how sucky is singleness?

Larry and I are flying to Philadelphia this weekend to speak at a seminar being held at liberti church. The original seminar was titled, "how sucky is singleness, how magical is marriage?" They didn't get much interest. In fact they got some protest. So they retitled it, "Table For One: Singleness in the Bible." Or something like that. Larry and I are going to tell our story Friday night, and Saturday they'll have a panel of experts to talk about the theological perspective of singleness and marriage.

Ever notice there's no such thing as dating in the bible? The Bible does talk about widows, but not about swinging bachelors and bachelorettes. My guess is, the George Clooneys and Kim Cattrals of the Bible ended up like the people on the left. But that's just my opinion.

If you're near Philly and you want to come, check out this link.

My Cat Loves Larry

Ever wonder how your pet is going to get along with your new significant other? When I first started dating Larry, he said he "wasn't much of a pet person." He said it was because the pain of a beloved pet's death was too hard to deal with. I wondered if that was why he hadn't gotten married yet. Well Larry soon took to my cat, Honey. Which was the first sign he might be up for marriage. Of course, Honey's hard not to like. She's very friendly and social. She loves to be wherever the people are. Here she is, insisting she play a part in Larry's writing sessions. Or rather, here's Larry, indulging Honey in one of her cuddling sessions, no matter how inconvenient.

The other night, Larry spent a good 20 minutes petting and scratching Honey to the point she stretched out so long, she bent backward so far she lost her balance and tipped over.






Ah, nice. Ah, soo so nice I may even stretch backward.











Maybe I'm a bit far back ... woooooah! Act like nothing happened.

Cooler Days, Uneasy Night

The heat wave has broken, and Larry and I are relieved to experience an old sensation. Chill. It is definitely early fall. You can see it in the light. It always makes me feel just a bit nostalgic and melancholy.

With the break in temperature, one would think we'd have an easier time getting to sleep last night. Besides, we'd gotten our Netflix selections on time, watched "Blades of Glory," took our aspirin and got under the covers.

After a good half hour we were both still tossing and turning. Well, I turn. Larry flicks his legs.

"Are you OK?" I asked him.
"Uh yeah are you?"
"Uh, yeah." Neither of us sounded too convincing. But there was nothing to be upset about, at least not with each other. Not that I knew. Close to an hour passed and neither of us were asleep.

"Do you smell cat litter?" Larry asked me in the dark.
"No," I answered. "I smell what a cat leaves IN the litter."

Like, a turd. We turned on the lights and searched the room. Our own cat would have no reason to take a dump in our room. But ... Well last week when it was so hot, we put up a bamboo screen outside the back door so we could leave it open, have a breeze without the flies. It kept the flies out, but not the neighbor cat, Fella.

Fella's a likeable, neutered male who made friends with our homeowners. Our house used to be his playground away from home. That is, until we moved in and brought our own cat. He's been pissed off at Honey ever since, and shows up nearly every day, growling at her and expressing his frustration at the revocation of his all-access pass to the house.

On more than one occasion last week, Larry and I looked up to find him jaunting around the house. Larry saw him coming down from upstairs.

Now the insinuation of cat turd in the room made sense. Fella mus have left a protest gesture in the room. We looked everywhere and found nothing.

Larry and I went back to sleep. Or tried to.

After a while we heard a loud POP-POP ricocheting from the streets. We are at the top of the hill, and the noise from Eagle Rock and York Blvds. funnels up to our ears like a megaphone.

Pop-Pop. Not a firecracker. A gunshot.

We both sighed. We hear pop-pop more than we'd like to admit. House prices may have skyrocketed in our area, but the clientele hasn't.

I listened and waited for the sounds of sirens. They came, but not right away. I was listening to see if the sirens would stop, indicating it was closer by. But I must have drifted off. Until I was jolted back by the sound of another pop pop pops. And the pop pop pop answer. And then more.

Now we were very much awake. I wanted to cry but my body was too tired to make noise. I got up and closed the downstairs windows and locked the doors. I took a hot bath shaved the calluses off my heels.

Larry came down to find out what I was up to.
"I can feel it in the air," he said. "It's like a vibe, isn't it?"
"Yeah." It was almost palpable. "Maybe we should pray," I offered.
"Yeah," Larry answered. He went back upstairs, I finished trimming my calluses, and went back to bed. He seemed asleep and I wasn't about to wake him. So we never prayed.

I got up around 8:30 and searched local news for shootings in Eagle Rock. But they never post them. If this were San Marino or Beverly Hills, maybe. But not Highland Park or Eagle Rock.

Larry and I think more about moving. Out of LA. Especially after nights like that. Portland Oregon. That sounds good.

One Year Anniversary

Yikes, it can't be possible that I haven't posted a blog for over a month. But there it sits on my blog site, "July 21" as the last entry. There’s something melancholy about watching time sinking into the past and out of reach, like Leo DeCaprio disappearing into the icy Atlantic.

My lack of posting has been for good and bad reasons. We had out of town friends visiting, good. In-town friends going through personal crises, bad. Larry's Mac G4 dying, bad. Larry buying new Macbook, good.

Our homeowner Ted came down at the end of July for a week to shoot another Rozerem commercial. He’s Honest Abe in those commercials with the beaver. While down, he decided to build a simple carport, thinking he’d come back some time in the future, slap on some walls, and Bob’s your Uncle, he’d have a garage. Then a builder friend told him, no way. You want a garage, build the garage NOW. So Ted ended up here for a month as the garage project stretched on. It was painful to watch Ted go through builder hell. Setbacks, new problems, etc.

A friend Arlene, who I knew in New York was in town. She just finished her Masters in counseling from Westminster Theological Seminary in Philadelphia, so after two years of studying, she treated herself to a vacation in California. Our friends Tony and Martel came over with their adorable and scary-smart daughter, and we sat out on the deck. We talked and ate, and gaped at Loy’s intellectual prowess.

She named most of the letters on his shirt. And then Tony brought out a book of shapes. Not just squares and circles.
“What’s that, Loy?” Tony asked, pointing to a shape in a book.
“Octagon,” Loy replied.
What’s that one? He continued.
"Diamond," she replied again. She said it like she was playing peekaboo. At age three. The girl is 18 months old. And she's sweet and adorable too.

Hanging out was great. Leaving was hard. Tony, Martel, Arlene and I were all friends in New York and part of The Haven. We’ll probably never live in the same town again. Call it nostalgia, but it’s that longing for eternity where we are all together
again. I often think of my friend Aimee who lives in Virginia. I wish she lived close by. That’s what heaven must be like. All the people you know and love are just next door. Heaven must be a brownstone street on the Upper West Side, all your friends living on the same block. Central Park at one end of the block, Hawaii at the other end, The Rockies one block north, the Alps to the south.

Larry and I hit our one-year anniversary on Sunday. All week we were remembering, "what were we doing this time last year?" It made us homesick for our in-laws, for us all being together. We had such fun last year.

For our actual anniversary, Larry took me the OC to see my home town. He wanted to see the places I described in my book, and what made Susan "Susan." So we saw the house in which I grew up, the church I attended and its school where I was bullied by a sociopath from 4th to 6th grade. I showed him the blacktop where the bully got an entire class to oppose me in a team sport. We saw the principal's office I was sent to when I finally exacted retribution on that bitch.

It was weird seeing my old house. My parents owned it for 37 years; it's where I grew up. My sister asked the day before if I'd go up to the door and ask the current owner if we could come in. "NO way, man!" I cried. But when we arrived, I was so curious to see what it was like inside.

We went to the door but no one was home. The front door had lots of beveled glass now, so I got a pretty good view. The kitchen cabinets had been painted, a wood floor had been put into the back room. The entry hall had been decorated with tons of family pictures. Some other family's pictures. It was odd.

We got a room at the Holiday Inn in Newport Beach. We'd brought our bikes and rode down the Newport Peninsula, past the pier, through the million dollar houses crammed onto dinky lots. Watched high school boys boogie boarding the wedge.

Newport Beach people look the same as I remembered them. Waspy faces worn with leisure and money. The tanned, wrinkled skin, some puffed out with botox, others with the weary pursuit of pleasure and nothing else. It’s probably the same in every beach town. Though I remember the faces in New York and New Jersey were more ethnic: Italian, Russian, Greek. Less white, less moneyed. Still the pursuit of relaxation was the same. The same endless pursuit of total stasis.

We rode for a few hours, and everywhere we went, a memory was dislodged. The supermarket on the peninsula where I almost shoplifted in 7th grade. The pier where my sister and I went to buy Dittos pants. The fun zone where we took many photos in those black and white strips.

We took the car ferry over to Balboa Island and there were more memories.

