This girl, she is quite the lady. Lucky boy that Trav is.
If you want to know how stellar she is, I will tell you. Once upon a time we lived slash played slash worked together in a place known for it's afternoon rain storms. Well, one day the scheduled afternoon rain storm started a little earlier than anticipated and did not go away as it normally does. Did that stop that girl from doing her duty? Nope. And I had no choice but to follow her lead. Running. Screaming. Soaking. From run down trailer to run down trailer. And I didn't even mind. EXCEPT for when we met some peeps who were packing to go to DisneyWorld. Hello?! Take us with you. But they wouldn't. Rude. After they drove away my heart was re-softened and we continued our crazy sprint through the trailer park.
The proof is in the pictures ladies and gents. You don't look like a wet dog from playing in the sunshine. Actually, that's false. 98% humidity sunshine makes you kinda dog-ish, too. But you know what I mean.
And Trav. What a winner that boy is. One time after talking to a pleasant old man named Bob (Who had a psychotic break right in front of my eyes once. Weird.) with another gal pal I was made to spread the Good Word with, we came back to our car only find that all four of our hubcaps were mysteriously gone. Thankfully Trav drove the exact.same. type of car so being the handy girls we were, next time we saw his car we popped off his and (re)placed them nicely onto ours. He didn't even mind. That much. Some how by the next day he had a full set of hubcaps as well. He's just good like that. And we won't even talk about the time he broke into our apartment and graciously unscrewed all of our light bulbs for us. No bigs. We liked the dark anyway. But in all honesty, Trav is pretty great. He helped me through a lot of hard times. AND we made a pact on Christmas day 2011 on the beach in the great Sunshine state that should neither of us be married in 5 years we would marry each other (Lucky for him, he could talk Sara into loving him).
The Beach. The day the pact was made. Trav is second from the right. Black shirt.
Two people that day asked if I was ok that they were marrying each other. Girl, was I ok? Better than ok. Ecstatic could even be used. Just so dang happy for them. If there were two people meant more for each other than these two I would like to meet them. Because I won't believe it until I see it with my own eyes. To make a long story short, if Trav was to marry anyone but me, you better believe Sara would be my #1 pick. How could you not love this?
Not only was it a super great day because Trav and Sara made it eternal, but because I got to see like 10 of my most favorite of all people in the history of ever. It was possibly the best night of my life ever since the last time I saw all of them. Which was... too long ago. Seriously. The amount and caliber of hugs given was nearly more than this girl could take. Tear or two? You bet they were shed. There was just so much dang love, it was hard to even control myself.
And then it was time to leave.
I kind of had to go pee, but I figured I could probs hold it. Not really thinking that I was an hour from home and didn't know the condition the freeway. Sometimes it rocks six lanes like an all-star and sometimes it rocks one. Like a loser. One never really knows how long it will take to get anywhere by interstate these days. But I figured I would just chance it and hope it was smooth sailing.
(insert pointless story here: One time whilst I was receiving my college education I wrote 'spit' for an answer with which spit was correct. I got docked more points than the question was worth because I didn't use the worth saliva. That teach received the most hateful oh.no.you.dint. look that I have ever in my life produced. And I still don't forgive her. So now every time I blog about peeing (because it seems to be the common denominator these days) I think maybe I should put urine or something. Not. Urinated on myself: Not funny. Peed my pants: Funny. Take that Professor Poopy Pants)
Any who, on the way to the car I got to thinking that I hadn't peed relieved myself since I left the house that morning. Like 12+ hours before hand. The heck? People, that is Book of World Records status right there for me. So I figured I could handle one.more.hour. That was until I got my seat belt on and the car into drive. All of the sudden, out of nowhere, I had to pee like the whole face of human existence depended on me going right then and there. Thankfully, down the street a way, was The Sev (or 7-11 for those dumbos who don't know what The Sev is). I grabbed my bag and got out of my car in record time. I had made it to the bathroom just in time when I saw this:
Not that there wasn't another one I could use, because there was. But the sheer hilliariosity of this made me nearly die. I had to get a picture. I was standing there doing the potty dance trying to fish my phone out of the depths of despair of my bag when all of the sudden....
