This Old Ragged Shirt

       I pulled at the ends of the ragged shirt and examined myself in the mirror. The left side was drooping a good six inches lower than the right side.  I sighed and pulled at the right side in hopes to stretch it out; make the ends even.  The bright University of Tennessee color had faded from UT orange to a softer 'creamsicle' orange having gone through so many washes.  The neckline of the shirt was all out of whack and looked like I had been dragged around by the neck.  I frowned at myself in the mirror.  Did I wash it in hot water by accident or dry it the wrong way? I thought as I lifted the left droopy side of the shirt and turned it inside out. My stomach chilled as the bedroom fan chopped up air into cold pieces and propelled them onto me.  The tag wasn't legible as the care instructions had faded along with the UT orange and were somewhere that couldn't be found. 

       I had only washed the shirt twice myself; the other times he washed it.  I had taken his shirt as I cleaned his closet out and his dresser drawers.  I remember thinking on that day, How can I even begin to clean up after someones life? I did, though- one dresser drawer at a time.  One by one, I took posters down from his walls and threw them into a large trash bag.  All of his belongings were cleaned from his bedroom and placed with carelessness into a plastic bag to be donated to someone else in the world- someone I would probably never meet or know although I was within the perimeters of a small town.  I vacuumed his bedroom floor and emptied ashtrays in the same kind of bags his clothes had gone in.  Both trash and personal; treasured belongings could fit within the confines of a black plastic trash bag. How is that possible? Something seemed so wrong about that.  He wasn't there to defend his belongings because in a sense they no longer belonged to any man- until someone picked it up off of a thrift store shelf and bargained with the owner.  Those items would never be worth full price again whether it be material or sentimental value. 

       It wasn't my choice to clean out his room the very day he died.  I did it out of love for my Nana and that was enough reason in the moment.  All I really wanted to do was to close his bedroom door and take in the scent of him once more; run my fingers along his dusty shelves and UT posters. I wanted to sit on the edge of his bed and cry until I couldn't cry anymore. Instead, I stayed on my feet all day and emptied all that was ever his on this earth into a cheap plastic bag.  At some point between throwing UT t-shirts and UT pajama pants into the bag, I held onto one ragged shirt.  I couldn't let it go and I stuffed it into my purse that was on his floor.  Something made that shirt different than all of the rest- it was worn down to the thread and was even see-through in some places.  It was a shirt I remembered him wearing often and one that still had the scent of him embedded in it. 

       My dad didn't leave me anything of value when he died.  As a matter of fact his empty wallet was added to the thrift store pile.  It would one day possibly hold the money that would pay for father-daughter dates that we never shared.  His bedroom door was closed that day with only the smell of furniture polish and freshly vacuumed carpet left behind. He had been erased. I hauled in the heavy bags of clothes into the thrift store and hoped that nobody would buy his things; that he would be left perfectly preserved in many bags and never distributed to someone that wouldn't appreciate who he was. 

      I pulled at the shirt again and realized it would probably fall apart in the next wash cycle; the threads would end up where the worn color and words were.  His shirt was far too big for me and I looked just like a girl in her daddy's shirt.  Sometimes we associate things because they will always be true- some things can never be erased.  I walked into our office and dug to the bottom of a cardboard box;excavated the letters I had found in his room. Some letters were from him to me and others were letters I had given to him.  One letter was one I had sent to him in England- the only letter I sent him during my eighteen months there.  The letter had yellowed from years of cigarette smoke wafting against it. Letters he had written me were like hidden jewels that I found that day in the midst of erasing him.  He had never given them to me and one was being written the week of his death.  That letter was a farewell letter although he had no way of knowing it.

     I sat with letters scattered around me and I thought it wasn't by chance I had wrapped them up in his UT shirt and stuffed them into the belly of my purse.  I realized that he left me something that riches could never replace.  He left behind a story of restoration and love. An alcoholic most of his life, he had turned his life around at a time that was too late for his body but just in time to share his heart with me.  Written on every page were words of someone that had lived a rough life and found love in the midst of it all. That is something that will live in me and in my children and in my children's children. That can never be erased. I'm ok with having been left his words and his old ragged shirt.

A Fresh Start

      Those of you that have been following my blog know that for three years I have been struggling to find a diagnosis.  In 2008, I got what I thought was the common cold and never really seemed to bounce back from it.  The sneezing, coughing and congestion went away but the level of indescribable fatigue never went away.  The fatigue got worse and so did my symptoms.  The journey has been very long and extremely difficult.  The worst part hasn't been the symptoms themselves (although they were totally debilitating at times and left me feeling miserable even when I could function normally), but the worst part was not having an answer.

      Over the past three years I have seen thirteen doctors and spent thousands of dollars trying to find an answer.  I have seen doctors that were the most rude and unprofessional people I have ever met (the doctor in Boston that told me to drink more coffee was my personal favorite) and I have been blessed in seeing great doctors, too.  I have temporarily given up on many occasions and opted to just call myself crazy and throw in the towel. There was always a drive in me to find an answer and at the end of the day that is what was stronger than my will to give up.  Loved ones around me had to excavate that will in me more times than I can even count and because of them I kept making appointments and trying any regiment that my doctor-of-the-month put me on.  I have felt like a guinea pig more than a person over the past few years as I've been poked with needles, given injections and done trial doses of medications way too many times.

    When Matt and I moved to Virginia I got signed up as a new patient at a doctors' office before we even wrote our first rent check out to our land lord.  With the new move and changes came a fresh desire in me to get to the bottom of everything.  My new family doctor did something for me that very few doctors have done for me- she listened. She truly showed a desire to find out what was wrong with me.  Just since August I have been to four specialists and after having a clear and healthy MRI, I was sent to a Rheumatologist as a last resort.  My Rheumatologist ordered up a bunch of really weird blood tests (true to Rheumatology) and then, I waited for five weeks to see him again.  Those five weeks were torture as I waited because I just wanted an answer.  My symptoms seemed to be at a steady "blah" and things weren't getting better. 

   I walked in to my appointment and was convinced that he hadn't found anything.  That had been my life for three years-being poked at only to find that nothing was coming up in my blood tests.  When my doctor told me that my blood work was positive for Sjogren's Syndrome, my first thought was that maybe he had misread the results. Was it possible that he really did find IT- the reason that my body had been worn for so long? Could he really have found the thing that has kept me from feeling like myself?  He retested again just to make sure and yesterday I went for the results.  The results were a resounding positive and after I left I sat in my car, called my mom and cried happy tears violently into the phone.  "Mama, I'm so happy. I know now. I have an answer." was all that I could say.  Of course Mama didn't care for me carrying on like that until she knew exactly what I had been diagnosed with.

    Sjogren's Syndrome is an auto-immune disease that I will live with for the rest of my life.  It can't be cured, but there is medication to help manage the symptoms. There is a website dedicated to it if you would like to learn more.

http://www.sjogrens.org/

   Right now, I am still in the bliss of finally being diagnosed.  I don't believe that the realization that this is something I will live with forever has set in yet. I'm sure that there will be a grieving process I will go through.  I will save that for another day, though. : ) Thank you everyone that has been there for me during this. It has brought me to this moment and I couldn't have done it without you.