Our neighbors moved to Balboa when I was in fifth grade and I visited them in the summer. Larry and I went looking for the house. I wasn't sure until I saw yellow sign in the water, "Danger End of Storm Drain," and the whole week on Balboa came back to me. Swimming in the still, oily water of the bay. Listening to the parents' copy of Beatles "Rubber Soul," where my Beatlemania would start. That was back in the summer of 1974.

And another memory I’d rather not recall. I'd pledged a sorority my second year at UC Irvine, a misguided attempt to make campus life at less sterile and depressing. The more time I spent, the less I wanted to be part of it. The girls were premed and engineering. I was a lost soul looking for art. Finding it in a sorority was a silly idea. So on an evening in late November, at a house on Balboa Island, I decided to de-pledge. The pledge captain urged me to stay, 'If nothing else, you'll have a party to go to every weekend." But with people I don't like," I thought to myself.

That all came back to me. Especially now in late August, when the light suddenly gets autumnal and melancholy.

By the time we arrived on Balboa Island's main street, it was 6pm on a Sunday, and the weekend was over for Balboa. There were no one left but the locals. They too looked like all the Balboans I knew from my past. Rich wasps in pursuit of pleasure that money can buy. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure. It's gorgeous down here, I understand why people dream to be here. Better than the slums of Bombay, right? But if all you want is the beach, then a beach in Mozambique would do you as well as the beach in Newport. No its’ more than leisure. It’s leisure and comfort and money.

It doesn’t sit well with me. Maybe it's fear of losing myself. Maybe it's fear of success. Not sure. But I don't like how it feels being around it. I mean they had a doggie store that sold $50 dog collars, gourmet dog caked with icing. Toenail polish for dogs. How is this happening?

Older well-coiffed wasp couples who live in Pasadena and weekend on Balboa, dining at the local cafes, thinking about how this is supposed to be the good life. But their faces looked blank to me. There were school flags up on the congested mansions. USC, UCLA, Arizona. I thought, wouldn't it be great to put out a flag for "CCNY-Flatbush?"

We walked around the island, gawking at the massive mansions squeezed onto postage stamp lots. A new one was being built on an alley. Probably six bedrooms. Behind it, an even larger house that was already up and lived in. Faux Italianate, a BMW SUV squeezed in front of the garage.

That stuff gives me the creeps. I don't know why. I mean, Larry and I would love to have enough money to know we're OK. But this kind of money? I get scared at the thought of having so much money that I'd be building a faux Italian villa on an island crawling with rich wasps who live to sit on a beach chair in front of an oily bay front.

We saw the same kind of thing at South Coast Plaza. I took Larry there because it was part of my history. My dad had an optometric practice in the Sears Store. When we moved in 1966, the mall consisted of a Sears, May Company and a Woolworth. Since then they built additional malls across every street, discount shops around the corner. It’s so big, it now has its own zip code. The Limited is on the low rent wing. The high rent wing has Cartier, Jimmy Choo, Bulgari, Tiffany. The kind of consumerism that makes me understand why the Muslims think we’re better off dead. Well that and the doggie toenail polish.

This is creepy, Larry and I said to each other. Let’s get out of here.

And to top off our aversion to consumerism, Larry took me to a nice restaurant, the Rusty Pelican, overlooking Newport bay. The food and service were horrible. We had more fun back in the overly chlorinated pool, talking with other guests.

And so on this year anniversary I think: God blessed me with a man whose passion isn’t for things. Not things you can hold onto. Larry is fired up about ideas, the spiritual life. About bringing the kingdom of God to earth now through building community by loving our friends through crises and good times. For making a difference in what we do in our work. For building a life not on wealth or security but on adventure and living. Even if it means we’re not comfortable or secure with a McMansion on Balboa. And for that I guess I'm thankful.

And that's the good part to this entry . I never imagined I could be so happy and at peace. And today, I am. Of course “this too shall pass,” and there will be struggles and crises to come. Or , maybe God figured Larry and I had enough of our pain already. But we’ll be ready. We'll be going together, and we won't have a McMansion mortgage to take with us.

I’m so looking forward to tomorrow. And the next day.

Love Wash Over A Multitude Of Things

I don’t remember a time in my life I ever felt so hopeful. Maybe when I was young and naïve, and my life was ahead of me. But then life happened, and it was a long road down to disillusionment. But lately the road has swung upward toward hope. What, with marrying the greatest guy, building community together, and getting a book deal and paying writing work.

And I can’t help it but feeling scared at times. First of all, what bad thing is going to come and ruin it? When are we going to get struck with some horrible tragedy to “build our character?” Like cancer or a freak accident. Or a series of small things to undermine our marriage?

It’s ironic that in movies and books, the characters we love the most are those who face insurmountable odds, who endure hardships and heartbreaking loss. We call them our heroes. Think Frodo Baggins, Rocky Balboa or Ugly Betty. Some of them fail or even die. But we love them for their courage and strength. And yet we wake up every morning and want God to make things go our way.

But you know what actually scares me even more than those AFGO's: "Another F'ing Growth opportunities"? It's this. Success. What if my character stops growing? What if things get so good, and I get lazy? And that monster I know I can be comes out to scorch it all?

I had coffee with an editor friend who has worked with lots of big names in Christian publishing: authors, pastors, leaders, celebrities, et al. The editor had never seen someone achieve success who and not get corrupted or turn into a jackass.

When I was going through my dark night of the soul and hating God, I got a job at a church office. Yeah, har dee har har. My pastor was awesome. He got it, what I was going through. He listened, commiserated and understood. And proceeded to have a melt down and leave his job, due to his own issues and a lack of accountability. Know what's scary? That pastor and I had a lot in common: charisma, intelligence, and demons. He didn't have a team of accountability. Neither did I. But I wasn't leading a church. If I heard God say anything it was, "Susan, he's just a guy."

I've observed celebrities, leaders of every kind, turn into jerks and destroy their lives. Not because they're were any different than you or me, but because they didn’t have accountability: good friends who would be ruthlessly truthful with them. We all have that potential, for good and evil. And the more success and power we have, the more chances to really mess things up.

I’m not going to evade success to avoid becoming a Success Tyrant. You can be a Failure Tyrant, too. But I know I need an accountability system, Larry and I both do. It’s one of the reasons we’re trying to build a community around us, be it at church or our friends. We need it. So do you. Everyone does.

So, I’ve tried to learn to allow God to throw obstacles in my way. The other day, after a particularly deep time of meditation and quiet, when I started to fear what hardship might befall me, I remembered how I God has used everything unfortunate in my life to mature and change me. So in a moment of optimism I said, “Okay bring it on.”

A Series of Small Things

Larry and I had a bunch of people over, and they left a lot of beer. I told Larry I didn’t want the beer in the fridge because, well, I’m a recovering alcoholic. Larry took me by the arms and smiled: “You won’t drink it. I know you. I know you won’t risk what we have.” He meant it to be encouraging and full of love, but I suddenly felt unsafe. “He’s being naïve and grandiose. He doesn’t understand me. Love doesn’t conquer all. At least it sure doesn’t conquer alcoholism!” Plenty of people have loved their spouses, and kept on drinking. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been sober. Something could come along and trigger your addiction and Bob’s Your Uncle, you’re drinking again. Triggers like resenting my husband for not ‘getting it,’ or envying my friends who can drink with impunity; them I'm entertaining the idea that maybe now I could drink moderately. That’s why don’t want a six pack of Coronas in our fridge sitting there, just waiting for me to try it out.

Maybe Larry doesn’t understand alcoholism. But that doesn’t mean our relationship is doomed. It just means I need to educate him. So after being firm about it, Larry was happy to have it moved out of the fridge.

Well, we got through that small thing. And we’ll get through the next one as well. As long as we’re awake and alert.

Lost Objects

That afternoon I got a notice from the post office that I had three parcels waiting for me. I had been expecting a script, but not a parcel. Maybe my former landlords had sent me a packet of mail. So I drove to the post office to pick them up. They were boxes from my sister. I recognized them: It was my mother’s crystal.

When my mother moved in with my sister, her precious items came with her. By default Nancy got the dining room set and my mom’s Desert Rose china. This was a popular pattern in the 1940s when Mom got married. Mom said I could have her crystal and silverware.

Last Thanksgiving Larry, my brother Jim and I drove out to visit my sister’s family in Colorado. Mom gave me the wooden box of silverware to take home. Nancy brought out the boxes of crystal,hoping I could take them with me. But there wasn’t enough room in the car. Besides I didn’t want the crystal riding home in a car packed with three people’s suitcases. “Let’s wait until Larry and I move into our next place. I can get the crystal when I come out here next time.”

Well, there were the crystal boxes at the post office: covered in Priority mail stickers, and “Fragile” written on the sides. As I picked up one of the boxes, I heard the distinct sound of broken glass..