It didn't matter how fast I stopped looking for my phone or how fast I broke for the openededed toilet. It happened.
No fake pee sorcery here, my friends. Not fake at all.
No biggie. It happens to the best of us. Just know that if you're ever going to whisper sweet nothings into my ear, make sure it's on the right side.
It's like, whatev.
I'm seeing somebody about it.
And today, just for kicks and to waste a bunch of money, I got my brain scanned.
After arriving at the brain scanning place at the appointed time and hanging out with some weird peeps for a good little minute in the waiting room, a nice looking gentlemen walked through the door and I thought to myself 'self, that guy looks familiar... Wait a second, I know that guy.' He said my name so I hopped up and after an awkward first encounter we were on our way. I, in fact, did know him and used to hold his first born in church some times. for all intents and purposes, we'll call him Chad. It's a small world when you're getting your brain scanned.
Any who, I followed Chad back into the catacombs of the brain scanning joint. We discussed life and then he had to ask if I was pregnant. Which, let's be honest, I know Chad from church and if I was indeed pregnant I probs wouldn't have just come out and said it. Ifyaknowwhatimean. Lucky for him, and me, I'm not. At least I seriously hope not.
Whilst such discussions were taking place he stuck me with a big old needle and told me that the crap he was to inject me with later would make my insides hot. Starting in my neck. Then I would feel like I peed my pants.
Awesome.
I held as still as possible, which for me is no easy task, so Chad could properly scan my brain. When the first scan was completed he came back in and started whatever contrasting material was needed. The following dialogue took place between good man Chad and I:
Chad: "In 30 - 45 seconds, depending on how fast your heart is beating, you'll feel like you peed your pants"
Lauren: "Am I really going to pee my pants?"
Chad: "Do you want to pee your pants?"
Lauren: "No, not particularly"
Chad: "Then no, you won't"
What I secretly was concerned about was that I had done some research on the interwebz (I seriously gotta stop doing that) which lead me to the knowledge that this radioactive material they insist upon injecting you with can cause puking to the tenth degree. Then I remembered how delicious lunch was and how undelicious slash scarring it would be to toss those cookies.
Before Chad could even get out the door and into his radiation safe room my neck got all hot and tingly and I started freaking that I might puke everywhere and as much as the insurance loves paying for my brain to get scanned, I didn't think they would so much love paying for a puked on CT machine on my behalf. Yikes. So I just held still as could be and tried not to think about those possibilities.
And then all the sudden I was peeing my pants.
The hell, Chad? You said I wasn't going to pee for real!
I had no choice but to just lay there as motionless as possible while I peed my pants. How embarrassing, right? You have no idea. Not only was I peeing my pants, but I knew this guy. Like, he was probs going to go home and tell his wife. And then they were going to tell everyone I know. And my life would be over.
He came back into the room I was like "Dude, I think I peed my pants for real". But like any good medical professional would do, he glanced in that direction and told me that I really hadn't. No Chad, you're wrong. I think I would be aware as to when I did and did not pee my pants. And there definitely had been pee. But really I was just like, whatever yo...
When he told me I would feel like I peed my pants I figured I would have the just peed my pants kinda warm and awkward sensation. Nay my friends, it was the full on there is pee coming out of me right now feeling. Like all those really sucky times when you lose the Race The Pee Home game (Oh, you don't ever lose? ... me neither ... *crickets*). And I could not believe this was happening to me.
Until I realized there really wasn't any pee to behold. And at least Chad wasn't a liar after all. But what kind of fake pee sorcery was this?
Seriously. Strangest feeling in all the land. I swear to all good things above that I had in all actuality peed right then and there. Nope. My good old bod faked me out. Which I don't particularly appreciate. Because what if some day I really am peeing but don't think I am? Horrifying. Now that I know what kind of tricks my body has stored away, I fear for my future. Pray for me.