When Life Grew Shorter

      
    The lights of the stage shown on his face like a subtly placed candle in a dark window. The light partially illuminated certain features of his face but did not overtake him and expose him to the crowd. His left eyebrow arched in the light and his left cheekbone cast a shadow onto his lower lip and chin.  The crowd was silent as he stood as a ghostly streetlight; light shining downward but not up- casting a partial profile at his feet. Anticipation filled the room as tightly as his lungs were filled with air. He exhaled and waited for the words to come to him. Another inhalation and then, slowly; painfully even, he exhaled through his nostrils and let the air escape to touch whom it chose.

       A small red-headed girl sat on the front row without knowledge of what was going on beyond the perimeter of the teddy bear in her arms.  He looked at her and all he could see was the empty wheelchair sitting next to her. He moaned under his breath, but loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.  He jolted at the sound of the echo bouncing off of the walls and back onto him.  He had broken the silence by mistake. He wasn't ready to talk, but the reality was he was expected to. He was "the guest of honor" as it read in the program. The little girl smiled at him and waved then, out of embarrassment held the teddy bear to her mouth and began chewing on its right ear. He noticed that the teddy bear's ear was nearly gone, hanging only by a few frayed threads that were bright red and not the original cream. That same ear had probably been repaired again and again as it stood the test of time and habitual chewing of a four-year-old. She did not seem to care she was too old to be chewing on things, but relaxed as she chewed away at the teddy.

    The flash of a camera brought him back to his audience and as he looked out at them he could see that everyone sat in a state of anticipation and embarrassment on his behalf. He clenched his left hand tightly around his cane and stepped further into the light. As the light drowned his face in its artificial yellow he watched the crowd shift in their seats at the sight of him. He stood silently.

The sound tech behind stage whispered out to him. "Sir, is your microphone still working?"

    The little girl had been scooped up onto a woman's lap and she rested her head against the lady's breasts as she chewed on the teddy bear's ear. The woman nodded at him and smiled as she gave him a thumbs up then, ran her fingers through the little girl's hair. At the sight of them both he found the words deep within himself- like an excavation of something ancient and extravagant had been discovered. He wanted to treat the words with fragile care and not let them fall the floor broken and unappreciated. He squinted beneath the warm light and struggled with the formation of the words in his mouth before he made them audible.

"My daughter" he began "has kept the teddy bear I sent to her on her second birthday."

The words came out sluggish and nearly misformed. The injury had damaged the left side of his face- forcing him to talk primary out of the right side of his mouth and enunciate carefully. He sounded similar to someone with Cerebral Palsy. He clinched his cane tighter.

The crowd squinted and sat up straight in their seats as if their demeanor would help them concentrate and understand him better. Most people seemed to be focusing on the medals on his uniform and the camouflage pattern.

"She sent me a homemade thank you card and kissed the camera every time that I would talk to her and my wife on Skype."

The rhythm of his speech became more fluid as he looked down at his daughter sitting on his wife's lap- his empty wheel chair next to them.

"When I fought for my country, I thought of her and that teddy bear.  I wondered how worn it would be when I saw it again and how much taller my daughter would be. I would lay on my cot at night and wonder if that stuffed bear would have been sold in a yard sale and replaced by something better.  I wondered if my country would have forgotten me by the time I returned."

The little girl shifted on her mom's lap and looked at her dad as he stood before soldiers and their families.

"Time seemed to stand still over there. We were on mission every day and nothing seemed to change except for more boys losing their lives and hospitals filling up with more that were injured. Skype couldn't bridge the gap between a war zone and the life my family was still living without me. The day I got injured, I laid there somewhere between this earth and my last breath. The world went quiet and life seemed to grow shorter with every breath and the adrenaline that was pumping to keep me alert. I spent over a year in the hospital fighting for my life and standing the test of time with multiple surgeries, rehabilitation and therapy."

His speech began to slur badly and he paused to focus again on what he was saying.

"I got home and the teddy bear had endured a lot of stains, rough play and love from my daughter.  It showed me that life had gone on while I was gone, but that I was always in her arms even if it was through a cheap teddy bear.  This Christmas, I welcome you all home for good. I hope that you each find that although you have not been present in your families day-to-day lives that you've never gone unmissed.  May you  notice your faded photo that your wife has slept with under her pillow. May you find little notes that your daughter has left around the house for you. I hope you can appreciate the model tank that your son built for you while you were gone. This Christmas is a Christmas to remember because you're home among the smells, traditions and love that the holidays bring. When life grew shorter, my will to live grew stronger. Thank God for bringing you back home safely. Merry Christmas."

The crowd stood and applause filled every empty space of the arena. Soldiers stood at attention as "I'll Be Home For Christmas" came over the sound system. With assistance, he made his way down to his wheel chair and sat down- allowing the physical pain to melt into the metal frame and rubber wheels. His daughter climbed on his lap and handed him the teddy bear ear that had fallen off yet again. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear, "I think it's time for daddy to buy you a new teddy bear."

A Deep Soul

   The joke around our house lately has been Matt saying "You're such a writer." to me when I say or do something weird. It seems that I'm becoming more comfortable in my pursuit of my dream and I'm not holding back like I used to when it comes to expressing myself. The past few weeks have been interesting as I've not been sleeping well and literally waking up in the middle of the night to jot down an idea or obsess over the next line I want to use in my book I can easily see myself sitting at a coffee shop in Seattle in dark-rimmed glasses and writing my heart out on paper for a few hours.

   Matt challenged me with a question the other day. He asked "Why do you want to write? What do you want people to gain from your writing?" My initial answer was "It's what I love to do." but when I saw him stare at me a bit more intensely and lean back in his chair, I realized he was looking for a different answer- the real one. Of course I love to write and it really is something that gives me a sense of purpose, but it does run deeper than that. I want to write for those that can't. God has given me a passion to express myself through writing. There are people out there that literally cannot speak up for themselves due to cultural limitations or the severity of what they're facing. There are people that do not have the ability to speak up for themselves- abuse, neglect and abandonment have left them speechless and unable to convey what they feel or what they have to say. I want to write to inspire those that do not know how to seek inspiration out.

   I plan to write fictional pieces eventually, but even in that I want to convey characters that relate to the masses. Writing is art and I appreciate it for that, but I also want to use it as a tool. I have been moving forward in the manuscript I've been writing and it feels like it has a clear anointing on it. That isn't to speak of talent or anything, but something that is bigger than me. I really do feel that there are big plans with this manuscript and that it will be on a bookshelf for people to buy and that through its pages there will be a nugget of hope offered before the last sentence is read.

   That's a HUGE dream, but hey...why not? My soul is deep enough to hold it.

And I'll Leave These Shoes Behind So You'll Remember Me

For Deborah


        I was on the display rack at a whopping 15% off when her eyes met me. She was wearing some horribly worn taupe flats that mismatched her dress-pants and made her look like she was three inches shorter since her pants dragged along the ground. She bent over to cuff the legs of her pants up and when she stood up with her heavy purse heaved onto her left shoulder she caught a glimpse of me. A glimpse was all that it took. I was on the shelf that met her at eye level- the third up from the bottom and second from the top. The showroom lights illuminated me perfectly and showed all of my best features although I had started to collect a thin layer of dust from being on the same shelf for two weeks- only having been picked up by a hopeful teenage girl that couldn't fit into me and a divorcee' that couldn't afford me.

       There I was- Black genuine leather Nine West 5-inch heel pumps with a rounded toe circa 2006. I had every quality to make her outfit both sexy and professional. She let out a small gasp at me and then looked around her to make sure nobody heard her. Her fingers ran across my toe and then along the heel. She then flipped me over to check out my price. Soon, I was snug in my box and in the back seat of her red Volvo.

