Wrinkles

I looked at my face in the mirror this morning and all I saw was two lines running down both sides of my face, starting from my lower cheeks, ending right under my lips. If my face were a continent, these would be fault lines from earthquakes.
And I do have earthquakes in my life, one named Ethan and the other Joey. They make me exhausted and worried and now, obviously, wrinkly.
I guess I was just surprised to see them there. I am only twenty four. Isn't this a mid thirties thing at least?
The second I saw them I immediately thought of creams, especially the "Anti-Aging" creams I have been using, not because at the time I bought them I wanted to "anti-age"; no, at that time I had NO issues with my face. It was simply hard to find cleansers and moisturizers that aren't anti-aging. So I was using it as a preventative measure, but when I saw those wrinkles I thought, "Anti-aging bull crap."
So then I thought face lifts, even using my fingers to gently stretch the wrinkles out to see how much of a face lift it would take. Not much at this point anyway. A real minor procedure.
And then I thought, jeese...what am I thinking?
What is with us people?? I just saw a clip where it said that a woman's modeling career is pretty much over at twenty-three. TWENTY-THREE. Well, now I can see why. You start to wrinkle at twenty-four.
Whenever I am reminded of the passing of beauty and youth, especially my own, I tell myself, "See, Danae, there has to be more than firm buttocks, perfect hair cuts, and supple, wrinkle-free skin. If not, it's pretty much over now."
So that makes me think about God. And eternity. My soul is not wrinkling. The more I pay attention to it, nurture it in truth, the more perfect it becomes.
What's so ironic about all this is that I take as much care of my soul as I do my feet, which is to say almost none. Once in a great while I will scrub them with one of those files. Otherwise they stay rough, dry, and increasingly needy. Much like my soul.
So maybe it's time I go lather up my soul with some serious Biblical cleanser, a generous amount of prayer cream. The wrinkles may stay, but my soul can be renewed daily with a guarantee no Mary Kay product can ever offer.

Mamma give kisses

I come home last night, exhausted, and lay Ethan in his crib to go to bed. He had his jammies on from the baby sitters, but he hadn't brushed his teeth and we hadn't read any stories or sang any songs. I was not up for it; I was up for laying Ethan in his crib and closing his door.
"Book? Read book?" His little voice has desperation in it.
I breath in deeply. Exhale. "How about we rock and sing instead?" I try to compromise. I can sit and rock and maybe hum a few notes. I cannot read.
"Rock? Rock?" He grabs his blankey and holds his hands out. I pick up my little boy who feels like he weighs seventy pounds and we make our way over to the chair by the light given off by a dim night light.
My body falls into the chair with a sigh and Ethan's little body falls into mine. He cuddles up close, and rests his head on my shoulder. I start to sing and my voice is so off and so tired it is annoying to me. Ethan listens politely.
God is so good. God is so good. God is so good. He's so good to me. Over and over and over.
I am dozing off and as usual Ethan is as alert as ever, like a Britney ready for the hunt. I stop singing and we just rock. Then his little voice: "Mamma give kisses?" I look down at his sweet face looking up at me, like a dream in the dim light. His smile is sophisticated, like he knows what he just said is the key to every aspect of his mother's soul. I am constantly asking for and giving Ethan kisses, and he almost never acts like he enjoys this aspect of our relationship. So you can imagine my suprise and utter joy at his request.
"Ok," I say, and reach my lips down and place them on his little tiny ones. It is our longest ever, like one and a half seconds, and I am in mother's nirvana.
I start to sing again, this time trying to make my voice as soft and pretty and as perfect-mother-like as I can. Ethan gracefully brings his hand up to my face and sticks his pointer up my nose. Way up my nose.
Again, his smile is sophisticated, like, "This is so funny. Whatta you going do to about this? Huh, Mamma? Whatta you going to do?" I keep rocking, keep singing, and until I finally lay him down, his finger stays in my nose.