If I was Chad I would every day tell people they had peed. Like "Dude. You didn't actually have to pee your pants. Now look what you've done. This is why we can't have nice things."
122 days ago I graduated from my institution of higher education
62 days ago I officially finished life as a college student
61 days ago I quit my job teaching babies to swim
50 days ago I quit my job saving lives
49 days ago I moved home
19 days ago I could breathe again
2 days ago I thought if I didn't put on pants I wouldn't be able to leave the house and if I couldn't leave the house I couldn't find fun things to do and if I couldn't find fun things to do I would be forced to stay at home and look for a job.
False.
Everyday when I wake up I lay in bed just 30 seconds shorter than the time it takes my mind to decide if I don't get up I'll pee my pants. I race the pee home so often that I figured I probs don't need to race it out of bed as well. TMI? Sorry.
Then my body just goes into autopilot mode and takes over. The shower gets turned on, the hair gets washed, the teeth get brushed, the body gets a good scrub down, the make up gets applied, the hair gets did, the pants get put on.
I can't not put pants on.
For the last 24 (maybe minus 2 from when I was but a wee lass) I have gotten up and put pants on. Or sometimes a skirt. In fact, for awhile it was nothing but a skirt. But clothes none the less.
And now I have nothing to do, yet I still put on pants. Which is weird, because I hate pants.
I need something to do.
Like a job maybe.
Because I have some serious spending habits that are crying inside because the bank account is just about run dry.
The other day I was talking to a dear friend of mine I met once upon a time in Florida. He asked me what kind of job I wanted. I told him one where I could sit around and be lovely and someone would pay me to do it. You know what he said? I will tell you (and I kid not) word for word:
"WOW!! Sit around? Then you are planning to be my WIFE!!"
....*crickets*....
We won't speak of the many reasons that this probably won't work out, except that the man is old enough to be my father. And not in a he was 15 when I was born way (because, in all actuality, i'm down with that kind of business). More in a he was at least as old as I am now when I made my earthly debut.
That and a lot of other things.
Seriously, why don't the boys here love me the way the grown men did in the great Sunshine state?
A few days ago I rediscovered this little gem from the mission days from a different wannabe male suitor:
Oh, you already knew that? No. No you didn't. Because this is new therapy that I need.
Remember that one time when I told you about Camp Kesem?
Yeah, it happened.
It was so incredibly amazing, I can't quite come up with the words for it.
Other than that I now need therapy, but we'll get to that.
Prior to Camp, if you asked me how I felt about it I would have gone into a rage blackout about how much I hated every minute of it and that it was ruining my life. Which, it turns out, it was. For the last six straight months I didn't sleep like a proper person. I didn't function like a proper person. I couldn't think like one either. It's a blessed miracle from The Good Man Above that I actually managed to graduate from college (word.) without having to be committed. And that's not even touching on what happened for the three weeks prior to camp, people. Every time my phone made any sort of vibrations or noises my blood pressure went straight through the roof and I would go into full on anxiety attack mode. Twas not a pleasant experience. (But if it did teach me one thing, it was the ability to make decisions and to make them quick. Which, if you know me, you know is not one of my specialties. I can't even decide what to wear to bed most nights, and that's why no pants are the best pants. kthanks.). And all of that doesn't even touch on how many times I was yelled at slash abandoned slash told I was completely incompetent slash left to my own devices.
In the midst of all the chaos I also had the privilege of figuring out how to feed 50 people 3 meals a day + snacks + paper products for a whole weeks time. Let me tell you what people, if you're wondering how this lazy creature could actually belong to my mother, know that I did all that for $1.53 a meal/person. Including the snacks and paper products and mass amounts of Tang (it turns out 12 year old boys really really like Tang. gagmewithaspoonusedtostirthattang). I am my mothers child after all. And if you don't know my mother, you don't know what I'm talking about. Which is sad, because everyone should know Catherine. And if you won't tell anyone, I'll tell you a secret: she did a whole lot of that meal planning/shopping list making/sale searching business. I, however, swiped the card thousands of dollars worth of times. It was quite nice. I could get used that.