Hmm. Well maybe one or two glasses didn’t make it. I called Nancy to tell her the boxes had arrived, but that something was broken.

“Uh oh,” Nancy worried. “Did you open it up?”
I was too afraid to open them there. Fortunately Nancy insured the boxes. Well no worries, I only heard a little bit in one box. But then I picked up the other boxes to put in my trunk. There was that same ugly gut-wrenching shatter sound in all of them.

I wheeled all three boxes back to the post office.
“Excuse me, there’s some broken items in these boxes,” I called to the woman who had delivered the boxes to me. She ignored me and went into the back. I called out to someone else, a short Filipino man who shrugged. “You need a form.” He slapped one on the counter and walked off.
“Sir, I’m doing to need three forms!” I called out to his retreating back. He was gone for a good length of time, during which I read the form, which stated I couldn’t file a claim until 21 days after the date of mailing. Finally the man slumped back to his station, and started to call another customer.
“Excuse me, you were helping me with these packages.”
“Oh, yeah.” he sighed.
“Sir, this form says I can’t file if I can’t a claim for another 21 days.”
“Oh, yeah.” He sighed again.
I wanted to ask him why he didn’t just tell me this from the start. But what would the point of that be?

I got the boxes home. My sister called, nervous to discover the outcome. I told her I’d open them the next day. Frankly I was afraid to discover what damage was inside. After all it would be 21 days before I could do anything about it.

So the following afternoon, I opened the three boxes. One by one I pulled out the glasses. Some wrapped in paper, some wrapped in bubble wrap. And almost all of them were broken. Some shattered beyond recognition. Some had the stems snapped from the bowls. Gone.

I found myself howling with anger and grief. How had Nancy even packed these? Why did she mail them without telling me? What, did she just want them out of her hair? This was my inheritance. She had most all of Mom’s priceless stuff, and here she had sent off these boxes so carelessly. They don't make this crystal anymore. There was no way to get it back.

Larry walked in the door just as I was unwrapping the last hope … even a cocktail cup with no stem was snapped in two. Grief and anger gushed out of my mouth, like I had found my cherished cat, dead in the street. Larry bent down and put his arm around me as I sobbed. Poor Larry. I don’t know if a guy would feel the same way about family heirlooms, maybe it’s a girl thing.

I called my sister. What was I going to say? How could I say it and be real and honest but not hurtful? Yet there I was with none of the family heirlooms. How could she have done this?! She just sent it off, wrapped haphazardly, with no thought! This was supposed to be mine. I have nothing!

Nancy picked up the phone. And I cried in her ear, wept out my anger and hurt, how I felt my inheritance had been disregarded and thrown away. how I felt robbed of it, and well, just so heartbroken over it being gone. Part of our family history, gone.

And Nancy listened. She explained that it was a spur of the moment thing. She was thinking, Hey now Larry and Susan are settled in their new home, now they can have Mom’s crystal! But she had completely forgotten that she had packed it for a car, not for the postal service. She felt sickened at her error. And she reassured me that anything she had of Mom’s I could have. She wished she could go back in time and change things. She felt horrible.

I thanked her, but it wasn’t really about divvying up ownership. It was about the loss.

So we sat and talked about the things we remembered, associated with the crystal. Of Sunday dinners, of cousins coming to visit. In high school my friend Julia and I learned how to make crepes. We served them on the Desert Rose china and served Martinelli's in the crystal. The crystal that now lay in shards in front of me. I thought of my mom, and how hard she tried to bring some semblance of structure to our family. I thought of all those Christmas dinners she planned and slaved over, served on that china and crystal; each year the family drifting further and further away, but the china and crystal remaining on an ever-shrinking table. My mother is so frail today, she couldn’t cook now to save her life. She doesn’t have the strength to hold a pan or the memory to follow a recipe. Most of all it reminded me of my mother, and of a time when we were all alive and present and together.

Nancy and I sat and cried it out. I thanked her for listening. I realized it was a lot harder for her, to be the one who caused the loss; than for me, the one who absorbed it. I reminded her that I loved her far more than any crystal glass. So there was hurt and anger and grace and understanding. And a loss that we just had to grieve out.

A couple of days later, I saw the name of the crystal etched on the bottom of a snapped stem.
"Fostoria." I did an ebay search and found a vintage store that had our glasses! I called my sister, excited. "Buy it up!" She cheered. So a week later, Larry and I had dinner with the new replaced glasses.

Several days later I called Nancy to ask how she was doing, and to ask if anything I had said had hurt her. She said no, I had just said how I felt. I thanked her for her graciousness.

"And you know, Suzer. I feel closer to you from it. Like we walked through something big and painful, and did it the right way."
"Me too, Nanno."

That afternoon I was listening to a song by Sara Groves, “When it was over.” And I thought about how apt the lyrics were for us at that moment.

When it was over and they could talk about it
They were sitting on the couch
She said, “What on earth made you stay here
When you finally figured out what I was all about?”
He said “I always knew you'd do the right thing
Even though it might take some time.”
She said, “Yeah, I felt that and that's probably what saved my life.”

Oh love wash over a multitude of things
Love wash over a multitude of things
Love wash over a multitude of things
Make us whole

There is a love that never fails
There is a healing that always prevails
There is a hope that whispers a vow
A promise to stay while we're working it out
So come with Your love and wash over us.

I think of my life ahead, and the possibilities in my life, with Larry, with friends, with my vocation. I don’t want to shy away from the success or the sadness ahead. But I also know, the only thing that will get me through is that Love that washes over a multitude of things.
So come with Your love and wash over us.

Same Space, Different Time Zone

I can’t find my husband. We occupy the same house, but live in different dimensions. For one thing, when we moved, the size of our living space quadrupled. At least. He was writing way upstairs and I was down in the spare room. We solved part of this by Larry moving down to Ted and Lori’s office, which is right across the hall from the spare room. And during the hours we are both awake and alert, we are within yelling distance.

But there is the time dimension as well. He is living in the realm of normal working folk. I am living in the realm of the tortured artist. He tries to get to bed by 10:30pm. I’m just getting started. In other words, he’s living on Central Standard Time, and I’m on Bikini Atoll time. Or somewhere in the Pacific right before the International Date Line. I should check time.apple.com to see what cities come up on that grid. Probably none.

I was a late nighter before we met. Then we met, got married, and lived in a 500 square foot converted one bedroom. There was no ‘I’m staying up, you go to sleep,’ because we didn’t even have a door on the “bedroom.” Think of a Tokyo apartment.

So we adapted. He went to bed later, me earlier. It was good.

Now it’s not so good. Granted, I just got back from a week alone in a cabin, writing for seven days. That got me onto the ‘write until you can’t, sleep until you wake” mode. I’ve had a hard time readjusting to real life. Even without that trip to the ER.

But I am up. I tried to take my disciplines back with me, like the fact I only checked my email every other day; making sure I have a good quiet time in contemplation, prayer and journaling. Gosh I forgot how great that is, having time alone with God and your thoughts. The trip to the cabin was worth that alone. I did take that back. I haven’t tried to limit my email time except that I don’t’ respond to every forwarded email joke with “hey good one.”

And I’ve hit the ground running. I’m working on another TV special, script due in three weeks. And I took on a script consulting job with a 48 hour turn around. So I have that as an excuse.

But here I am up late and my mind won’t turn off, and I forgot to take the Excedrin PM an hour ago.

I did this last night. I heard that still, small voice, “go to bed with your husband, you need to hang out with him.” I ignored it for, ‘just a minute I need to check out this new website I found …” three hours later.

Well when I finally DID go to bed, Larry was already well into his fifth REM cycle. And you know what?

I felt sad. Sad like I’d missed out on something important. Something so small and easy to miss and ultimately, what life is made up of: Small infinitesimal moments of life that never come again. I felt sad that he was asleep. Sad I wasn't with him when he was dreamy but still alert to hear what was on his mind and what he was caring about at that moment. Sad that I wasn’t there to tell him what was on my mind and what I was caring about at that moment.

As I watched his outline in the dark, saw the faint like of his sideburns and his hair and his skin ... I fell in love him yet again. Loving that soft body and courageous man contained in it, That man who is laying down his life for me, one day at a time, who is still vulnerable and naked and carrying sorrows and hopes in each sleeping breath.

And so I 'think' I heard God say, "Go to bed earlier, girl!" Even if I went to bed when he did and got back up to write. But more than likely I'd like to get back into Larry’s rhythm. Also because we have this great marriage. But tests and trials come. And the weaknesses start with little things, like not spending the time to hear each other, or fall asleep in the same bed at the same time, to the point you have missed out on so much of each other’s infinitesimal moments that you feel alone, living in a different time zone. Guard your heart even in the small things, because even if the Enemy could never make us break, he could steal away the joy of those small things, or mute it.