So I was in the middle of writing a post on road rage, which I will finish and post later, when I took a break to meet my husband for twenty minutes of togetherness before we each go our separate ways: him to class, me to wait.
We stand in line for ten minutes to get a pretty good peperoni pizza, and then I ask a very visably shy girl if we can share her table with her, seeing that it is close to a bazillion degrees outside. She says sure.
The little pizza is done in two minutes, so we have seven minutes to connect with each other. Joey asks me about the study we are supposed to be leading on "Peace Makers"starting tonight; I confirm we will read the preface of the book as a group. Then I remember I asked Joey to do a favor for me this morning. My cousin Jamie is putting together an album for our Grammie and she needs our pictures like, now. Joey's mom has recent pictures of Ethan that I wanted to include, so I asked Joey to pick them up for me.
"Did you get the pictures?" I wasn't aware of an condemnation in my voice when I asked this question, but Joey later tells me it was clearly there.
"No, we'll just pick them up when we go to get Ethan." He wipes the pepperoni grease off the corner of his mouth with his thumb and looks up at me like, whats your problem?
From here we go into a pretty heated debate about who said what exactly; who needs to apologize (Joey), who needs to communicate better (Danae), and why Joey always turns things around to be my fault ( I can't get over this. This is my main point, my thesis. I ram it in the conversation whenever I get an opening). I am trying to cover up the argument the whole time so it looks like we are talking about something light and funny, but its impossible. The poor girl sitting across form us keeps reading, but she's shifting in her chair. Joey seems to be less aware of this than I am, and his voice stays at a somewhat raised volume, so I ask him if he wants to walk.
We go outside, that poor girl I'm sure sighing in relief, but it's not much better. There are young people everywhere, so I am still trying to fake the conversation, until it finally gets to the point where I am so frustrated that I don't care either. I tell Joey, very stupidly and irrationally, "I'm going home. You can pick up Ethan." He says fine and walks off. I turn around and want to cry.
I don't know what else to do so I walk, even though I really don't want to walk the long, lonely walk back to my car and then drive the long, lonely ride home and then sit in an empty house until Joey and Ethan return.
I keep walking. I see trees to my left, big, wonderful trees, and want to sit in the shade beneath them. I aimlessly walk over to them and touch the grass. My finger comes away with a little mud on it, a drop of water. If I had a blanket I could sit down, but I don't. And I can't deal with a big wet spot on my rear right now.
Right about now is when I want Joey to come after me. I have learned though, that he never does. He lets me go. If I want to come back, its my choice.
So I turn around. I start walking back. I go between bursts of anger and weepy emotions like a ping pong match. In the bursts of anger I am so pissed. I think, This isn't working! this schedule! this job! No human being on earth should have to feel this distant from her husband! And then I look at all these cute college kids around me and think viciously, they have no idea. In the weepy moments I want Joey to put his arms around me so I can cry and we can understand each other again, but then three seconds later I want to turn around and drive to California, or somewhere very far away so that he will suffer.
I used to do this early in our marriage, just get in the car and drive off. It usually took about twenty minutes before I'd realize how absolutely hormonal I was acting and besides, where would I go? It's not like we had extra money for me to spend on some motel room somewhere, and if we did, I'd want Joey to be there...so I'd make a u-turn and head back, feeling ashamed but mostly relieved. Its always relieving to come to your senses.
On the walk back toward campus I decide I really didn't want to go home when I said I did, I just wanted privacy, so I could talk (yell) it out with Joey, and cry.
Which is what I want to do right now: my eyes are wet but my throat feels constricted, like I just ate a peanut and I am allergic to nuts. I walk into one of the bathrooms, hoping no one will be in there so I can bawl my eyes out, but there are two girls in there and at least one of them just had a great poo.
The stench instantly dries out my eyes and I no longer have a desire to cry, so I just pee instead. My throat clenches tighter.
And here I am. I still haven't cried. I am hoping it will come out sooner than later, but the rage already feels solid inside of me. I am not sure what it will take to break it, to melt it down again in to a heart that loves her husband.
Just writing the word, "husband" softens me. They are such wonderful people, aren't they--I mean, despite the fact that they're sinners and say mean things sometimes? Joey is my refuge here on earth. He is (though not great at it all the time) God's hands and arms to me. He provides for me. He is strong and brave. I am never afraid when I am with him. He is my very best friend, and I am sorry I don't like him more of the time. Because he really is fun to be with. And sweet. Also, he gives great advice. He has never left me. He made a promise to be with me until I die. Now who else besides God would ever make that kind of promise to me???? He is grace beyond words. He is the third party of this mystery between God, myself and Joey that I live in everyday: he is the tangible part, the good looking part.
I feel the sting, the wetness in my eyes. I still can't full on cry (I am in a computer lab people) but I know that there is hope for when I am alone; or better: when I see Joey walking towards me after his class.