Somehow along that path I lost my marbles. I think it may have been the 3am trip to WinCo after laying in bed for hours thinking about the price of rice. Literally. I couldn't sleep over rice. And a lot of other things, too. I firmly believe that was the night I snapped and went full blown crazy. And the crazies only got worse and worse as time went on.
I would like to take this time to apologize to anyone who encountered me in the last month. Don't worry, I'm better now. My mother herself even stated that she was glad I would be back to normal old me. And all this time I hadn't realized how far away I had ridden the crazy train. For real. Sorry.
The Saturday before Camp was to commence I had the pleasure of picking up one young man who I had never laid eyes on in the history of my life from the airport. He was sent clear from rural Alaska to tame the crazy and put out the fires (metaphorical and real, I was so scared about the camp site burning to the ground in a forest fire induced blaze whilst we all slept peacefully dreaming of sugar plum fairies and s'mores and stuff). Before we even left the parking garage of the airport I let the crazy out on him which he kindly took in stride and saved the day on many occasions. What a champ. I maybe owe him my life practically. I just hope he never comes along asking for it. And here he and I are with our Camp Kesem TieDye badge of honor. At least that's what they kept saying it was:
Seriously, that boy saw more of my tears in the seven days I knew him that probably all of you minus my mother have ever seen in the history of ever all put together. It was ridiculous. And if he ever in his life stumbles upon this business: Thank you. For ever and always. I was about to apologize for all the tears but he also taught me to stop saying sorry unnecessarily. Thanks for that, too.
So anyway, I was a hot crazy mess. All the way until about 5:00pm on Sunday afternoon when we were actually on our way to camp. Then all of the sudden the crazies went away. I mean, I was still a hot crazy mess, but nothing like the three weeks prior. The feelings I had inside of not being panicked about everything in sight/sound/thought was so new and foreign and I had no idea what to do with them. So I ate sweedish fish and sour patch kids and corn nuts and trail mix and sang my heart out all the way to the middle of nowhere with the boy and my pal Sarah, affectionately known as Sparky whilst at camp. I also owe her my life. She saved the day like nobodies business. Word up girlfriend, thanks for dealing with the crazy and then coming to camp and making it happen.
The next morning we woke up and our magic little campers showed up. Slowly. One by one. Actually, more like a bunch by bunch because they came in families and car pools. And it was awesome. Highlight of the morning was when our resident six year old comedian was asked if he wanted to put his name Starfish, on a name tag. His response: "I don't know how to spell Starfish, I'm only six years old. Cut me some slack." Now imagine that in a six year old voice topped off with a baby lisp. So adorbs I almost died right then and there. He was the comic relief all week long.
And that's when the party started.
We sang
We danced
I cried
We played capture the flag
and pirate baseball
and sink the ship
and water balloon volleyball
and another game of capture the flag
I cried
We ate delicious food
and too many snacks
We made friends
and played more capture the flag
We laughed too much
and I continued to cry
We told jokes
We talked about cancer
and I kept on crying
and passed the tissues
and captured the flag again
We let our guard down
and played like kids should play
I cried some more
We drew pictures
and made paper canoes/teepees
We fell down and scraped out knees
and got a multitude of splinters
and had to have stitches removed but thankfully not put in
and I cried
We saw real live cowboys
and made ice cream
and planted seads
and I cried again
We cabin chatted
and empowerment programmed
and captured the flag over and over
And all the while I cried my eyes out.
Because my heart, it ached. Like nobodies business.