And with all that I still stayed up too late tonight. And the still small voice, reminding me to go to bed now, wasn't so obvious. Or I muted it.

Please pray for me, and for yourself: that we don't lose the bits of life that pass by unnoticed. Pray that we are awake and alert to apprehend them. And that we sleep when we must.

And now I must go to sleep. The Excedrin PM is kicking in and I can't read my own typing.

Nesting Instinct, or Anal Renention?

Larry and I have been settling in to our new home, a real home where we can offer hospitality and build community. That was our prayer for months: a cool, funky place with character and a place to build community. We didn't pray for a house on a flat surface, so we got a place on a hill. But while the climb up to the house presents challenges when you used to buy water by the gallons, the view is worth the hike. And so is the place. two stories, spiral staircase. It's light and bright and airy, a fireplace we never thought we'd get. And the views. This is a place we finally feel proud to bring people over and hang out. We are thrilled and thankful.

In the process of settling in, Larry discovered my anal-retentive side in full sphincter clinch. Or as we ladies call it, "the nesting instinct." Can we help it? Guys may think women are into things, but it's not so much that as a need to make a place feel like it's ours. As our therapist said when we were doing pre-marital counseling, "Guys can live in a cardboard box. Women cannot."

Speaking of cardboard boxes, Larry had lots of them, including a file folder box with a map of the world, which he kept since high school. I appreciate the nostalgia of it. In fact he was finally ready to abandon it our old place, but I rescued it and brought it to our new home. So it was filled with cleaning supplies ... I saved it didn't I?

For the first week, while Larry went to work, I went to work on the nest. I unpacked, sorted, winnowed, cleaned, vacuumed, and dusted. I scrubbed the washing machine of soap residue. I brushed bugs out of the window frames. I didn't need to go to the gym. I was getting an 8-hour aerobic work out five days in a row.

And not that the house was a huge mess. It's a beautiful place, and our owners have taken great care of it. But they moved to Portland a year ago, and for past 12 months the house has been inhabited by renters who didn't really "live" here. They didn't appreciate the big kitchen and the gorgeous views and the deck. The last renter was a clueless 24-year-old guy who never turned on the stove or picked up a broom.

When life feels in control, I don't notice my environment. But when life gets chaotic (as it always does in a move), I take a toothbrush to the tiles. I get out the Scrubbing Bubbles. I organize my sock drawer, my desk drawer. I Q-Tip the dust on the windowsill. For God's sake, who really cleans out a washing machine? I do.

When I was young, our house was chaotic, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I remember our pantry was always mess. There were always three half-opened boxes of every cereal, Weevil moths flying around. I used to come home and clean the pantry, organizing the cans by vegetable, dumping out boxes of Dad's stale raisin bran, mumbling under my breath how haphazard the food was. That was just my way of dealing with the rest of the chaos and neglect in my family. Then I discovered anorexia. And yes, years of therapy showed me the ironic connection between the messy pantry and family neglect and my need to control food. I've gotten through most of it.

And, I've just had to accept the fact that on the Myers Briggs Personality Test, I'm a "J" and I'll never be a "P." (Judging - Perceiving defines how a person implements the information she has processed. Judging means she organizes all her life events and acts strictly according to her plans. Perceiving means that she is inclined to improvise and seek alternatives.) Larry's definitely a P. And I was never more "J" than when we moved.

Our home owners Ted and Lori were there for a few weeks before we moved in: cleaning, prepping, making space for us. And when we did move in, they let us take over, rearranging furniture, moving in our dishes and moving theirs out. Ted spent long hours setting up automatic sprinklers so we wouldn’t have to water. Larry’s not a yard work guy.

Larry’s also an introvert. He deals with change by retreating. So in the midst of the move, he needed a corner of his own. Our bedroom had an alcove that would be perfect for him to work at, with a built-in bookshelf opposite. And Larry saw this as his logistical refuge.

Lori offered Larry the use of her desk downstairs. So while I was in the midst of cleaning (something pertaining to the good of all) Larry asked me to help him move the desk up to the alcove (something pertaining to the good of himself). Larry works 40 hours a week at an office for the good of both of us. So I should gladly do the house work. Nevertheless, I dropped what I was doing to help him, grumbling to myself that he didn’t ask if it were a convenient time for me. So much for the Proverbs 31 wife.

As we got the desk to the bedroom door I stopped him and explained that, while I supported him having a desk in our bedroom, I needed the room to feel peaceful. Ladies can I get a witness? As Elle Décor and Oprah magazines will tell you, the bedroom should be a place of rest and peace. For many of us, that does not include a home office. And for me, visual clutter is a distraction. Sure, a nice row of books, a few well-placed picture frames, maybe a candle ... those are visually peaceful. But a desk with a stack of mismatched papers and a bookcase filled with guy stuff is not.

So, with our homeowners still there, and with Larry craving solitude and me craving order, we were stuck with a desk in the doorway.

"Well I’ll try to keep things clean," Larry replied, "But if it’s not going to work…"

"I want you to have a place, Larry. Let's move the desk in and we can adjust as we go."

"Just do me a favor, Susan. Don't move my things. I want to know where they are. If you don't like something, tell me and I’ll take care of it."

"Of course," I assured him.

I knew what that was about: in our teeny old apartment, Larry’s desk was in the living room. Stacks of papers and receipts accumulated on his desk, the stereo cabinet, the speakers, on any flat surface in proximity to his desk. I brought up a filing cabinet, so he could put the papers inside. But more piles would accumulate. Every once and a while … okay when life felt chaotic … I’d put his papers into the cabinet. And he’d have to guess where they went. So he had a point.

So while Larry got his desk into the alcove, and I went back to rearranging coffee mugs or office electronics, or whatever else I was doing. I think I stayed up until 2am. I recently read an interview with Kristen Chenoweth. When they asked what she did for relaxation, she replied, “I clean my house.” Amen, sister. I may have been putting in a lot of aerobic exercise, but frankly it calmed me. So with Larry fast asleep at 2am, I snuck in and slept soundly.

The next morning I woke up and in the light of day, got a look at how he'd arranged things in his alcove. The desk looked nice. Computer, speakers, cell phone. A wad of electrical cords out in the open, but we could fix that. And then I saw what he'd put in the bookcase. A stack of blank cassette tapes and a recorder, several cardboard boxes in varying stages of decay, a stack of vinyl legal pad holders, three ties he had vowed to burn, a lamp with no shade, and some Austin Powers fake teeth. Items had hitherto been stuffed in a drawer in our garage.

I gritted my teeth and breathed. Maybe he just took them out of the old drawer to make room for his socks, and he’s going to fix this up later. But later came and went. Two days passed. Now the cassette tapes and ties had been joined by a 2005 Dilbert desk calendar and a bicycle pump. This would not make the cover of Architectural Digest. So I asked him about the bookcase.

“What I’ve got set up here works for me,” Larry replied.

“Well it doesn’t work for me,” I countered, and reiterated my dissertation on visual clutter, and offered a solution. "How about I go to IKEA and look for some boxes?"

The next day I headed out to IKEA and got a few sets of brown leatherette boxes from their NOSTALGIK line, and brought them home.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"Um, it's hard to tell," Larry replied. They were still in the packaging, unassembled.

So that evening Larry played music through his iPod, assembled the NOSTALGIK boxes, and placed Larry’s ties and legal pads and Austin powers teeth into tasteful storage.

All except one of Larry’s decaying cardboard boxes, which housed an assortment of Larry's childhood memorabilia.

"Why don’t we switch that out?" I suggested.

"But it fits so nicely in this box," Larry said.

"This IKEA box is the same shape. And look, it has an oval window so you can see what’s inside."

Larry relented. So the old decaying cardboard box, addressed to Dave Andrews at World Vision, went into the garbage.

Two days later, Larry received his new supply of fish oil. In a cardboard box. The box sat on the bookcase for 48 hours. I couldn’t handle it. I placed the cardboard box into the empty IKEA box. Without asking.

"Have you seen my box of fish oil?" Larry asked a few days later.

"I put it in the IKEA box."

Larry didn't complain or remind me that I'd promised to tell him. He just went up and found his fish oil. I'm a Jerk. Maybe the J in the Myers Briggs test stands for "Jerk." Or maybe I can't help it, I'm a nester, in full sphincter clinch.

Meanwhile I organized all of our boxes in the downstairs bedroom. I spent Friday night repainting it from a dark maroon to a pale pale “Peacetime Blue,” and set up my office. It’ll eventually have a day bed, where my mom can stay when she comes to visit. But for now it’s a clean well lighted place for me to write.

And Larry’s nowhere to be seen or heard.

At our teeny old apartment, Larry was set up the living room and I in the bedroom, but we were only 20 feet from each other, with no door between us. Now I was downstairs and Larry upstairs. It felt like we were living and working apart. It was lonely.