Later...
It took all day to sort that one out. You know, one of those fights where you think its over and than WHAM, you just want to punch them. I did cry a bit when I saw Joey walking toward me after his class, and he gave me a kiss and we laughed. I asked him if he was suprised I was there and he said no, not really. This suprised me because I was suprised I was there, but then he knows me better than I know myself. That is for certain. I just wish he would have been suprised. You can't slip nothing over him.

God's tools: Road Rage

I am convinced that God allowed us super-smart humans to come up with how to make an automobile in order that we would learn to be more Christ like.

This morning I was just a teensy bit late for school. I knew it was going to be a rough drive when I pulled onto 395 and the cars were backed up behind the on ramp. I had a lane I could drive in for a while if I wanted to be a real jerk and pass a bunch of stopped cars, but I put my blinker on and slowed down with the intention of being courteous and finding my place in the long line of stopped cars.

There was an opening, so I veered my little Honda's front into it and then glanced back to give the driver behind me a "thanks" wave when I see that she is glaring at me, like I totally just cut her off. This makes me a little irritated, but I try to forget it.

We inch forward and then stop. Inch, stop. I decide to get over in the fast lane because hello its supposed to be faster; and the second I get over I see brake lights. Just in the fast lane. The slow lane now seems to be going at a jealously continuous five miles an hour, while the fast line is stopped dead.

Tap tap tap. My thumb drums the steering wheel as I look at the clock. I have a ways to go before I get to school, then there is the dilemma and joy of parking, and then the long walk to class which always leaves my armpits sweaty and-if I have sleeves on-noticeably wet.

I see Mrs. Glare zoom past me in the slow lane, sucking on a cigarette, still glaring. Her bad mood makes me want to be happy; to be anything but like her.

Twenty minutes and two exits later I can get off the freeway. As my car leaves the long line of very agitated people in their big cars I let out a "Who-hoo!" and press my foot to the gas. I'm cruising now and will make it to class just in time.
But then I turn the corner. And what do I see? A long line of red break lights staring at me, that's what I see! But seriously, I was not thinking of children's' books at the time, I was thinking, omygosh that is a long line.
For whatever reason, I think Ms. Glare had a lot to do with it, I am determined not let this spoil my ride to work. As we barely inch along, I get comfortable. I put in U2's Greatest Hits of the eighty and ninety's, and crack the window for some air. I start bobbing back and forth, not too much because we are all moving so slow and people would notice, but I bounce a little to the music. I notice the people in the cars around me are really mad: everyone is on their cell phone, heads are in hands, the look of death is on everyone's face. Every so often a car screeches out of the line to turn around and head up Virginia Street, hoping to find a better way. I stay put, turn up the music.
I am so proud of myself for being so darn positive in midst of all this madness until I glance at my gas gauge and see the little pointer all the way at the bottom, in the red.
I stop bouncing and let myself freak out a little: What f I run out of gas? What if my car won't move, and then all these people are going to be really mad--at me? I work out all the logistics: where I will walk to call Joey, how I will just leave my car like a big lump of metal in the midst of these extremely unstable people, the things they will yell at me as I walk away from the car. I prepare myself.
Thinking of my car breaking down reminds me of this jeep that was broken down yesterday, right in the middle of a long line of traffic waiting to turn left. There was like thirty of us, mostly with out blinkers on indicating we intended to turn left, who were forcibly not in the turn lane because the jeep was in our way. But we were all waiting. Patiently. For that green arrow. With our blinkers on.
Pretty soon I see it: Miss Subaru zooming past all thirty of us waiting to turn left, wiggling into the left turn lane behind the broken down jeep, its yellow lights flashing. When she finally realizes what is going on, she too, put her head in her hands.
I think, smart move, lady.
But do you know where my car was? Right in the position to let her in. OHHHH HOW I HATE THIS. I force myself not to press on the gas when the arrow turns green so that she can wiggle her little self back out. I even force a little wave like, "common honey, everything is going to be alright" when on the inside I am screaming, how stupid do you have to be?
So she pulls in front of me and zooms through the yellow arrow while I press on the break, come to a stop, and think about all this.
I specifically think how doing that good deed did not give me warm fuzzy feelings. Then I think about Jesus and how he could care less about warm fuzzy feelings because he cares about people. I definitely am more for the warm fuzzy feelings, but Jesus would have not only let her in, He would have been just fine chill'en at that red arrow, even if it were for the sixth time, while I was almost hyperventilating. Because to Him time wasn't so important, but people were.
Maybe too that thought is what had carried over into the crazy traffic the next morning, until I realized I could run out of gas at any moment. So like I said, I freaked out a little, but then I remembered yesterday and the woman in the Subaru, and how Jesus was always telling his disciples to please, chill out: on the boat in the storm; in the crowds of very hungry people with no food; at the wedding with no wine. Over and over again, in not so many words: Chill out people! I got this one. I love you. I'll take care of you always.
So I decided if I did run out of gas, Jesus had me covered. I turned up the music, bounced a little, and inched my way in the middle of a long long of cars that from Jesus' point of view probably looked like a very cool Chinese dragon.