     Our first night together, she wore me with a garter belt and black laced bra as a surprise to her boyfriend. I was sleek in the low light of candlelight as my "left self" spent the night at the bedroom door and my "right self" got thrown onto the bra and stockings. The next morning, I was worn with jeans to a coffee date with her girlfriend and again that evening to her corporate Christmas party with a snug yet sophisticated red cocktail dress. I slipped on ice a few times, but the compliments I received at the party was worth every unstable step.

       I was worn so often over the next 3 weeks that my insoles conformed perfectly to her feet- like Cinderella's perfect fit. The bottoms of my soles became scratched from bits of loose gravel on the sidewalk and unforgiving winter sidewalk salt. I got retired to her closet during the several winter storms and was replaced with distasteful gray winter boots. I didn't want to go out in that horrible winter slush anyway so I waited patiently and gave my weary soles rest.

        In the second week of February I was rehired to impress as I escorted her to an important interview. The receptionist complimented her on me as well as the intern, but I think he was interested more than me. She sat on the couch and waited nervously as she reviewed her resume' once more and mentally reviewed how to best pitch herself to the boss. Her legs were crossed and she moved her ankle back and forth; shaking me all over the place. He did the same thing even worse once she was talking to the HR manager. I didn't blame her since she was interviewing with the person she could potentially be replacing.

     She got the job in the end and I was worn to her celebration dinner with her boyfriend.  He was happy for her although he would be seeing less of her due to all of the business trips that were already scheduled for her. That night, I was left at the door as they danced around their town home with champagne and made love as if they wouldn't see each other ever again. She saw him again in the morning, of course when she rolled over and I sat frozen stiff from the cold air drifting in from outside through the crack that he had promised to fix weeks before.

     Over the next four years I accompanied her to PowerPoint presentations, seminars, company parties and other business-related trips to: Phoenix, Boston, Houston, L.A., Nashville, Miami, Chicago, New York City and my personal favorite- old Quebec City. My left heel tap had to be replaced in Quebec because of the combination of the extra glass of wine and cobblestone leading to the hotel. She always missed him when she was gone and I knew that upon their reunion I would be left by the front door with only the bookcase to stare at unless the dog carried me away on a whim of bravery.

      I became worn less and less by her because my insoles wore thin and my leather became too scuffed. She had fallen several times while wearing me over the past month and I think she just got tired of the hastle. I was placed back in my box and pushed to the far left corner of her closet. The only light that ever shown on me was if she happened to open my box by accident- mistaking me for a different pair of Nine West from years before.

      She wore me once more to a doctor's appointment. Her newest addition of me had been left at her office when she opted out of them and into flip-flops at a late night at work. She was in a hurry to her appointment since it was squeeze in between her second morning meeting and an early lunch with a prospective employee. She sat and jiggled me back and forth as her legs shook and she checked her watch once more. The doctor came in with her medical files in hand.

    "I'm afraid I have bad news, Deborah." the doctor began.

      He explained the reason that she had been falling wasn't me; the insoles or worn heels. She was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig disease that day and the realization that one day she wouldn't be walking with me or any other shoes on her feet would set in a lot faster than either of us anticipated. Within three months, she was only wearing house-slippers on the days that she could get out of bed. On the "good days" her boyfriend would place her old tennis shoes on her feet and help her out to the car as she leaned into his shoulder.

     One day, she had a friend come over to clean out her closet and help box up the items she wanted to give away. She picked me up; rubbed the worn rounded toe and placed me in my old box with the lid missing. I was carried out to her friend's car and I heard the most heartbreaking cried I had ever heard as I rode from my old home to a new one. Like their friendship, I had stood the test of time but couldn't change the outcome of what would be. We both had another year of function and life left in us if we were lucky.

      I was eventually given to a woman named Nikki and I traveled up I-26 and then 66 to her home near D.C. She cleaned me up some and made me look better although I'll never look brand-new again. I may never be worn by her as often as I was worn by Deborah. Even if from between the crack in her closet door, I may watch Nikki raise a child or paint her bedroom walls a different color. I may accompany her to an interview or walk across the stage with her when she graduates college. I may never be worn at all and if not, that's ok- there are still many stories to come from me. In ever scratch, scuff and worn piece of me- Deborah has left stories to be told.

Being a Cop's Wife

Today, there was another shooting at Virginia Tech. This time a police officer was killed in a routine traffic stop and then another student was found dead in a parking lot. Before I read the news I was sitting down and stressing about how I will pay for college in January and wondering what I would eat for lunch.  It's always in moments of bad news that reality smacks me in the face hard enough to realize that life is fragile and all of the worries we have are temporary. If I am honest, I usually steer clear of reading the news because it's bad news the majority of the time and  a constant reminder of how horrible people can be. I realize that ignoring the news doesn't take the bad out of the world, but makes me numb to it which is completely selfish of me. If we don't address pain head-on then how can we ever experience healing and help others to as well? I find that I am taking community out of my life when I distance myself from difficult news or personal situations. We're all in this together in some way or another, right?

Matt is still in police academy until he graduates on the 13th of January. He comes home every day and tells me about the crazy training he is having to go through. Part of his training has been to review past cases and use them to learn from other officers' careless mistakes. I try not to let stories get to me most of the time, but there is always that "what if" in the back of my mind. I worry that Matt will be hurt one day or that something worse will happen. Looking at the VT shooting today where it was a routine traffic stop and something so horrible happened doesn't put my "what ifs" at ease one bit. It made me think to myself that I would want Matt doing anything but being a police officer. My worry uncovered itself and came fully to surface for a while and I got myself all worked up. Then, something in my mind set changed making me realize that as a cop's wife I can really pray for the fallen officer's wife and family. I can take my worry and turn it into productive support to officers' families that suffer horrible loss- whether it is from injury or loss of that loved one. I realize that there is no place for me living in fear and worry when I can be actively reaching out to others that live that way because of very real things that have happened.

It's not easy being married to a cop. Worry snuggles up to me at night when Matt is out on the road. Fear takes many forms whether it is in dreams, news articles or hearing personal stories of other people. The truth is, though, above everything that I am so proud of Matt. My pride in him outweighs my worry any day of the week and I can't even imagine all of the tangible positive difference he has already made in the world just by going to work every day.

So, all of this said: I hope I can make a tangible difference in people's lives that have lost a loved one in the line of duty. If I am never able to fully help someone face-to-face then maybe through the art of writing I can share a little hope and restoration to those grieving. It's time for me to stop ignoring the news and to make myself aware of the reality in the world. Lastly, I need to encourage Matt more and more in his job. He isn't really used to hearing "thank you" in his job so I need to voice it twice as much.

Maybe there can be a new reality show "Cop Wives"? Hmmm....just maybe. ; )

Go for it or get out

I'm a little ashamed that this blog was totally inspired by Lady GaGa. Don't get me wrong- I'm a fan, but I usually don't look to her for inspiration before I jump into a writing project. I watched her latest music video that has been getting a lot of press and I loved every minute of the awkward artsy self-expression. The media portrayed the video as a waste of time and too edgy, but I really liked it a lot. I liked it because it's totally unique to her. One thing about GaGa is she she expresses herself without shame (although the whole meat suit is still gross beyond words!).