When our house owners left and the place was finally our own, Larry checked out the office across the hall from m Peacetime Blue room.

“This desk is big,” he commented.
“And close to me,” I added.

Now Larry is set up in the dark green downstairs office, just a feet away from me. We do have doors to close when I'm on the phone or Larry's listening the Dodger game. But we can blog and write and do whatever, and we’re close.

As for Larry’s alcove space upstairs ... On the desk sit a set of detached computer speakers and a wrist pad. The bookshelves boast a row of tasteful IKEA boxes, but not much else. I think it needs a little visual interest to break up the monotony of brown leatherette. Maybe a picture frame or a candle. But not a bike pump.

I Think We're At Home Now

After a long search, it looks like Larry and I found a house. To rent. We haven't got the money to buy. At least, not the extra $350,000 that drove house prices up in the last two years. We'll wait for the bubble to burst And yes it will. Talk to anyone who bought on the bubble back in the early 1990s and sold 7 years later. Anyway, we found this cute house to rent in Altadena. Larry works with the woman who owns it. She moved down to Redondo, so her house is sitting there vacant. It's small, on a small plot of land. but that makes it affordable for us.
Here's the lovely view north .... It's a nice place to retreat to. Quiet, close to the foothills. An easy drive for Larry to his job. So far Larry's been commuting 2 1/2 hours a day. Not pretty, especially for nature boy Larry. A not-so-easy drive for me to the westside. But I don't have to go there that often.
We'll probably be moving by May 1. I'm looking forward to having my mother visit and actually have a room for her to stay in.

Tips from a Newlywed Hothead

A friend of mine is getting married in a couple weeks. I wasn't able to attend her bridal shower, but the organizers asked us to write on a card, something like a memorable bible verse, an anecdote about marriage or womanhood. So I wrote the following:

TIPS FROM A NEWLYWED HOTHEAD
(Gathered from painstaking trial and error)

Things NOT To Say To Your Husband
• Are you REALLY going to do ____?
• Why on EARTH would you do ____?
• If I were you, I’d do_____.
• That’s not sexy.

Things TO Say
• I love you! (don’t worry if you say it first!)
• Thanks so much for doing ____ (mundane easy chore)
• You’re my hero!
• Hey, Sexy!

Things to have ready when he comes home
• A glass of cabernet
• low-carb chocolate
• Hi-carb chips and salsa
• Anything Baseball

Things Guys Love
• Back massage
• Foot massage
• Scalp massage
• “Other” massage
• Tandem showers, wherein you can massage everything.
(Hey, you’re married now, it’s all legal. Praise JESUS!)

VERSE
Better to live alone in the attic, than to
share a big house with a quarrelsome wife.
Proverbs 21:9

Now that we're married...

And it's too late for divorce, Larry's friends have been showing me some incriminating photos of my dear husband. Photos that might call into question Larry's true nature, and therefore my wisdom in marrying him so soon.

Take for example the photo at left. Apparently back in 2002, Larry and Ted Rooney (L) started a "love commune" at their church. Larry was looking for more of a 1960s hippie "love in" and Ted envisioned a Studio 54 harem. They parted company over "creative differences." That, and when the church discovered their activities.

Later, Larry teamed up with Debbie and Doug to form "Kingdom Now," where members live out their fantasies of Heaven in the present. Kinda like Dungeons and Dragons for Jesus freaks.
Debbie believed the Little Mermaid was the true "Bride of Christ. "
Doug appointed himself a modern-day Gandalf and began casting "salvation" spells on cute women to get them into the church.
Larry stayed true to his visionof the 1960s Peace and Love. However, as this picture shows, Doug misfired a spell and Larry ended up in a pretty-girl dress.
Good thing Doug didn't aim lower, or I wouldn't be married today.

Even if these pictures are odd, I feel secure knowing Larry has stayed true to his original vision: to bring the kingdom of God now, with love and peace.

But does he have to be prettier than me?

A Bad First Date Gone Good

A year ago today, I went on a first date with this man I'd met online. We'd been emailing each other before the holidays, and in a short week or so of emails, we got into a very involved discussion about interesting things, and I was intrigued by him. He had most everything I was looking for, a mature faith without being corporate or churchy. He had a great sense of humor, on paper anyway, and he was interested in the same things that I was interested in. And he looked cute in his picture.

He suggested we meet for coffee at the Bourgeois Pig in Los Feliz. The BP is a latte and wi-fi joint in the too-hip area of Los Feliz, a place where any afternoon, everyone is working on a screenplay or waking up after a late gig at a rock club. Even if we were too old and too normal for it, it was good he knew about it and didn't suggest Dennys or Cocos or the worst: Starbucks.

I got dressed up in a short skirt and makeup. I was talking with a friend on my cell phone on the way there. I said, "I have this feeling about him. I mean he might not be the one. But if he is, I'll remember this feeling, that I knew he was."

I kept talking to her about other things as I walked in. You know how you walk into a date doing something else so you don't look stupid.

I shouldn't have worried. It was not a good date.

The man was sitting in a low couch that made him look slouchy. When he got up to greet me, he looked older than in his picture. More drawn around the face, like he'd gone on a crash diet and his neck hadn't caught up with his thinner self. Or else he was nervous, because he looked drawn. He wore a collarless shirt and clogs. His hair was long but he'd greased it back like a Ducktail. Like a biker who couldn't decide between being a biker or a hippie. It was weird.

I thought to myself, "well, here's one for practice."

He bought me a coffee, and we sat back in the couch he had been sitting in, and I realized why he looked slouchy, it was one of those old low sitting crappy couches that swallows you. No one can look good in a couch like that. I had a hard time figuring out how to sit, what with my short skirt and all.

When we got talking, he seemed to loosen up. We talked about many of the things we'd been emailing each other about: God, church, our own burn-outs on church related stuff, and the persistence of faith despite it. And we talked about music and films and writing. Well he talked most of the time. And as he spoke he stared off ahead and ran his fingers through his long hair, breaking up the pomade into brown strings of hair.

I liked talking to him, it was great to have a healthy conversation. But he never asked me any personal questions about myself. He just kept talking about god faith and music and writing. But never about me.

Two and a half hours later … yeah, there must have been something worthwhile in the conversation, because we kept each other occupied for over two hours. But he was hasty to get back to his side of town before the traffic got any worse.

We walked out together into the bright January afternoon, and he startled me, because he stopped and looked right at me, maybe for the first time, and said, "Hey I'd like see you again."

"Really? Uh okay."

I filled up the space with some suggestion about going to a movie or what not. But I was surprised, he didn't even act as though he wanted to be there now. Why would he want to do it again?

I drove home and called the friend I'd been chatting to on the way in. "Well, that was a wash. Why do I get my hopes up?"

I didn't realize how much expectation I'd actually put into this date. I'd talked myself out of caring but in fact I had. I'd been corresponding with him for a month and he really seemed like a great guy. He seemed like THE guy. But whoever had been emailing me, that was not the man who'd shown up for coffee. That guy sent his stiff, ambivalent preoccupied doppelganger.

The next day I got an email from Coffee Guy:

Hey Friend, great to meet you, I really enjoyed our conversation about blah blah blah..

Friend. Hey, FRIEND. That made it clear where his intentions were. Forget it, f#K it, I'm never going to find a decent guy on this planet. Shit!

A few days later he emailed me, "Hey, I found these articles on Christianity Today about (something or other, wondered what you thought?"

He wanted to know what I thought? What was this, a quiz?
You know what dude, you don't get to know what I think. My opinions are worth something and you don't get to know.

I think I said something polite like, Thanks, looks interesting!

I never told him what I thought.

But then a few days later he emailed me. Two of his friends were going to see "Matchpoint," and did I want to join them?"

Oh brother. This isn't even a date, it's a group movie night with his friends, in some far corner of the valley. Stupid.

But then I thought, ah what the heck. He actually is a cool guy, and he might end up being a decent friend and someone worth knowing. Besides, I couldn't get anyone else to see "matchpoint" with me.
When he showed up, he looked better. Like he was taller, with more hair. No really, he looked more relaxed, younger. And he had gotten rid of the clogs for the night. His friends were cool. He loosened up around them, he even laughed. And he started to look like the picture I'd first seen of him. But when he walked me to my car he gave me this awkward hug, like we were in high school.

An odd thing happened a few days later. His movie friend emailed him, she thought I'd be interested in this spoken word show where she was going to sing that coming weekend. What was odd was, I was performing in the same show. This woman I'd just met was singing at an event where I was going to read. She and I were in the same show.

So, the two guys came to hear her sing and me read. It was a vulnerable and raw piece I was reading, about myself, my faith, my past. He was either gonna get it and like it, or hate it and be gone.