Changing Seasons

Fall is coming, I can feel it. It's chillier in the morning and in the evening after the sun goes down. I am trying to accept this with grace, even though in this moment I am struggling to see the good in summer's end.
The darkness is the worst. It's only eight-thirty, and it's pitch black outside. Why did God do this?
Its not all bad. Good things about fall include the taste of a warm creamy chai warming me from the inside out, the way the trees turn bright red and orange (like they are angry at the compulsory change too), and jackets, if I could ever find one I love.
I am learning sometimes you just have to wait. Wait and trust, even though you know winter is just around the corner; there is no escaping it. And I am sorry but I am hard pressed to find one good thing about winter, except for maybe the fact that Joey lets me snuggle with him in bed before we go to sleep because we are both freezing our toes off, sometimes it feels quite literally.
There are seasons in relationships too, and I am learning the same rules apply: wait and trust. Breath too.
Rest in the knowledge that God is the same, yesturday, today and forever--and He has never forgotten to bring spring, no matter how hard of a winter passes through.
In the meantime, maybe the lack of sunshine and daylight will bring me indoors, to tea and books and prayer. That is what I need: nourishment, guidence, and hope.
And a versatile jacket that fits perfectly and is in my price range.

Heels, anyone?

So what is it with women and shoes? Not all women, I should say. There are some very practical girls out there who actually wear shoes to fit the occaision, but I am definitely not one of these women. And let me tell you right now, wearing heels must be one of the most dumbest things I do on a regular basis. Case in point:
I ordered these darling black strappy things online a couple of weeks ago, along with a killer pair of jeans. I couldn't wait to get them. I thought about them everyday until they finally arrived (is this normal?). Joey brought in the mail so the package was sitting on the table and I ripped it open like Christmas, only it was better because it was 95 degrees outside.
And there they were. My darling shoes. I tried them on and sure enough they felt a little snug around the edges, but definitely wearable.
We had Andrew's birthday party that day, so of course I am going to wear my new things. I put on my jeans, which gaped a little in the waist (darn Old Navy!) so I had to find a belt.
I found this old, semi charming but mostly just old belt and tried it on for size. It fit, but only when the pants were as high as they could go around my waist, and the belt still pulled so tightly that the jeans folded and rumpled in this one spot in the back, so they ended up dipping below the belt in that one spot. Are you following me? It wasn't pretty.
But I said o well, I'll just wear a longer shirt (I spent the entire day pulling my shirt down to cover the gap. Sit down? Pull the shirt down. Get up? Pull the shirt down. Walk two steps? Pull the shirt down).
The shoes made the pants fit perfectly. I need the extra two or so inches to keep the pants from dragging on the floor, even though I order "short" and "petite" sizes. In fact, this is the main reason for me wearing heels in the first place: to keep the bottoms of the jeans looking clean and intact, instead of looking like they were just run through a shredder.
That and they fact that they make my legs look longer.
The day started out fine, but after about three minutes of walking around the house in my darling strappys I knew I had it in for myself. Still, I wore the shoes.
By the end of the day, my feet felt that same achiness that I associate with labor pain. The poor babies were swollen and a little on the purple side, with two blisters, one on the outside of each foot, just below the pinkie.
The next day was school and I still was in the "googly-eyed" state with my jeans (I had decided the shoes weren't quite what I had expected) so there was no question in my mind that I would wear the new jeans to school. The only question was what shoes to wear...
I decided on some brown, sexy Brazilian heels I brought back when Joey and I visited a couple of years ago.
I knew I would have to walk slow, and I warned Joey: "Joey, I am in these heels..."
He cut me off, "--I know, I know. We have to walk slow. Why do you wear those to school?"
Now up until this point I had never considered not wearing heels to school. But as we were walking down the almost San Fransican type hill from where we park to my class, Joey holding out his hand, ready to catch me in case I tumbled, which could happen at an moment, me looking like a clutsy hoochy, I thought about this.
Why did I wear these heels to school?
After class and two miles worth of walking later Joey and I headed back up to the car.
"Could you please walk fast like you normally do and go on ahead and get the car and come back to pick me up?" My feet were on fire. I had two new blisters on the under side of my feet, in the middle, where the flesh is raw and young. How those heels rubbed me there I don't know; all I know was the pain I felt each time I lifted a fit to move foward. "Please?"
He just gave me an "I-told-you-so" smile and kept walking turtle slow, keeping with my pace.
The next day I gave my feet a rest. I wore flip flops. They felt better, less swollen. Some of the bisters had formed scabs, the others seemed like they would go away on their own.
But, guess what shoes I have on today? The second I put them on I started praying I would find a close parking spot for work, which I did, but it is still a good half a football field away. Maybe even a whole one, I don't know how big football fields are. Anyway, it was a long walk. And those tender blisters returned.
Which brings me to this moment.
Are heels worth it? Absolutely not. Will I keep wearing them? After today, I probably will wait a week or so, until I forget the pain. Maybe it will take a month. Sometimes it does. But I aways find my self back to that point in the closet, wearing some fabulous jeans that are just a tad too long, thinking...hmmmm, what shoes should I wear?