This isn't a blog on Lady GaGa so let me get to the point. The point is that we all have dreams that we want to see come true in our own lives. There is that one thing that we feel we were just meant to be or accomplish. Some of us may not know what that is or looks like yet, but it's there. My biggest dream is to be a writer. Of course having a family and everything is important to me, but I feel like I was made to write. "'Cause baby I was born this way"....I had to : )

My attitude toward that dream right now is to put all in and to go for it no matter what. I've been writing so much more now that I have taken a break from Facebook. My book is beginning to take shape and I'm writing as if I will be published instead of letting doubt defeat me. Our dreams are only as big as we allow them to be and we are the only person to blame if they never come true. I know that I sound like a total idealist, but what I am saying is realistic- go for it! Life isn't something that waits for us- it keeps going and will leave us standing in our regret if we don't move along with it.

Bluegrass Nostalgia

Some place on a mountain- a mountain in East Tennessee to be exact- lives my family. On the mountain there aren't any material things that draw you to it. The only lure is that of nature, or if you're my family-it is the lure of home. It's the smell of home cooked meals (home cookin' to be exact), the laughter (and sometimes sibling rivalry) that echoes through the trees, and the simplicity of family love and acceptance.

Growing up in a very small town (actually, on a mountain a good twenty-five minutes from that town) wasn't anything to be proud of. I have always been the adventurous one in my family and I think I was bitten by the travel bug when I was playing outside as a toddler. Even at an early age, I imaged the forest was the jungle and that I was a world traveler although I had no concept of the world that was out there. I always wanted to get away and see what places I could explore without the protection, advice, and interference of my mama and daddy. I was always an independent little thing and I wore mix matched clothes, butchered my hair at the age of five and had the desire to move the world over because of it.

Creeks became oceans in my imagination and I would try to jump from one side of the creek bank to the next without touching the water. In 2006, I took a huge jump across the "creek" to England and ever since I have wanted to continue that sense of adventure. Matt and I both suspect that we will live overseas again and it will probably be in several different countries. We both have adventurous spirits and yearn to become knowledgeable of other cultures and their customs. I often dream that we will raise our kids in different countries and expose them to the world around them.

I have recently undertaken a huge dream of mine- writing a book.  The idea of the book came about when I was in a real place of heartache. It seemed that everything around me had either already caved in or was about to.  I decided to write things down as a means to work through those hardships and the idea came to me to write a book about my life. It's not as if my life is glamorous or even that I have endured any more heartbreaking things than anyone else has, but I'm going to write in  hopes that my book will be an inspiration to those that read it if it is ever published.

I've been doing a lot of thinking for the book and as part of the creative process I have been re-teaching myself about the culture in which I was raised. There are things that I am not proud to say I was raised around, such as the harsh judgement of churches in the area, but revisiting those things has made me who I am today. In addition to re-familiarizing myself with the past I have also been listening to a lot of bluegrass music. It never failed- when I was growing up I was always exposed to bluegrass music whether it was being picked by hand in front of me or coming through the speakers of an AM radio station. My senses have been heightened as I have called back home and picked my accent back up, listened to the music of the area, looked at old photos and smelled old recipes as I cooked them for Matt in our kitchen.

I have always associated home with the things that I didn't like about where I was raised. As I have gotten older, I have come to associate home with the things I love most about where I was born and raised. The truth is that no matter where I may travel with my small little family in the future or how much of the world I may see- home is still home sweet home- even if it's on the very top of a mountain in East Tennessee and not a high-rise flat in  London.

"It's All Good"

    Sitting outside in the glow of the warm sun I took a deep breath and a saying that my father-in-law says all the time came to mind- "It's all good." If you know Bill, you know that he is a laid back kind of guy that doesn't get upset easily or get discouraged under pressure. He's a man of few words, but when he talks you want to listen. It's mid-November and an amazing 74 degrees here in Northern VA today. The sun is shining, the leaves are slowly drifting from the branches and onto the ground, the sky is a a powdery blue mixed with white whispy clouds and all I have to say is "It's all good."

   I've always been a talker and because of that I don't always listen as I should because I am planning out what I will say next.  Matt calls his dad for advice from time to time and Matt talks (a lot- like me) while his dad patiently listens on the other end of the line. Bill usually says a few words that are simply put, but hold genuine and sound advice.  Bill will say "It's all good." to Matt on a regular basis and leave it at that.  At first, I thought of it as just a habitual thing to say, but I've found that it implies a lot more than what first meets the ear. : )

   "It's all good." brings us back to a place of thankfulness in the end. Even if said light heartidly, it's true. And for the times that things aren't good at all? Well, "It's all good." implies that there are still things to hold to tightly and to be thankful  for and it also reminds us that there will be a time when things are good; when life does get better.  Matt has picked up his dad's catch phrase and he uses it on me a lot. I will pour my heart out to Matt for an hour and he will look at me patiently and say "It's all good."   I don't find it insensitive for him to say that or to be short with me after I have been talking non-stop.  I'm finding that over time, fewer words seem to be more valuable to me than someone talking in circles trying to "fix" what's going on with me.

   Matt and I are facing a lot financially right now with situations that are beyond our control. Despite what we're facing and will continue to face for the coming months, the truth is that it's still 74 degrees outside right now in mid-November, the sun is shining, the sky is flawless and "It's all good." Our circumstances don't determine our level of worth, contentment, joy or hope for a future. Tomorrow, if Winter decides to make an early arrival and snow covers the beautiful fallen leaves, the sky is turned to gray, and the sun refuses to shine- well, "It's all good."

The 'Etsy' Bitsy Provider

   

 I have pulled a 180! Growing up with my mama's crafts filling every corner I built a wall up to all things "country" and "crafty".  Quilts were all over the place and I often found loose buttons and pieces of quilt scraps in my laundry. The country style has never been my thing- I tend to gravitate toward shabby chic, vintage or modern styles when it comes to decorating. Sometimes, I combine all three.  Mama always tried to get me to at least try sewing like she did, but I always resisted.

     Matt and I have had a tough time financially over the past year and I've been searching for ways to help us out. Our financial situation hasn't been because of our crazy spending (we're both tight wads!) but circumstances beyond our control have smacked us in the face and robbed our wallet. The thrifty part of my brain works really well and I can go without spending or saving major bucks when I buy our groceries, but saving money isn't enough when you need to increase cash flow.  I started a part-time job as a nanny which I am so thankful for! My new income hasn't made us rich overnight or taken care of the issues at hand, but it's a great start to helping us out.  My little job has really improved my self-esteem and that in itself is a huge pay off! Just the fact of knowing I'm helping us out now has improved the way I think of myself. I'm not such a bully to myself now.

     I've been looking at ways to bring in extra money and things to work on during the times that I'm not working.  I decided to pick up jewelry making which I realized I'm not too bad at to be a beginner. I opened a store on http://www.etsy.com/ and named my store Pearls For A Gypsy. Then, I surprised myself by calling my mom and asking her for a sewing machine for Christmas! What?! I also asked for her to create me a starter kit of supplies that she has on hand.  My next project is making throw pillows that I have made as Christmas gifts in the past. I will be adding those to my online store soon! I am also going to use my writing in some craft pieces and see what I can do with that. I'm really excited about the new projects that I have going on and I'm finding that working on things really instills a sense of pride in me because I feel like I'm continuing what my mama has started.  I also feel like I'm genuinely helping with our financial situation. It's going to be such a blessing to be able to potentially make money from home since I'm unable to work a full-time job right now. 

    We shall see how it works out! Please stop by my store and browse for Christmas gifts! I would love any feed back that you may have- positive and need for improvement! Thanks!

Treat ya'self before you wreck ya'self!