He got it, and he liked it. In fact he kept getting it, getting me. And we kept seeing each other, steadily and slowly the man I'd met in those emails emerged, like a face in a Polaroid.

We got married seven and a half months later.

We have had rough bits and I'm sure we'll have many. But we've had wonderful moments, we've learned so much already about how to talk and how to act, in light of another person rather than for simply oneself. I see the beauty of marriage, how it changes you for the better, so you'll be ready for heaven, with all of your crap burned off of you.

I can't imagine being with anyone other than that man with the clogs and the long wild biker hair. And I look forward to more years to come.

Lessons from Christmas

Larry and I started to do morning devotions for Advent. Advent is about waiting: and I wanted my Christmas to be spiritually rich. I wanted it to be about more than just getting excited about our trip to Portland or Larry to open his gifts. I wanted something to offset the stress of holiday shopping. I wanted it to be about the birth of Christ. Or more pointedly, I wanted to put myself into the reality of what the birth of Christ means: that God squeezed himself into a person. That God became incarnate. A vulnerable crying, pooping child who needed his parents. God putting himself at our mercy.

So what was I expecting? God to put me into warp-speed spirituality as a result of this? I didn't know what to expect, but I did remember one Christmas, shortly after I'd taking my faith seriously … I was maybe 18 then. I remember sitting in my parents' living room, reading the Gospels, and crying. And I don't remember over what. Maybe it was gratitude or wonder, or maybe longing. But most of my ensuing years, my spiritual life has been about wanting to get that longing back. I've spent so many years angry or bitter or over it. And I've wanted to get back to that place of longing for God.

So that's a hefty expectation for just a simple devotional. And the readings weren't all mind-blowing. In fact maybe noen of them were mind-blowing. But they've had a positive effect.

For one thing, it's just good discipline to wake up and give time to something other than the news on the net; or whatever emails I've happened to get that day. If I'm not an email junkie, I'm definitely email-dependent. And that's ass-backward, if I'm going to read my Word-a-day or the latest forwarded jokes attributed to George Carlin.

Second, it's been good just to set aside "real time" for Larry and me, first thing. The "tyranny of the urgent: things I gotta do that convince me they're so important I'd put them in front of God or Larry. Tasks that seem so important to focus on, that skip my quiet time, which could actually help me focus: not just focus, but approach those urgent matters with a wiser, skeptical and grounded mind.

So having a devotional, or quiet time, has grounded me and given Larry and me time to get grounded together. What's not to like?

The Hell of Self

The self that crops up in the silence. That's what's not to like. Larry said that marriage is 24/7 therapy, and he's right. You can't run or hide who you are. And the thing about this God becoming real, and flesh, and in my face, has sort of gotten in my face these last few weeks. And I haven't liked it.

For example: the other day I was driving west near one of the movie studios, and a car was stopped in my lane trying to park. Actually it had pulled into the parking spot but was too far into traffic. So I veered over into the lane to my left. No one was there, but there was a sports coupe racing toward me on the left, maybe a car length or two behind me. He started honking his horn and screaming at me, as he raced past me at maybe 10 miles above the speed limit. He was pissed that me veering over in his lane clipped his speeds from 25 above to only 15 miles above the limit. I waved him the peace sign. And that only made him angrier. We spent the next couple blocks riding side by side: him flipping me off and screaming, and me smiling and giving him the peace sign. By the time I turned off of the street I was crying and picturing the man dead in a gruesome car accident. I wanted to rip his head off, and the images were strong in my mind. I said it out loud, "God I want you to kill that man. I want him dead."

And then I started weeping. It was still with me by the time I reached home, and so I tearfully told Larry about it. He came and embraced me, comforting me, consoling me about the holidays bringing out the worst in other people. But not other people, me. I was disturbed by that man, but even more disturbed at how violently angry it made me. Wishing that man were dead.

That's me. That's the incarnation that's being revealed to me this Christmas: this is the all too human self that is me. And it's the asshole in the sports coupe, and it's you and it's all of us. And that's my helpless self that cannot help itself into goodness. Not without God coming down and being here.

We were watching a National Geographic special about the origins of Christmas. They interviewed some people, put them into a studio and put nice lighting behind them. And they waxed on about Christmas. One woman said Christmas was the one time people really look at each other and smile and they're their best selves. I thought, she must live on a giant dairy farm in Vermont, and Christmas is the only time she goes into town. The rest of the year she has everything fedexed to her farm.

Don't Go To Therapy Right Before Vacation

The afternoon before we left for Portland, Larry came home from a therapist appointment, and he was really down about it. That's all he'd say, was that he felt like a failure and a loser.

That's when I got up to embrace him. But I didn't have angry drivers in sports coupes to put the blame on. I initiated the meetings with the therapist, because Larry and I needed to learn how to talk about the hard stuff in our marriage. We are so compatible and mature. But conflict isn't easy for anyone. And I tend to dive in and he tends to retreat. And we've really had only one major issue: finances. "Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Yeah this is a hard one, because it's about more than just money, but about who's in charge of our relationship. Apparently Larry never lacked for writing work for 25 years. Until a few months before we met. His friends attest to the uncanny timing of him hitting this slump when I came into the picture. What could it all mean? I don't know, because as long as I've known Larry (only a year) he's been unemployed or under employed, and in limbo about what direction to go. He's gotten freelance gigs here and there. But none pay well, none offer insurance benefits. But he's taken it, because he's had to.

It's hard to see him not get paid much, and it's worse to see him thrown around by the will of others. As much as I've brought up the subject, Larry's circumstances haven't changed.

Right after Thanksgiving I told Larry we both had go to out and get jobs -- any jobs, after January 1. I also said we needed to go see our old therapist, so we could learn how to talk about these things without alienating each other.

So I had my turn: I talked to "Rudy" about my frustrations and fears, and how I wanted to do things right with Larry. I wanted to learn how to encourage and motivate him, and not fall into being the resentful nag. It felt healthy and good. I felt encouraged.

Meanwhile, Larry was watching his 25-year career as a writer-editor die in front of him. And his wife was telling him to get a life. But I understood, too. I remember going through that very same death three years ago, and I told Larry about it. I had wept about it to my sister, and she replied, "Why don't you do acting as a hobby?" Like I could downgrade my life's pursuit to an after-school CRAFT. I wanted to yell back, "Why don't you be a mother as a hobby?"

I didn't want to tell Larry to go do writing-editing as a hobby. But I also knew that whatever death he was going through, something better could be born out of it.

"I know what this is like, Larry. I know because it happened to me. And I look back and think, that God torched my so-called acting and writing career was the best thing that happened to me. I started writing and performing things that mattered to me, because I stopped expecting to be compensated and acknowledged for it. And I was free. Yes God torched that life, and part of it sucked then and still does. But God spared me from a life of triviality. I knew that God was good." I knew that, even if Lar had to get a regular job and do his passions for fun and for free, he might end up doing the best work of his life.

"But this I know, Larry, I know God is good. I know it. I just know it."

I turned to the wall and wept. Because as I was saying it, I felt the reality of it absorbing into my skin. That God was so good. That God was so good to these flesh and bones of mine. That I was loved with a fierce and grand kind of love. And it was terrifying and good.

A few days later, Larry was offered a full time writing job. Not the most glamorous kind of writing, but it would be for causes he cared about, and with people who really liked him. Then he got an offer to edit a spiritual book. Not great money, but it was a start back down the road of doing what he really loved doing.

As he read the galleys and vented about how frustrated he was with the way people wrote about God, he got all fired up. He started to see how he could reshape the book. He got excited about what he was doing. I have never seen Larry like this before. All our courtship he was floundering, faltering, and losing his way. Now he was finding it, firing himself up, stepping into his calling. He was doing the thing that I guess was what got him fired up for the last 25 years. It was so terrific to see.

But then he went to see our counselor, who was going on information I had related weeks before: The Larry who was lost. I wasn't at their meeting, I only know Larry came home feeling like a failure. And I felt partly responsible.

So what happened in his session? Larry wouldn't say. He just said he felt like a failure. I embraced him as he had me. Only this time the bad guy wasn't the guy in the convertible, maybe it was me. Or maybe whatever in Larry's life had robbed him of his spirit to stand up and fight. I reminded Larry what I'd seen happen to him in the last couple weeks, with getting the job offer, and getting the book editing job that fired him up, I told him how excited that made me feel, how encouraged.

He nodded his head. And then we went to Portland.

We stayed with Larry's sister Dianna, and her husband Tony and their son, Joe. We'd been looking forward to this for quite some time, and we were excited to be there. Yes, the weather sucked and we slept on the floor. But it was Christmas, we were on vacation, and we got to relax.

Sitting around the kitchen table Larry's sister exclaimed, "Wow Larry, you got 16 comments on your blog about that therapist."

What blog?