It ached for those kiddos. For their pain and their heartache. And for the fact that no ten year old should have the terminal in their vocabulary, let alone know what it means. Especially in reference to their parents. A six year old shouldn't be able to tell you the side effects of chemo. And no kid should worry about what their new born baby brother is doing while their mom has the scary surgery to get rid of the cancer while they came to camp.
And it ached because I remembered. I remembered things that I thought were long forgotten or that I just didn't have any memory of because after all, I was only six and six year olds don't understand and they don't know what's going on and they surely won't remember. My friends, I'm here to tell you they do. All those things put far back into the darkest corners of my mind came crashing back from the summer after kindergarten when my wonder woman of a mother fought her own cancer battle. 18 years later and I remember.
my mama and I at Camp. She was our camp therapist.
She's pretty great like that.
It ached for them because I know how the next 18 years of their life
will be. The worry and the anxiety and the panic that comes with every
doctors appointment and every good bye and every moment of every day
when they're not in control and don't know what's going on. Every worry that maybe mom or dad or both won't come home this time. And not just won't come home from the doctor or the hospital, but the worry that they won't come home from the grocery store or work or that they won't be there after school. It never goes away.
And that's why I need therapy.
But does it have to be like that? I don't know. Do they have to shove their childhood into the back of their minds, never to be remembered or thought of because of the pain and heartache that it brings back? Survival mode at it's finest, but I'm thinking it doesn't have to be like that. These kids, they're going to remember their experience at Camp Kesem. They're going to remember that instant connection they made with that one special friend (seriously, if you have never seen two 12 year old boys become instant best friends, I don't think you've truly ever lived. It's better than riding space mountain at Disneyland 37 times in a row. And I loooove space mountain). 18 years down the road when they hear someone 15 years their younger say "when my dad told us my mom had cancer..." will they be sucker punched in the gut with memories they thought didn't exist, or will they remember that time a little differently because they had a group of friends who knew and understood and loved them with a fierce love that only people who know can have?
I hope it's the latter. I pray for those sweet little ones that it's the second choice.
And I would take a ride around the crazy block 23984 more times to make sure that the 29 of them that joined us this summer had the experience they did. Because in the end, it was all worth it. All the tears? Worth it. All the sleepless nights? Worth it. All the times I was yelled at? Worth it. All the fundraisers we desperately put together to get those kids there? Worth it. All the days spent sitting in class but learning nothing because I was praying my heart out that some how it would work? Worth it. All the crazy panic and anxiety? Worth it. The therapy I'm going to need from this experience? Totally worth it, I can already tell.
And I would do it again in a heart beat.
One camper put it quite perfectly with this picture:
Yes we are little one, yes we are.
I hope that when they turn the ripe old age of 24 that they will look back at the experiences that they are going through now and remember how very very strong and incredibly brave they are. How fierce they must be to hold themselves the way they do. How much more empathy and love they have for other people because they know what it feels like to fight back the tears and press on with courage beyond their current 10 years.
I can only imagine what the last 18 years of my life would have been like if I had had the opportunity and experience to take part in something like Camp Kesem. What would it have done for me? In 18 years I hope I can see these kids again, see where they have been and what they have become and the power that they have. Because even after just 5 days with them, they changed me. More than you or I will ever in this life know.
And for that I will always be grateful
**if you're interested in making a difference and helping make Camp Kesem happen next year, please ask me how. There might even be a local chapter where you are at that you can get involved with.
Remember back last summer when I wrote a kindly worded letter to the parents at my pool? Well, I've done it again. Version 2.0. One year later (and in case you're interested in the original you can read it here)
Dear Parents at The Pool 2.0,
Remember how I'm so incredibly baby hungry, it hurts? The next child that I see sleeping alone on the deck will be taken as my own. A car seat isn't dead bolted to the ground, some body could just come along and pick it up. And it might be me.
Please continue to yell at me about having to go down the slide before your four year old. I am really enjoying it. Just keep in mind that if you throw them down the slide and they drown before you get there, that's your bad.