So, I have begun my weekend on a great foot. I am actually treating myself to a cup of coffee at a local coffee shop and taking time to invest in my writing. I'm not very good at taking time for myself and I figured that a lot of you aren't so hot at it either.  It's true that I have had more than enough time alone over the past year.  Since being sick, there have been many days that I have curled up under a warm blanket and watched movies all day.  I have realized that having time alone isn't a treat in itself.  I am learning that doing things for myself is essential to keeping my happiness in check.

I figure that a lot of you are so busy with work, family, and possibly your own illness that doing anything for yourself comes last on the list.  This weekend, take time to do something for you! Yes, your husband, kids, and friends love all that you do for them but you need to do something for yourself, too. Even if you take a walk alone or grab a cup of coffee that you never treat yourself to, it's something that yourself will thank you for. : )

I finished up my first week of work today. The sense of accomplishment that I feel is great! I haven't held a job in a year due to my health and it was a huge step of faith to start a new job, even if it was just part-time. The kids that I am working with are so lovely and have made a positive impact on my life.  It's amazing to me that kids have no concept of truly making a difference in some one elses life, but they have every bit of the power to.  Little kids have big hearts.  Their innocence and honesty can be so refreshing from the harsh world that we adults put up with.  The new change in my life has been great for my self-confidence and self-esteem. I have had the energy to get through the four hours of work each day which is a huge deal!

So, I am beginning this weekend with a sense of thankfulness and a treat for myself. : )

Mama's Love

            She gently kissed her daughter on the forehead and softly said, “Good night Nikki, I love you.  Good night Jesus, I love you.”  She pulled two quilts over her daughter and tucked them in around her tightly.  Nikki looked up at her mother and said, “Good night mama, I love you.  Good night Jesus, I love you.”  Victoria smiled as she turned Nikki’s bedroom light off and walked into the living room.  The cold December air made its way inside through the many cracks in the house’s foundation.  Victoria wrapped herself tightly in her bathrobe and put on her thick worn socks.  The only kerosene heater was in Nikki’s bedroom and Victoria wouldn’t have it any other way.  The winter breeze picked up outside and Victoria hugged herself as she shivered.  A blast of cold air pushed from underneath the front door.  Victoria stood and pushed the wadded up quilt tighter into the crack between the floor and the base of the door.

            Winter hadn’t been easy for Victoria and her four-year-old daughter.  As a matter of fact, autumn, summer, and spring weren’t easy either.  Victoria sat and wondered why winter seemed to be the hardest and how she was finally beginning to break under the pressure of being a single mom.  Although Victoria was often so strong for Nikki, she realized that she couldn’t hold everything in forever.  One by one the tears began to fall down her cold face, offering a bit of warmth and comfort to her cheeks.  She was only twenty-one-years-old. Most women her age were graduating college and getting a fresh new life.  Victoria thought of her teenage pregnancy and how in the moment the pregnancy test showed positive she was handed a different life.  She never regretted having Nikki, she just wondered what life could have been like if she would have waited to have a child.

            Victoria wiped the tears from her eyes and breathed in heavily and let the warm air out slowly, watching how it formed a cloud when it hit the cold air.  Being a single mom was the most difficult thing Victoria had ever done.  She was still learning to take care of herself as she was learning to take care of Nikki.  Her toes were still cold inside of her socks so she tucked her feet in between the couch cushions to warm them.  Victoria had recently become a Christian.  She was still in the process of figuring out what all of it meant.  All she knew was that her heart changed upon making that decision even if the circumstances of her life hadn’t.  Nikki’s father had left when Victoria became a Christian.  In the weeks following her choice, it seemed like things had gotten more difficult instead of easier. 

            Winter nights like these reminded her that she and Nikki were poor.  The small house was as unsteady as Victoria’s life, creaking and sometimes shaking beneath the storms.  Victoria was reminded that there wasn’t enough heat to keep both of them warm.  She got up and walked to the refrigerator opening it only to find a pack of hotdogs and a couple slices of cheese which would be Nikki’s breakfast in the morning.  The coldness on her feet sent shivers through her body and she walked back to the living room to sit down.  She looked around and saw the crafts that she had made from old quilts in hopes to sell them to an Antique store in town.  She had always appreciated art and would have gone to college to become an art teacher if Nikki hadn’t come along. It was during her senior year, when her class mates were deciding which college they wanted to apply for that Victoria was choosing an OB-GYN and a paint color for the nursery.

            The crafts were simple to make and she hoped that they would create an income.  A friend of Victoria’s had given her the supplies needed to make the crafts.  She was able to make them with no cost.  She had crafted angels from the quilts.  Each angel had a dress crafted from the quilt as well as beautiful wings with small buttons sewn in sporadically.  Their heads were covered with Spanish moss for hair and small lace doilies lined the collar of the quilt dresses.  Vikki looked at the angels and wondered not only if they were going to make her any money, but if angels in general were real.  Had God given her this life without any help at all?  Victoria heard Nikki call for her, “Mama! I’m still cold!” Victoria stood and walked into Nikki’s room and got into bed with her.  The wind blew with a vengeance outside.

            “Mama, why is it still cold?” Nikki asked.

 Victoria took Nikki’s small body in her arms and held her tightly as a tear fell down her cheek. 

“It’s cold because it has to be cold for Santa to come this year.  Santa can’t come to Tennessee if it’s warm.” Victoria said.

“Oh, ok.  Well, maybe he will come here tonight because it’s really cold!” Nikki said as she nuzzled into Victoria’s neck.

Victoria hugged Nikki tighter and prayed a small prayer in her mind.

God, I’m new to this.  I don’t really know what to say or know what to ask for.  All I know is that I need your help.  I can’t do this on my own.  God, send me angels to take care of us.  Help me to be the best mom that I can be.  Nikki is four, but I’m still learning how to be a mom.  I’m so tired.  I need your help.  Keep us safe and warm tonight.

Victoria woke up the next morning and nothing externally had changed.  The room was still frigidly cold and the kerosene had run out in the heater during the night.  Victoria moved Nikki quietly without waking her.  Nikki sighed softly and hugged onto the teddy bear at her side.  Victoria walked into the kitchen and started cooking the hotdogs for breakfast.  She didn’t know where the next meal or more kerosene for the heater would come from, but there was peace in her heart.  She walked by one of the angels she had made and knew that one of God’s own was with her and Nikki.

Victoria’s crafting idea really paid off.  She was able to sell her first angels to the antique shop in town.  Victoria was then invited by the owner to take place in the town craft show.  Opportunities later arose for Victoria’s crafts to be sold in other antique stores both locally and out of state.  Through making the crafts, Victoria was able to pay monthly bills on time and just as importantly make friends that would provide a strong support network to her and Nikki.  If and when bills couldn’t be paid God always provided through someone at church.  At the end of the day, Victoria was still a single mom, but her hope was rooted in something bigger than herself and her abilities.

Victoria eventually married again and had four more beautiful children. Victoria continues to make her crafts and participates annually in craft shows.  Her business has grown a lot and her products have expanded.  But you can still find her angels with their quilt dresses and wings.  They haven’t changed since the first one that she made and neither has the verse that she displays on the back of their wings.  In delicate feminine handwriting is written: Philippians 4:13.