I went to my computer and read Larry's blog. It was all about the counseling session he wouldn't tell me about. He made it sound like the therapist was telling him, unless he was making a lot of money, he wasn't supporting his wife. And then Larry pointedly asked his readerss: "Should I pursue my dreams, or money?"

Is that what Rudy told Larry: to pursue money and kill his dreams? Is that what Larry thinks I'M nagging him to do? And who are all these women chiming in, giving him advice: "WHO says you have to support your wife? WHO is asking you to forsake your dreams? WHO is behind this?

It was not a good moment for us. We talked about it, and he admitted he just threw it up on his blog without thinking, he didn't mean it to become a flashpoint. He felt bad that he didn't come to me first. But that blog still sits there, with a mushrooming list of comments back and forth between a few women who are deciding Larry's fate. And it sits there, evidence of me, the nagging wife, telling him to "get a frickin' job already!"

So this is Christmas, and what have you done?

I know what is true, Larry knows what I think about art versus money. You never kill off your art. But we can't expect the world to fund us. That's juvenile. And I was guilty of that childish notion that the world owed me my living. I was blindsided by the fact that my art stopped paying for itself. Wondering why it was happening. Hadn't God called me to do this work? Didn't he open the doors? What gave? And after all, it was What I Was Supposed To Do With My Life.

But I've come to accept that the world is unfair and is full of sadness and disappointments. But just because we aren't making a living at our passions right now, doesn’t mean we never will. However, until then we do it for fun and for free.

For fun and for free.

The Incarnation In My Face

Christmas was about the incarnation, God becoming flesh and dwelling among us. god showed up not as a fully developed human but as a crying, pooping, defenseless child, who needed people to feed him and protect him and love him. Jesus needed humans to help him grow up.

Here was the incarnational truth, showing up in my life this Christmas: Larry, the same flesh and blood, crying and vulnerable and making a mess; doing and saying things that hurt me or made me angry and defensive. And I thought of what Jesus said: "whatever yo udo to the least of these, you have done it to me."

And here was the incarnation in me, allowing me to love, forgive and understand. Teaching me to speak with grace and forbearance. Learn to love Larry in his failings and successes, and trust he will do the same for me.

The incarnation was also evident in the experience of being together. Watching movies, playing cards or going to Saturday Market in Portland. Watching Larry's sister Dianna and her husband Tony holding hands, after 18 years of marriage. Watching them make each other laugh and love on their son something silly. That was the incarnation. Not in just some profound idea of God becoming flesh; which is true and beautiful. But knowing that it changed us all, and that we experience love through flesh and blood. Not just some idea of love we can sing about or preach about, but a love that is active and in your face, be it laughing or playing cards or hurting one another and learning to forgive and be forgiven.
For fun and for free.

Gratitude List

People in AA talk about having an "attitude of gratitude." used to bug the crap out of me, usually because it was preached by some low-bottom drunk gone sober, like the leather-faced ex-meth dealer, who parrotted AA catch phrases like they were oxygen. "One day at a time! If it ain't broke, don't fix it! God won't reveal what he cannot heal." And of course, "practice an attitude of gratitude!" Shut your cliché hole, would ya? But then I noticed, he was a lot happier than I. They were his oxygen, and he was a lot more rosy cheeked that I was.

I went through a turbulent time in which I lived 17 places in 24 months. Then I finally landed in a guest-house above a two-car garage. Two people can't move around in the kitchen at the same time. But it was mine, and I was home. I was so grateful for it.

My sponsor encouraged me to write a gratitude list every day. So I did. And know what? I started to feel grateful. I started to feel more happy and upbeat.

So I guess all those dorky AA catch phrases and bible proverbs work.
as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he
Whatever is good, whatever is true and right and beautiful, think about those things.
Have an attitude of gratitude.

I was grateful when Larry came along. We've even lived pretty well together in that little guest house. We're leaving it in a couple months, but we've been grateful for it.

But I haven't kept up on my gratitude list. And I've gotten a little pissy in places.

So now here we are at Thanksgiving. I's time to make a gratitude list.

I’m grateful for

Larry: for his open heart, goofy sense of humor, his openness and vulnerability. And his really cute hiney. Yeah that too. I love him because he loves God and hates religiosity. Because he's walked through spiritual crises and disillusionment, and got a better faith in the bargain. I love the fact that the things he cares about are writing and spiritual growth. I love that he surfs the net looking for ... NOT for stocks and politics and Playstatione, but Christianity Today and The Emergent blogs and social issues and writing. My sister put it well last night: "he's a perfect fit for you." He is.

Larry's family: his mom Joy; His sister Dianna, her husband Tony and their son Joe. I inherited a great second family.

My own family: Mother Marian, brothers Rob Jim, sister Nancy, her husband Phill Erickson, their four kids Matthew, Emily, Jonathan and Elisabeth. My cousins and aunts and uncles. We are all healthy and alive.

Friends: I have been blessed with so many great friendships over the years. Friends who live close by and friends far away. The few close friends who know me, ones I know through writing or church or the 12 steps. And the new friends I've inherited through Larry.

The list goes on and on. I know I'll forget some, but here's a start: Mim Abbey, Sibyl Gardner, Christopher Myers, Matthew Corozine. Meredith Stephenson, Kim and Brian Godawa, Michael and Rebecca Corwin. Terrie Silverman, Mary and Jeff Cellers, Cameron Taylor, Jeannie Gaffigan and Tony Hale and Todd Wilkerson. Bonnie Eslinger, Aimee Umidi, Anna Hansen. My friend Carole Kealoha and I have known each other since 1985. I recently started going to study and write at the library she works at, and it's been so wonderful just to reconnect with her and go get coffee and talk. I'm so grateful just to be able to see her again and hang out.

And there are my friends who we used to live in the same city, these friends were such an inextricable part of my life. But now they live in other cities, and we don't get to talk regularly. But when we do, we pick up where we left off and it's like there was no time or distance between us. When I hang up the phone I feel a profound sadness, because I wish they lived next door.

And I get this overwhelming longing for us all to be together, and I decide that heaven must be just like that: a place where we are all doing our art or our lives, but together. And I decide that heaven must be a row of brownstones on the Upper West Side, with a media lab in the basement, meeting rooms on the ground floor with cushy chairs and an undending supply of good coffee and PG Tips tea, and our own apartments above. With Central Park on one end of the block, and the Rockies on the other.

Don't Call It A "Church" Service

Larry and I went to this church on Sunday night. Though you wouldn't really recognize it as "church." It was in a warehouse loft in an industrial park … the same loft where Pink Floyd used to rehearse. Like I said, you wouldn't really recognize it as church.

The buildings are in an industrial area of town. Near the train tracks. On the wrong side of them. You can't walk to the market, or even a 7-11 at night. As we walked up the stairs, Larry remembered Madeline Kahn walking up those decrepit warehouse stairs in What's Up Doc,
Howard? Ho-ha-Howard? Hey, those are Howard's rocks!"

Well we got into the building we didn't find thugs. Though a long-haired hippie type grilling tri-Tip might have been called a thug by the kind of church goers I grew up with. His name was Douggie Ray, and he was a damned good drummer. But we weren't thinking about his drumming. Larry had his eye on the tri-tip. Drooling.

The loft was huge and comfy. Bars set up to serve Pellegrino and cherry juice and lattes. There were clusters of couches and books, and in the center, the musician's stage, set up in the round, TV monitors showing arty montages. And in one corner, they'd set up canvasses and paints. In case anyone got the urge to paint their worship. I couldn’t channel paint during the sermon but I'd write words. But there was no sermon, the pastor played in the worship band. That was after we ate tri-tip and bleu cheese salad.

It was definitely unique. I could have used a little more focus to the evening. I didn't know any of the songs, and only one really 'took me in' to the moment. It was almost a little too "pomo" (post-modern) for me. But I liked the fact it wasn't passive: you didn't sit back consumer music or a sermon. IT was interactive; DIY (do it yourself): you sing the music, or not. Go paint what you're feeling if that's how you process beauty and the divine (way too pomo for me, but hey, it takes a village) How did I DIY my evening? Well for the first while I sat there feeling spiritually constipated. Stopped up with all my own cares and preoccupations. It took me a long time just to get quiet and let the crap of Self drain out of me.

At one point a woman got up and recited, in a PoMo of way, the scene where Jesus asked Peter three times if he loved him. Now in the Bible story, Peter responds, "yeah, Jesus, of course I love you."

Me, when the first question came, Jesus asks: "Do you love me?"
I answered for myself. "No. I don't."

I didn't love him. Not if you took my actions to reveal my heart. I am all stopped up with Self. Sure I can talk about how the church is redundant and old and cliché, how I don't get anything out of it. Just that morning in the car I'd turned on the radio to some Christian station, hoping I could listen to a sermon and get something out of it. But it was so old and stale. It didn't matter what the pastor (a man of course) was saying. It was the same three-point sermon with some ice-breaker joke at the top. I turned it off and cried.