And while you're yelling, make sure to let us know how angry it makes you that we clear the pool every hour for 5 minutes to give you a chance to take your kid to the bathroom and for us to make sure there isn't anything mysterious floating around in there (i.e. poops). And when we have to close the pool for the rest of the day because someone didn't take advantage of such breaks, please yell some more.
Get out all your anger. Right here. At me.
When you over hear guards talking about the a-hole at the pool and you know you're being a d-bag, just assume we're talking about you. Because we are. After all, we do talk about you and all the dumb things you and your children do.
If we know your kids name it's for one of three reasons: 1. they spend too much time at the pool. 2. they are incredibly charming and will make sweet talk with the guards to get what they want. 3. they have been in our swim lesson class. Don't be alarmed, we aren't creepy stalkers.
But speaking of creepy stalkers, if you knew what type of adults come to the pool for no particular reason you would never drop your kids off to swim alone. Ever. Again.
That too big one piece swim suit you've got your little girl in is definitely more immodest than the two piece that fits the girl sitting next to her.
The naked pinup girl tattoo you have on your back makes you look incredibly awesome. Like a real good, upstanding citizen. And if we're staring at you every time you come past us in the lazy river, 9 times out of 10 it's because we're trying to figure out what else you have inked on your body.
If we blow our whistle and point at your children don't just stand there like a nincampoop. Make them stop climbing up the slide/going over the wall/hanging on the rope/drowning.
When your kid has the privilege of getting saved three times in two weeks please stop telling us to stop going in after them and that they know how to swim. No, clearly they don't. And you need to pay better attention.
Don't lie about your kids age just so they get a big kid wrist band. We'll figure out sooner than later how old they really are. Then things really won't be pretty.
Life jackets are not baby sitters. Stop treating them as such.
We will not recognize you and your children in public, but if you approach us first we eventually will figure it out. If you took off your clothes we would remember a lot faster.
And if I hear another child (particularly in swim lessons) say that they can't do something, that they don't know how, that they are not good at it, that they are just a little baby/scaredy cat, they don't know how to do anything right, I will come after you. The parent. Stop teaching your kids before they are even 5 that they aren't good at something. They are 5. Not bad. Remember that.
Happy Fathers Day! I would go ahead and say that you are the best daddy in the whole world but then people would say that their daddy is better which just makes me mad. Like you always say, nothing is more annoying than people who think they know everything to those of us who do. Or something like that. Anyway, I was going to send you a card and the worlds best gift but I forgot. The brain tumor, remember? Sorry. So instead I thought I would send you an e-card since you're so tech savvy these days. But I couldn't decide which one. Instead you get a blog full of them. Love? yes.
Let's be honest. If the looks weren't enough (although the older I get the more I turn into my mother) your political ideas have been embedded in my DNA. Am I your most conservative child? Yes. I believe I am.
I'm sure you're going to get so many from all your other children today, wouldn't want to burden you with any other junk.
Nobody likes a prostitute. Not even me (not that I know any. Personally at least). The truth is, I'm actually not that creative anyway. Must mean the emotional baggage was kept to a minimum. Good for you daddy, good for you.
Seriously, you're the best.
You guys (not you dad, all the other millions of people who are reading this), not many people know this. In fact, I didn't even know until just a short while ago, but my dad is like a boy guru. He knows everything. And he's so smart. I would show you a picture of the text conversation we had the other day about a certain boy but then you would know who it was and that might not be pretty. So I'll just tell you here so I can sensor it all. Ready? OK. We were discussing boys when the following happened:
Him: You should let every YM know that if he trifles with the princesses feelings, he will feel the wrath of the king. Me: I wouldn't let any boy trifle with my feelings, especially not the bad ones. Him: You are pretty dang smart, it didn't take you long to figure out *********** Me: That he's a bad one? Because he is. Him: I don't know how bad he is but he is certainly more interested in himself than anyone else. Just apply the same evaluation criteria you used on him to the rest of them.