“I can do all this through him who gives me strength.” Philippians 4:13

Fallen

Fallen leaves
Come to shore
On sand of lakes-murky water
Beneath a sky of pure and perfect blue
She waits for him to come to shore
On sand of time-broken dreams
Her patience wears thin
Hope escapes her in the waiting
Of what can be true
She waits alone
With leaves
On sand of lakes-murky water

Mosaic is Vogue

 

 Broken pieces are held together by mortar and clay. Catching the sun's light, they shine and display their spectrum of colors. Their beauty is found in the eye of the beholder and to some they prove beautiful; to others they prove broken. Small pieces and larger ones arranged in disarray and hectic proportions.

  She is made up of mosaic pieces that have collected on her since the day she was born. Through unforeseen circumstances and unavoidable collisions, she has become broken.  She did not shatter like a rare vase when it is dropped onto unforgiving concrete; she broke one piece at a time like melting ice off of a glacier. She did not realize the depths of the damage until one piece slid off of her life, exposing her to the cold elements of heart break- true and dark heart break. 

 With broken pieces lying around her- jagged and miscellaneous, she picked them up one by one and held onto them through bruised and weak hands.  What was she to do with such a collection?  She carried pieces of herself around, but they were just that-pieces.  She had forgotten what it was like to be whole, to be loved, to be herself.  And with only pieces to look to for reference, she could only yearn to remember the full picture.  So, day and night and every hour between, she grieved over what had been broken and stripped from her. 

 
Through her scratched and blurry lens, she could only see that others had so much more than she had.  Other women were beautiful, never lacking, and most importantly whole.  She cowered in their shadows they cast over her.  She closed her eyes to their perfection and yearned to be whole again just as they were.  As she walked passed each embodiment of perfection, the sound of broken pieces of herself resounded in her ears. With each rhythmic step she heard:

You.

Are.

Not.

Whole.

You.

Lack.

It.

All.

You.

Are.

Not.

Loved.

You.

Are.

Still.

Broken.

   Her heart had hardened to the words that she told herself, they had become every bit as true as the color of her own eyes.  As she lay in her bed at night; the pieces of her past jabbed at her side and prevented her to dream of her future. With each toss and turn, she agonized over where she had been and where she longed to be. With each breath in and out, she tried to replace what was broken for the exchange of something whole. What replaced her exhalation of bad thoughts, though were the same bad thoughts-she breathed recycled air.

  One day, a larger piece broke and with it her spirit resigned.  She picked up the broken piece and with new determination tried to make something out of it.  She arranged the pieces of past and present into a pattern with the hope that it would work out.  Beneath the potter's hand, her heart was softened and a love stronger than mortar or clay replaced her weakened foundation.  Every piece of hurt and every jagged painful memory coincided with one another and unified in the new creation. 

 
As she walked by those that had embodied perfection to her previously, she realized the small broken pieces that were being carried in their arms. The realization that everyone is broken had never occurred to her. She was able to see that brokenness is only what one allows it to be. Broken pieces can be reminders of how something used to be, or they can be small pieces to a new and bigger picture. She realized that carrying brokenness and wearing it were two different things. Wearing her brokenness allowed her to empty her hands and to help others.

  Brokenness isn't a state of beauty, but one of weakness.

  It's weak to strive for beauty in any other way than by dealing with brokenness.

   Be a mosaic beauty.

Let Go And Let God?

   I will be going to my fourth doctor's appointment in two weeks today.  I am filled with the same feelings that come with each appointment: anxiety, worry, and hope.  There is an internal struggle in me to trust God, but also to not get my hopes up.  I'm sure that the Christian cliche' saying "Let go and let God" hasn't gone unheard by many of you.  I struggle with the popular saying because it's thrown around in the Christian community carelessly and without much thought.  Let go and let God?  Some days I'd rather people just speak from the heart instead of throwing rehearsed sayings at each other.  It lacks depth and sincerity. 

  I have realized, too, that I have become a tough woman and that I often relapse into my own strength without including God in on the equation.  I wish that I were tough like the ladies on 'Steel Magnolias' and that even something as tragic as the death of loved one could be handled with class and strength for at least a little while.  I'm strong in another way- a stubborn way.  I do what I can and then ask God to help with the rest. In the Christian community  there are cliche' sayings that are meant to bring comfort; but in the end seem hollow.  I am a Christian and I love God without a doubt.  I just can't be content with the norm of Christian circles because sometimes it lacks authenticity.  "Let go and let God?"- I'm not so sure that God wants that for us.  Of course we should trust him and love him enough to allow him to guide us, but that saying seems to make God out to be a control freak.  I believe that God helps us in our journey.  God is something that most Christians are not : hands on.  Maybe he doesn't demand that we give up our free will only to let him come in and take over.  Maybe his love for us is demonstrated more when we invite him in to the situation, heartache, confusion; and allow him to be present.

   I was thinking of the nervousness that I have about my appointment and the hope that is hinging on it.  "Let go and let God." came to my mind and I wrestled with it because I don't think that is God's heart for me right now.  I believe that God does want me to surrender control of my health, but I also feel that I still have a lot of responsibility.  It is still my responsibility to care for myself, take the right steps to advocate for my health, and to trust God.  I just don't believe that telling someone to "Let go and let God" covers the bases of their pain nor does it reveal a compassionate listener.  Why do we say the things that we say as Christians?  I believe a lot of it has to do with being taught what to say and hearing Christian lingo that is meant to convey our spirituality.

  I hope that as a Christian I can establish a personal relationship with God and not one full of jargon, "to do lists", and empty spirituality.  God wants the same for all of us.  Today's appointment is in God's hands, but he is present with me- we are a team.

The Time My Mother-In-Law Made Me Cry

   It's not what you think. She didn't insult me or punch me in the face.  She wasn't rude or sarcastic like Marie on 'Everybody Loves Raymond'.  We didn't go back and forth with pranks and harsh stares like on 'Monster-In-Law'. She doesn't laugh sadistically like Jane Fonda and I don't look like Jennifer Lopez.

   This morning, I called my mother-in-law to check in on her (and to apologize for upsetting her yesterday, there...I admit it, I'm mean!).  The conversation went in a totally different direction and it couldn't have turned out any better than it did.  God really used her to show me things in my life that have gone ignored.  I know that I did one blog entry already today and this one pretty much picks up where the other one left off.  My mother-in-law share with me how that she wants to know what is going on in my life, but that I seem to push family away; she is right.  I sit around and feel sorry for myself wondering why no one is there for me when all along people are calling to check on me and sending me their love. 

  Ugh! Why do I do this?  Well, she helped me to discover the answer to that, too. The fact is that I feel like I am a burden to the people that love me most.  That is a lie that I have believed for a long time, now.  I mentioned some of this in my last post, but everything was confirmed in my conversation with Ma. I have felt that people are too busy, too worried, or too confused by my situation to care.  It isn't that way at all.  I have a nasty habit of pushing love away. Surely I'm not the only one, though...right?  We all push love and blessing away at some point in our lives.  I can express love all day and be a support and encouragement to those that I love, but accepting the same in return is something all together different.  I believe that it stems from two deep-rooted issues:

1) Pride- feeling that I am self-sufficient I don't need them because I can do this myself.

2)Feeling unworthy- feeling that I don't deserve love and support. They shouldn't have to hear about my issues when they have so many things going on.

 So, it all becomes a tangled up mess of nastiness and in the end I haven't been helped at all because no one ever knew that I needed it.  So, Ma, thank you for making me cry with the realization that I am adored and that nothing-and I mean nothing-can take the support of family from me.

