I've been doing a lot of writing for class, which means the blog gets neglected. I have decided that I reserve the right on this here blog to kill two birds with one stone and post my class work. For English, we do short essays called "miscellaneous writing assignments" that serve the purpose of simply getting the student to write. This week's prompt is as follows:

Write about a time in which you were frightened, shocked, or traumatized. Give details and use present tense.


It is a warm California day toward the end of my 6th grade year. My scrawny legs are walking myself home from the brand new school that I attend in a brand new subdivision where I live. Not much stands out here in cookie-cutter America where the same five floor plans alternate up and down the street. It is oddly quiet today. I'm not walking with friends nor are there many cars driving up and down the main road. Few children, if any, are playing in the park.

I am thinking to myself when I hear a car come up from behind me. It is driving eerily slow. My head stays straight ahead. Only when I see in my peripheral a car coast next to me at the same speed that I am walking, do I turn to face it. Or rather, to face him. He is driving a mini-van, the mark of a hurried soccer mom. However, this van is in no hurry. The windows are down and my heart is beating. He looks at me with beady black eyes, a shaved head, and a goatee. I quickly turn away, my head straight again, determined to will him away. My legs pick up the pace. Without moving my head, my eyes dart in every direction, planning some sort of an escape. Why is it so quiet? Where are all the people? Where is a man out walking his dog? He reaches over to the passenger door and flings it open. In a forceful but controlled voice, he says, "Get in the car bitch!" My scrawny legs are strong now and they run faster than ever before. The door is open and he is still following me. My backpack smacks the top of my butt with ever stride. My chest is tight. My eyes are focused and I'm able to take in a million things at once. I see a small white pick up truck in the distance coming towards us. I yell to it, though I'm sure it can't hear me. He, however, spots it too. Like the coward he is, he squeals away.

I don't stop running. I don't know if he'll circle and come back for me. I don't know how to make my legs stop even if I wanted to. I don't want to go directly home. No one will be there for a few hours and if he follows me, he'll know where I live. I run to the model home office. By this time, I'm having an asthma attack and can't articulate a thing to the employees except that I need water. I am able to spit out the mucus bubble that has formed in my throat and swallow some water. I can't tell if I've had much of a conversation with these people, but before I can be sure I've articulated what happened, I bolt out of there. Now I really just want to call my dad. I run home, looking over my shoulder the whole way. I quickly unlock the door and re-lock it once I'm inside. I call my parents and the cops are at my house before I can even calm down. How tall was he? How much did he weigh? Make, model, license plate number? Bigger than you, smaller than him. Green. KW4. I'm sorry, that's all I remember. My voice cracks.

notes from heaven

The day after John left for basic training, I had EMT class. I was alone in my car and all of it just hit me. I lost it and began to cry so hard. I was grieving and fearful. I was grieving the idea of him being gone for two months. He had been gone less than twenty-four hours and I missed him already. I was fearful of the change that might take place in him. I was fearful of where that might leave us. I was so worried that basic training would make him an institutionalized robot and there would be no place left for me in his life. That is, after all, the purpose of basic training: they exhaust soldiers and strip them down to something bare and formless, something able to shape and train for their purposes. The military would not be very effective without cooperation, uniformity, and a cohesive purpose. Without a sense of pride, brotherhood, and conformity, the Army couldn't do it's job as well as it can. Knowing that left me worried that he'd be lifeless, loveless, and content to lead a life without me. He was being bred to be a killing machine and in some ways that scared me. I would stand by him, committed and vulnerable, with no guarantee he'd do the same.

That twenty minutes of crying had left me looking like a train wreck so I beelined it to the bathroom to clean up before class. Out of all the bathrooms on campus and all of the stalls in that particular bathroom, I went into the one that had a little note on the floor. It seemed to be waiting just for me. On an unassuming purple sticky note, these words were inscribed: "Take delight in the Lord and He will give you the desires of your heart. Psalms 37:4" There in that bathroom stall at a community college, I had one of those moments. It was the kind of moment in which everything gets quiet and you hear the Lord speak directly to your heart. In that moment, I realized my fear was not out of faith. In that moment, I realized that my stress, anxiety, and fearfulness was because I wasn't trusting that God would give me the desires of my heart. He said to me, "I know what your heart desires and I've promised to give it you because you take delight in me." What a promise. I also understood that if John did change in a way that left no room for me, that God would STILL grant me the desires of my heart, even if it was in a way I hadn't imagined. I remembered that sometimes God takes away things we think we want for things that really fill our soul. That single little verse left me in position to say, "whatever the outcome, You will still keep your promises."

I write this now, almost exactly a year after that day, and clinging to that promise has been harder than ever. John and I are married now (desire granted) and instead of facing two months apart, we are facing twelve or more. The likeliness that he will change during this separation is greater than ever before. The degree of that change is heightened. And unfortunately, my fear has also increased. He is now acting out all of those things in which he was trained for. It is no longer training exercises, but the real deal. Conformity is not just a practice, but a necessity. Death, in one form or another, is not just an idea, but may become a reality in some capacity. My fear often manifests by becoming controlling, or at least trying. But the reality is, I can't control what happens to and around my husband while he is gone. I cannot control the choices he makes, the influences around him, or the events that take place in his life while we're apart. I have to let it go and believe that, once again, God will come through for us. I have to have faith that His promises are continual.

In one of the lowest points of deployment so far, I felt lonelier than ever. Not just physically, but in heart as well. I was mindlessly flipping through a book and my fingers stopped on a piece of paper tucked between the pages. It was a piece of paper my little sister was given at church while she was here visiting. It said "God is..." and she was prompted to finish the sentence. In her childlike handwriting and in a childlike faith, she wrote, "He is always there!" Just another reminder of one if HIs promises, another breath of fresh air, another prompting of faith, another note from heaven. Even in the most impossible of situations, even when the things I fear are actually valid, He stays unchanging. He is even gracious enough to give me reminders of this when I'm doubting and have lost focus.