How wise is he, right? Seriously, so wise. I should have been asking him for boy advice ages ago.
You see what I'm saying?
I enjoyed the way you fathered me. You are quite good at it. but...
Sorry for those excruciatingly painful years. It hurts me just thinking about it. But that leads to...
And you better love them as much as you love those other ones.
Remember that one time when you were teaching me how to ride my bike and you practically forced me into running into that giant tree and then a couple of days later the tree fell down and you told me I knocked it loose and it was my fault? I remember. Thanks for toughening me up at an early age.
Yep. And now I secretly really love mowing the lawns. But only in patterns. Don't tell your wife that.
The truth is, whatever I gave you when I was seven was probably better than this. Sorry.
And finally
You are the best daddy in the whole world. I am indeed honored to be called your child, favorite and all.
Today I spent most of the day trying not to think about this:
Because when I did it maybe made me cry a little bit.
Seriously, you don't realize how deep your love goes until you blubber like a baby and your heart breaks so hard over something so far away.
Holy moly I'm a mess.
If you've ever wondered why I don't have a heart it's because it's clearly still here:
Love. So much love.
Honestly you guys, tears were shed.
I texted my girl Hannah to see how things were going and she didn't reply. cue irrational anxiety. So then a few hours later I called her and she said she couldn't talk but that she would call me back later. Intensify irrational anxiety. Fear not good friends, she called back and all was well in Zion. At least on my end. But they weren't dead so I figured it was all a go go.
I feel like I have left my children in a far off land and bad things are happening and I can't control it and I don't know anything and it's awful.
Sorry for staying out past my curfew when I was a naughty teenager mom. Sorry.
The day's events have got me thinking about my time in the hood.
Don't even worry about it, I definitely sat around in the dark listening to my jams and looking at pictures from the good old days. Examples of both:
The jams:
The good old days:
Fetching stop crying Lauren. Get your act together.
I miss it. I miss them. I miss all of the whole thing.
The other day I was with my BFFAE. We both put one of these on. It was glorious.
(I also really miss the Florida tan)
You know what else I really miss? How ok it was to talk to people about Jesus. And not just because I was on the Lords errand. That's just peoples style down there. They love Him and they'll let you know it. Ever since I returned to the mountain tops where the air is dry and the rain is a joke I have wondered why, if we profess religion like we do, we don't tell more people about it. Why we don't stop strangers on the street to tell them about the miracle that just happened. Why we don't call eachother up to tell our friends how good God really is. Why do we hesitate to text our friends to ask them to pray for something that's near and dear to our hearts. Why? Why is this stuff so taboo in our culture when our whole culture revolves around religion? It's weird to me. I'm still trying to figure it out. But today, i'm making a change.
I don't know a whole lot. Infact, I question a lot of things more than I probably should. But I do know miracles happen, God is good, and prayer changes things.
*insert mission story here: One time we were teaching this family about the Gospel. Me and Sister Baker, she was a doll and loved those people more than I thought possible. After a discussion on the Law of Chasisty it came out that they weren't married. We told them that was an easy fix. That was until they informed us that they were both still married to their respective spouses. Ouch. So being like any good missionaries, at the next mission gathering (transfer meeting to be exact) we had the whole mission pray for them that a way would be made that they could divorce and marry. Or not live together (a lot harder actually done). You know what happened the next day? They got evicted.
I'm telling you: Miracles happen, God is good, and prayer-sure as the day is bright-works.
That's why I now have a prayer group. A prayer chain you might say. You can join us if you want. Ask people to pray for you and they will, it's an amazing thing. I also plan on telling people what's up and not just when I get the chance to start with 'i'd like to bare my testimony'. Infact, if I can help it i'll never say that. Ever.
And I think that my first medium of sharing will be right about here.
Prepare yourselves because it's my life goal to be a, for lack of a better phrase, Jesus Freak. And I start now.
Join me if you will.
But please, no shirts referencing anything about being anybodies homeboy... cough Jessica cough