I cannot do it alone. (None of us can)
I am loved. (All of us are)
I need help from my family. (All of us do)

Confessions of a Tired Girl

  Matt always jokes with me saying that I am like a toddler- when I get tired, hungry, or hurt I throw a proper tantrum. Lucky guy, getting to marry me and all. : ) Anyway, I have been on a two month tantrum and because of that, I have become even more exhausted than I was before with whatever is going on with my body.  I have felt as if I've been in a deep state of depression although I have masked it with humor, smiles, and hobbies that I enjoy.

 My MRI results came back normal. I cannot even tell you how thankful I am about that! With the new symptoms that I've picked up on this journey of being ill, I was concerned that something would show on the MRI.  Upon hearing the news, though, part of me was disappointed.  I'm not sure that many people will understand this unless you have gone through an undiagnosed or chronic illness.  I have put my hope in the hands of many doctors and each time they have come back with hands empty of answers or resolve for my situation.  Feeling horrible daily and not having any answers is enough to drive any person crazy. 

  Thankfully, I had my best friend and her husband here the day that I got my MRI done.  They were waiting for me at home and as I walked through our front door, I was able to release the anxiety from the appointment into a hug and a very fun and busy weekend.  The timing of their visit couldn't have fallen any better and having them here filled me with joy to push me along on this difficult road.  My health didn't necessarily come up in conversation; it didn't have to.  The presence of friends gave me the dose of encouragement that I needed.

  Fast forward to  Monday when I got the call that the results came back normal.  I got the call and although I was relieved, I couldn't help but to cry.  I cried because I don't just want a process of elimination, I want answers.  I want a diagnosis more than I even want to get well. It's the not knowing that drives me up the wall; fills me with anxiety and depression.  I made an appointment with my doctor and talked with her openly about how I've been feeling emotionally.  I looked at her and through tears I told her that I'm giving up.  She smiled patiently at me and said, "No, I know you're not giving up because you are here." I didn't get a prescription for anti-depressants because I had a horrible reaction to the last one I was on.  She did talk to me about seeking out a counselor and beginning the counseling process again..

   I realized the irony of my situation as I was trying to fall asleep last night.  I want so badly to get well, but I haven't been taking proper care of myself.  I eat, sleep, and drink like anyone needs to survive, but I have pushed myself down into a pit and I haven't bothered getting out.  I am a people person and anyone that knows me recognizes that. Through this lull of unanswered questions and at times what I feel are unanswered prayers, I have given up little by little.  My resignation has been subtle and quiet.  I don't return calls from friends, I turn down invitations to go out, I obsess over what people think of me; and all of this has worn me out!  Slowly, I have created my own little world where only my illness and I reside.  Occasionally, I allow Matt in and other loved ones, but with a paranoid spirit. They don't really think I'm sick.  I'm not as fun to be around as I used to be. I'm less of a person than I used to be. Everyone would be better off without me.

  Last night, all of this came into focus and I realized something really unsettling- I've been letting my life pass me by.  My illness can only rob me of things if I allow it to.  People that don't think I'm really ill and aren't going to support me possibly don't belong in my life anyway.  At the same time, the people that are supporting me can't be pushed away from me anymore. Why? Because I realize that this whole situation is bigger than I am and God has given me friends and family to speak into my life and carry me when I can't walk.  My writing can only suffer from my illness if I lock my passion, pen, and paper into a closet and allow all three to collect dust.  My marriage doesn't always feel fair- I feel that Matt holds both of us up most of the time.  My illness can only weaken our marriage if I allow my negative thoughts and insecurities wrap themselves around me.  Marriage is team work and if this trial has taught Matt and I anything it is that we literally cannot get through tough stuff without doing it together.

   I determined in my heart last night that I will allow God and others to carry me through this.  I can't do it alone and sitting in my desperation and depression isn't an option anymore.  I have to take better care of myself because people are depending on me. I can't sell myself short and think that this is all there is to me- that I'm some half-person with half-dreams and no ambition or purpose. I'm kicking this pity party to the curb! If I get well then thank God and if not, then he is no less God than I am less his.

  I decided that I needed tangible things to do in order to carry on my new attitude. Something that has been a huge struggle for me is establishing a routine.  Since I have no idea what my day to day will look like or how I will feel any given day, it's been difficult to have a routine or anything that resembles a routine.  Something that has been nearly impossible to tackle is exercise.  I set me alarm last night for the first time in months. I usually sleep as much as my body needs and then stumble through my day.

 This morning, I woke up at 7:30, 15 minutes before my alarm was due to go off, got dressed in my work-out gear and hit the road for an early morning jog. I jogged with the help of listening to The Bravery and Ok Go. I realized how out of shape I have gotten over the past year.  Being skinny doesn't mean you're in shape at all! I was breathing like I had run a 5K and my legs felt like jello. I was weak and shaking like a baby deer. Ha Ha! I jogged half a mile and then walked the half mile back home. As soon as I hit the drive way, I nearly cried because I was so proud of myself. It felt SO GOOD to push myself and go through with the jog. This accomplishment was HUGE for me!

  When I got inside, I showered and then made myself a 3 egg white breakfast and drank my vitamin supplement.  I'm going to make sure I eat a healthy lunch with substance to it.  I am exhausted just from what the past three hours has brought, but the important thing is that I did it! I didn't do it for anyone else other than myself and that in itself is another huge accomplishment.  With the low self-esteem I have carried around with me, doing something for myself was a huge step in the right direction.

  I am sorry to those of you that I have distanced myself from.  I am working on gaining myself back and working on friendships and relationships that have weakened because of my depression. Thank you to everyone for your love and your support.  Matt, I love you and I cannot tell you how thankful I am to you for believing in me and pointing me back in the right direction when I am feeling lost and worthless.

 If any one needs accountability in creating a routine or needs to chat about any similar things that I wrote about please talk to me. I don't just write to get things off of my chest, I also write in hopes to help others.

With love. xoxo

Designs by Newbauer

  Matt and I moved to Virginia in July and moved into a house.  We went from living in a 2 bedroom apartment in Concord, New Hampshire to living in a 4 bedroom house!  It didn't take long to realize that we didn't have enough furniture to fill the house or enough artwork and pictures for the walls.  Being in the transitional stages of making the move and also living on one income, we knew that the thrifty parts of our brain would have to kick in if we wanted to make the house a home.

  Being thrifty is something that Matt and I really enjoy, so we made a game out of it.  We took what little money we had and set out to see how inventive we could be.  We expect a call from Donald Trump to be his next apprentice! Between ideas of our own and the freebies from family- we hit the jack pot!  If any of you know my mama and my papaw they have just about anything you will ever need to decorate a house.  Yard sales are prevalent in their area so they are always grabbing good finds.  Decorating on a tight budget isn't as bad as it may seem- you just need a little creativity, teamwork, and coffee as needed!

 Matt and I have a personal style of decorating like every one does.  Our goal with the house was to make it as welcoming and comfortable as possible since we love hosting out of town (sometimes out of country) guests. We wanted to make it especially welcoming to family since we hadn't had the opportunity to live close to family and host them until now. We wanted to avoid over-crowding the walls, shelves, and tables with excess decorations to give the house a relaxing atmosphere.  With little money and a lot of space to cover, we also didn't want the walls to look bare and cold. I'm really proud of the solutions that we found.

