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Heart Puddles and Poppy-Red Hope

June 8, 2015 3 Comments

Living in another country for an extended amount of time has always been one of my life goals, dreams, wishes, hopes, etc. It seemed like the epitome of adventure, experiencing another culture and having all the best Facebook photos.

Little did I know how hard it would be.

My reality only matches those awesome Facebook pictures for about as long as it takes for the photo to be shot. There are some really sunshine filled, freeze-frame moments, where I find myself saying, “Wait. Is this really my life?” But I’ve also found myself pulling the covers over my head and hugging my stuffed dolphin closer to my face, going back to sleep because I just don’t feel like I’m ready to handle the day ahead. Or the missing is too much.

The stripped weakness and the swallowed missing startled me. I didn’t expect to miss or long for anything else because here I am living my lifelong dream.

I knew living in another country would stretch me, but I didn’t know it would be like this. That my core truths would be questioned. That I would spend so much time crying. That I’d revisit just how nothing I am. That I would feel shattered.

I’ve been puddling my heart before the God of the Universe. Here it is, God; this confused, longing piece of soul and flesh. Sorry for the fragments. I can’t seem to figure out how to hold it all together and not be so fractured.

In this stranded and spread loneliness, I’ve come to a conclusion. Hearts are meant to be broken. And what a gift it is to love so deeply and widely that shattering happens every day. Sometimes I want to lock my empathizing heart away to protect it because I know that the smallest bit of heart-caring will eventually result in body-splitting and soul-shearing pain. But then again, what is the point of living and moving through this world without caring deeply for others?

We need people to care. Who will break their heart for the case of the old man in the nursing home? Or the girl forced to sell her body on the street? Or the child in need of a loving home?

You are who you are today because somebody chose to care for you at the risk of their heart or maybe because someone didn’t.

Hearts are meant to be broken.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.” – C.S. Lewis

Mending has come in the form of long runs through fields slowly turning green and cinnamon sugary pastries bought on the street side. God speaks words to me in red bursts of bobbing poppy flowers. You are my sought-out delight.

As my tennis shoes pound dirt paths, I have wrestled, demanding to understand and trying to coax God to my plans, but out of breath and sweat-wrinkled, my ground-out and teeth-gritted words stumble out of me, “I don’t understand, Lord, but I will try to trust you.”

So, God,

Here I am, heart-exposed and oh-so-frail. I’m tired of planning, whining, weeping. Hands up. I’ve felt deserted and desolate like Jerusalem, but you promise she will be a royal diadem in your hand. May I be something shiny and priceless too?

Even as heart pieces lay in fractures on the ground, I hope you are arranging them into a stain-glassed mosaic that will color the world with snippets of your love as I try to let you shine through my life. Lead my heart to more love and to more shattered moments to add to your mosaic.

Oh, Toilets.

June 4, 2015 3 Comments

I have the worst luck with toilets.
Don’t invite me over for dinner or breakfast or at all because I will surely use your toilet and then immediately be requesting your friendly plunger. Toilets and I have a special relationship, you see. I think they’re grand, and they aren’t so keen.
I wonder if a toilet sees me coming and says to itself, “Oh, Here she comes. Let’s not flush correctly.”
It’s horrid really.
In almost every country and bathroom I’ve visited, the toilets have taken a distinct dislike of me. I’m not sure what makes me different than all the other human beings (maybe toilets want their 10 minutes of fame at the tip of my pen), but regardless, we have some issues.
From the Dominican Republic to Germany, I’ve discarded my dignity and have begged toilets to just flush already.
“Please go down. Please.” It’s tiring to cajole the porcelain chair to like me when it always treats everyone else with such bored acceptance.

The Dominican Republic Toilet

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Toilets are different in their manners everywhere. The Dominican Republic toilets often dried up; oh you wanted to flush? Lo siento.

The German Toilet

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The German toilets specialize in poop smears with their perfect poop platform. It’s ideal for a poop instagram account and if you are particularly interested in your bowel movements.

The Japanese Toilet

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I’ve yet to meet a Japanese toilet, but I hear they are especially well-mannered and offer many options for bum hygiene. Squatty potties are probably the most rude of the collection; however, one thing you know is that there will be no begging of it to flush. Small blessings, right?
It is a truth universally known that a porcelain toilet must be in want of a girl to antagonize. So nice of Jane Austen to acknowledge the cruel injustice of good toilets and nicer girls.
And with that final thought I leave you to a world of toilets that will inevitably clog the first time you visit your boyfriend’s apartment or your mother-in-law’s special brunch.
Hint: Hold it until you can visit a neutral location or book it to the nearest gas station. Happy bathrooming!

What About You?

Do you have toilet issues too? If you’ve written such a story on your own blog, leave a link!

Short Story: Three Perspectives

May 21, 2015 1 Comment

Sitting in my asphalt driveway, I drew chalk mermaids. It was hot. Sweat beadlets wiggled down my leg from my knee.

A neighbor mowed his yard. I filled in the mermaid’s tail with green chalk.

Above the noise of the lawnmower, the clatter of a red wagon arrested my attention. Matt. He walked my way with a hopeful spring in his step. He smiled.

I grabbed a pink piece of chalk and carefully drew locks of hair streaming from the mermaid’s head. I added yellow highlights with glints of blue chalk mixed in.

The clatter of the wagon rolled up to me. I saw two scuffed spiderman tennis shoes. Matt stood on my mermaid’s hair. “Can I play with you?”

“No.”

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“John, do not lie to me! You came in at 3 in the morning! No good thing—

“Honey, I told you work was going to go long—

I tiptoed past the room where my parents fought. Yanking on my spiderman tennis shoes, I ran outside. Breathing deeply of the sunshined air, I looked up the street. Ella sat in her driveway drawing.

Grabbing my wheel barrow, I clattered up to her. “Can I play with you?”

She didn’t look at me. “No.”

My lip quivered. I bit it hard. Dragging my wagon behind, I slowly walked back to my house. Something shattered. My mother screamed. I sat down in my front yard with hands over my ears.

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Her two youngest children squabbled over the plastic building blocks. Marie glanced out the window to the sunny, summery day. Ella, her oldest, sat in the driveway intently drawing. From down the street, little Matt Hessleman pulled a red wagon up into our driveway. His parents did not try to hide their difficulties from neighbor or child.

Walking to the screen door, little Matt asked my daughter a question. Ella didn’t even look up. A moment later, Matt’s little shoulders slumped. He turned around and wheeled his wagon away.

She couldn’t believe it. Ella, her most compassionate, sharing daughter had turned that little boy away.

What About You?

Have you ever thought about all the different sides of a story?