me-equals-yuk

So this is a very long story but mainly my point is that I thought I was a nice person, I thought I was so mature, and well, I am quite the jerk and actually very immature.
My friend Jessica has been dating her very own prince charming for about a year now. She could not be happier. When they very first got together, I thought, "Ah-ha, this is my moment. I am older, I am married, I have gone through this. I know everything. I will make this painless for my friend."
And so, the very first time Jess told me some of the "beginning" things couples do (like staring at each other for amazing lengths of time) I freaked out. Because of my own past, I whole-heartedly believed I could see into the crystal ball of Jessica and her beau's life; yes people, I seriously thought I knew exactly what their past, present, and future would look like...you know, something like, um, mine.
I laid out my heart. (I was big into communication at this time...letting it all hang out, being honest, and all those other very dangerous and not always profitable things). I told them they better watch out because sex comes out of no where and it will affect them forever...woe, woe, woe.
Which I still think is absolutely true.
But they both looked at me like I was a little off my rocker. They were, of course, just staring at each other.
From that point on it was a mess. I had this notion I was supposed to be the most amazing accountability partner ever, when what I felt like whenever Jess and I would talk was a fourteen year old trying to pass calculus. Or like me trying to pass calculus. I was confused and confused and confused. I felt like I was trying to be a saint and a friend and a sister and a mother all at once.
And poor Jessica. You should try talking to someone who is trying to be four people all at the same time. By the end of it, I was saying horrible things about her soon-to-be fiance--things like hypocrite; I was angry at both of them (they never took my advice those love birds!) and I basically thought our friendship was over every time we talked.
It never was. Jess is a little bit more rational than I am I think.
I feel like I can see myself for the first time in the way that they see me: the person I hated when I was dating. The person who I felt judged by, the person who I thought had no idea, the person I never, ever, ever, wanted to be to my friend Jessica.
So I have learned a couple of things here. Number one, shut up. I could just kick myself for things I have said over this last year concerning Jess' relationship. In all his sweetness, her boyfriend tells me something like, "it will all be used in God's providence." I could just kiss him. Number two, be nice. I never ever ever want to use the word hypocrite again unless it is referring to someone super close to myself, someone who looks and talks and breaths like me. And shares all my clothes.
Number three, those people in my life who I hated when I was dating: maybe I had them all wrong. Maybe their hearts felt for me what mine feels for Jess, and the world is just a mess and so full of sin we can't always show it the way we want. Maybe, even though our hearts feel so full of love and care for each other they could burst, when we try to show it, it comes out sounding like a very, very messed up calculus problem.