Below are two art pieces hanging in our living room.  These frames are simple white frames that we bought at IKEA for $2.99/each.  Inside the frame, I displayed sheets of scrap booking paper that I found at Michael's for .89/each! That's less than $5 for this project! I simply cut the paper to size and put it in the frame. This was a cheap alternative to buying a 'travel theme' art piece. We made our own! Craft stores have plenty of scrap booking paper to choose from- There are a lot of themes and colors to choose from.  This also makes your art pieces easy to switch out when you get tired of them.

The one below is one that is going to be used in our kitchen (yes, it is turned the wrong way-sorry!):

The photo below is an old advert from a 1950's National Geographic Magazine. The magazines were bought at a yard sale for only .25/each! Total cost of this project is les than $3.00! The advert reads: How to win the battle of the bulge. Perfectly ironic for a kitchen art piece!

For the office, we knew exactly what we wanted.  We wanted to do a clash of modern meets antique.  It was important to us to use bold colors and make it a good work environment. Matt and I wanted to use this room to incorporate all things English since that is where our story together began.

This antique typewriter was given to us by my papaw. The 'Nat. Geo.' magazines (1951-1959) were $2.00 for all of them! The table is from IKEA and was $7.00. That means that this little nook was less than $10 to create!

Our English Office is coming together nicely. More photos to follow.  The desk wasn't what we had wanted in the first place.  Originally, I wanted a HUGE oak antique desk, but with difficulty being able to locate what I wanted for the price we needed, we threw out the idea and went for something a little more modern. We found this IKEA desk at a Habitat for Humanity store for less than half the price they are sold for at IKEA! We scored the desk for $50, which was a great price for something we are going to use and keep for a very long time! The gray paint was left for us by my mother-in-law (thanks Ma!). The other three walls are painted a neutral cream color which gives the room a bold look-having the gray wall stick out. The only thing bought at full price in this room was the painting on the wall and the red desk chair-total of both together was less than $70!

*I will include more photos of the office soon!*

                 So, there you have it!  You can decorate any space with little money and little effort.

Thank You

      Thank you to every one that has been praying for me today.  I woke up this morning to a lot of lovely texts and messages on Facebook; I was so very thankful! My appointment went well today and the doctor took the time to listen to me.  I impressed he and his office with the preparations that I had made for my appointment.  I walked in with my complete medical files (about 400 pages) and a typed out list of my symptoms.  He laughed at me and said that people never come to appointments prepared like that.  I told him that I was my own advocate and that I'm working very hard to get to the bottom of what's going on with my body.

       My initial exam didn't show any signs of neurological problems. I had to touch my finger to my nose, walk a straight line, and bend over and stand up straight again.  It was just like a sobriety test! I only know that because I live with a cop, I promise!  Anyway, he said that my symptoms are unusual (duh) and that he wants me to have a MRI to see if they can find any indication that I may have MS.  He said my symptoms don't align totally with MS since I have never lost my vision or had blurred vision.  The MRI will detect any abnormalities that could be there.  It's really all a process of elimination.  I don't have much to share other than that.  My MRI is scheduled for next week as well as the follow-up appointment with the doctor. 

       Matt was able to catch the tail end of my appointment and just having him there with me for those last few minutes really strengthened me.  I left my appointment one step ahead of myself-wondering what will happen if they don't find anything on the MRI;wondering what will happen if no body ever figures out what is going on with my body.  I really had to rely on God in that moment.  It wasn't a super spiritual moment and my heart wasn't fully at peace, but I just took in a deep breath and tried to focus on the moment instead of those moments to come.

       I left the office and on my way home I got pulled over by a police officer because I didn't come to a complete stop at a stop sign (stupid-don't try it).  I fully expected the whole situation to send me over the edge and into a crying fit, but all I could do was laugh.  I have to go to driving school now which is really ironic since I'm married to a cop.  I asked Matt if he could just give me lessons, but he didn't think it was funny. 

       So, thank you to every one that supported me today and will continue to support me through this.  I choose to share my health concerns with you for two reasons: one is because I got to the point where I really needed to reach out and ask for prayer and support; the other reason is I hope that I can help someone else that my be in a situation similar to mine. To all of you- thank you.

When Holding On To Hope Exhausts You

   
                When asked how she got through the horrible ordeal she lifted her eyes slightly allowing the light to illuminate them; showing the small specks of green swimming in the blue of the iris.  Her mouth was relaxed and slightly open at the question like she had to breathe in an answer and then exhale it slowly.  With a sigh and the relaxation of her shoulders she leaned forward on her chair;allowing the light to completely shine on her face.  Her red hair beneath the light was shiny like it was made of a golden-auburn thread. Her hair looked natural, and the fact that she had bought it in a wig shop in the next city over was not obvious.  Her lips parted and a smile stretched gently over her pale and weathered face. 

             "I just did." she answered. "I just woke up every morning and focused on getting through that day."

                 Her body was frail and the chair that she sat on looked stronger than she was.  She played with the rings on her left hand, a modest engagement ring and a thin gold band.  She smiled nervously as she waited for the next question.  The interviewer hesitated for a moment as he looked at the paper in his lap; then continued.

 "Did you know that you were going to survive?"

"Know?  I don't suppose anyone really knows if they will survive cancer, but I would say that I didn't doubt that I would survive."

 "Can you explain that?"

        She shifted in her seat and twisted her engagement ring and wedding band to the left; then the right.

"I was just hopeful.  I was never sure that I would live through it, but I chose to do my best and make the best of it.  I told my husband that I may not be here to celebrate our next anniversary, but it wouldn't be because I gave up hope."

"Hmmm, I see.  So, Rachel how did you hold on to hope?  Most people in your situation would probably fall into a deep depression."

         Rachel, without thinking softly said, "It's a choice.  Just like cancer, hope knows no limits, age, race, or walk of life.  I would lay in my bed some days and spend that entire day grieving my condition, but at the end of the day when I closed my eyes to sleep I was still hopeful. It was exhausting to be fighting a horrible illness and my own depression; I held on, though."

"What would you tell others that are going through what you have been through?"

        Rachel twisted her rings once more and cleared her throat as tears formed in her eyes.  She looked down at her rings and then back up at the camera.

"Hope is yours to have; although it may exhaust you to hold on tightly to it, don't let go. When holding onto hope exhausts you, it will always give you the strength you need."

        
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     The strange thing about this blog is that it turned out totally different than I had intended.  I have an important doctor's appointment tomorrow.  It has been a long 3 years of trying to figure out what has been going on with my body.  These past few days have been the worst that my body has seen in a long time.  I'm happy to have an appointment, but as always I become anxious before an appointment.  My intention with this blog was to get on here and ask for every one's prayers for tomorrow's appointment.  I have been to so many doctors and with each one I have become so full of hope only to be let down with them not finding an answer.

   I have been thinking that if this next doctor doesn't find anything then I'm just going to throw my arms up in the air and quit.  I'll be devastated and just give up.  I'll stop trying to figure it all out and fall into an even deeper pit of despair.  Sounds so dramatic, right? 
  
    Well, I got on here to write and all of a sudden I was imagining this woman in my mind sitting down on the other side of her illness.  I pictured a survivor of cancer and the words that she may have to share with those that are going through an illness.  I realize that people are fighting illness every day; they have stories to share.  If I give up on myself and the doctors that are trying to help me then I may never be someone else's story of hope.  I pray to God that they find out what is wrong with me because honestly, I am so exhausted from getting hopes up and then having them crushed.

     As Rachel said, though, "Hope is yours to have; although it may exhaust you to hold on tightly to it, don't let go. When holding on to hope exhausts you, it will always give you the strength you need."