God I want so much to connect, I want to hear what you have to say. I want to love you. But this stuff on the radio, it's dead. Old dead and trite. Or I am. God help me.

SO that night when the question was asked, "Do you love me?" I knew the answer.

Sure I can talk about how the church needs to change. Or maybe the institution needs to die so something real and authentic can be born in its place. Or at least, I need something new. But I knew also that I talk such a great game. I'm sooooo aware and authentic and cool.

Gag me.

NO Jesus I don't love you.

In my imagination, I saw Jesus walk away from me and I chased after him, crying. "But I want to!"

I don't want to be deadened by the priorities of my culture, obsessed with money, fame and Brangelina. I don't want to be deadened by my Self. Or my self-righteousness. Because you can be self righteous about not being self-righteous too, you know.

I ran after Jesus, crying. He turned around, and said, "See, you do love me. You came after me."

But I don't love you enough."

That much was good enough for today.

I remembered I once sat listening to a sermon about Peter. That was back when I was 29 and I went to morning and evening services, when I felt alive and full of God, when my life was before me, and all the answers were "yes."

I sat there and saw, like a vision, the story of Peter as a movie. Peter looking back at his life with Jesus, all the ways he screwed up. The times he put his foot in his mouth, overreacted, behaved like a jackass. And of course Peter denied Jesus three times.
So in the end of this movie in my mind, Jesus has arisen and, in his own poetic irony, asks Peter, three times, if he loves him.
"Peter, Do you love me?"
Peter: "I like you."
But do you love me.
I have great affection for you.
But Peter, DO YOU LOVE ME?
You know everying. You know I denied you. How can I lie and tell you I love you?

Peter, I know you don't love me. But you will.

That’s what I saw as the movie title of the movie in my head:
"I know you don’t love me. But you will."

Back in the pink floyd loft the un-church service ended with communion. And when I took the elements, I prayed that I would love Jesus more.
And the answer seemed to be, "Don't worry, you will."

If you want more info about the church that meets in Pink Floyd's loft, visit the Basileia website.

I'm NOT Jealous of My Cat!

It's the little foxes that spoil the grapes, so the proverb goes. It's the little negligible things that can sneak up and steal the joy out of the big things in life.

Like the fact I am at my second café in one morning searching for good coffee, wi-fi and peace to write. The first café had good coffee, and it was peaceful. Because they have NO wi-fi whatsoever. I was the only person in the place. I give them six months before they get wi-fi or go out of business.

So I went down the street to Synergy. Where they offer "free" wi-fi, but they just posted a sign asking you to purchase $7 of food each hour. Hey, even at the stingy Circus Circus hotel, they gave you a full 24 hours for $10. And now they're playing the radio REALLY LOUD. So loud I can't think. And they're on Satellite radio, which specializes in crazy niche markets. Today the radio is turned to Cubano dance music. Cut rate Buena Vista Social Club stuff. Over and over. They did throw in one Mark Anthony song, which was meant to be a relief, and then went back to the Desilu maramba.

The women working behind the counter are two Latinas in their forties. They're wearing thick makeup and pencil thin eyebrows. Maybe they're related to Tito Puente. I should feel OK asking them to turn the music down un poquito solamente, por favor. But I only bought a $4 latte, not a $7 one. But, wait. That gives me 40 minutes of a say around here. I look up at their delicate pencil-thin eyebrows, and it gives them anything but an approachable demeanor.

I cut my losses and leave. One coffee with no wi-fi, a second with Tito Puente gone to 11, means I just spent $8 and got no writing done.

Yeah, Larry and I haven't blogged in goodness almost a week. Which would make an avid reader worry: either things are really BAD chez Wilsons, or really REALLY good.

It's neither/nor. Don't get me wrong, we are REALLY enjoying our newfound connubial state. Everything from the great sex to the automatic coffee maker (thanks, Julie and Paul!), and the mini barbecue grill (thank you Bonnie! Larry passed out with joy). And the fact I've got a 24/7 conversation partner and lover and friend and leader whom I admire and enjoy. I love being married. Thank GOD I married the right guy.

But it is a huge adjustment. Much harder for Larry I am sure, because he's the one who left his neighborhood and moved into my place. And my place is small. This is temporary, but you only live in the moment. we're doing really well, but we've had some challenges too. Ones I would never have expected. Take, for example ...

My Cat

Larry's not a cat person. And I have one. I love my cat. The last man I dated hated cats. He hated everyone and everything, that should have been my first clue. But that jerk bullied me into considering giving my cat away. I vowed I would never date someone who didn't like cats. And like I said, Larry's not a cat person.

But Larry liked Honey almost immediately. And now that he's moved in, Honey has transferred all her affections to Larry. She goes to Larry for everything. If we are on the couch, she'll choose his lap over mine. When she jumps up on the bed, she goes to his side of the bed. And he loves it. Oh sure, he mock-complains when she weasels her way onto his lap. But he doesn't move her. He takes her in under his arm, remarking at her flexibility, her cute poses. Her manipulative meows she does just to get her to like him. She'll milk it for all it's worth, then cuddle up into his lap and purr and smirk at me as if to say, "Larry loves me more than you do." Or worse: maybe she's saying, "Larry loves me more than he loves you."

I've been officially replaced by my cat. Maybe by my husband.

Honey does come to me for one thing: Food. Larry gets the love, and I'm the dispenser of food. And discipline. By discipline I mean I move her out of the room when she's grooming. I can't stand it when she grooms with me in the room. Okay you're thinking I deserve to be rejected by my own cat. But honey doesn't just groom. she licks and picks and spits into her fur to chew it. And she does it ALL THE TIME. I've even watched her try to groom herself while she's dozing. And right now she's got some flea bites so she's been incessantly licking and picking, spitting and chewing. If she wants to chew her skin raw, okay. But please, I'd like to be able to talk to someone or watch a movie or relax without the image of her head bobbing up and down like a bungee jump, licking and picking and spitting and chewing. Of course a cat needs to groom. But please, in the other room, HOney.

So I move her. I lovingly move her into the other room, set her on the bed or the couch, pet her and tell her I love her. She usually defies me, comes right back and jumps on Larry's lap. and he doesn't move her.

Even Larry said it "It's the Good Cop/Bad Cop thing."
"Well, you try being the bad cop," I countered.

No, I am NOT jealous of my own cat. I just don't think this is cool.

Earlier this week, after Larry and I got into bed later than either of us liked, Honey jumped up on the bed. Larry's side of course. Parked her ass on his corner. After a few failed attempts to bungee jump groom, I stopped her and she lay down. Larry reached down to pet her.

I sighed: "You realize if she stays there, there ain't gonna be no action tonight. This is a small bed and there ain't enough room for the three of us."

Larry laughed. But he didn't move her. We fell asleep mumbling about the stresses of adjusting to a life together.

At four in the morning I was awakened by the sound of a motorcycle. Or so I thought until I gained full consciousness. I realized I was gripping the far edge of the bed, Larry was lying down the middle, and Honey was leisurely stretched out under the crook of his right arm. Larry was awake petting her, and Honey was purring like a Harley.

I sat up, grabbed the cat and croaked, "Okay Larry. It's either her or me."

I took Honey to the front door and put her outside. I think I heard Larry behind me, "is it the purring or cuz the bed is too small?

I think I answered, "that's part of it."

That next morning I fired off an email to him:

Larry, I can't go on sleeping like this! The bed is too small, it's too soft, I'm gripping the edge, the cat is grooming herself and causing a tsunami. I know we wanted to wait to buy our bed after we move but if I don't get a good night's sleep, we won't be moving anywhere! Not together! Well, maybe YOU AND HONEY WILL ..."

No, I didn't write that last line. But I could have. No way, I am NOT JEALOUS OF MY CAT! It was the stress of a new life, a tiny apartment, a tiny old bed. And of course a fickle hearted cat.

Larry went out and looked at beds that afternoon. That's beccause he's a guy, he's a problem solver. He doesn't quite fully grasp the female need to vent. In fact, I slept fine the next night. For one, there was no cat on the bed.

The problem wasn't quite solved. For one thing, it wasn't quite out in the open. But then Friday came. We went to a party, and there were cat lovers there. Our recent restless night came up in conversation. I tattled on Larry for petting Honey in the middle of the night.

Larry laughed, "Well you don't sleep under the crook of my arm."
"You never put me there!" I countered.
We chuckled a little.

And when we got home, I had to admit it to myself: I'm jealous. Jealous of my own cat! For years it's been just me and her. Now there's someone else. And she has in part, for now, transferred her affections to him. And maybe he deserves them. Maybe I don't give her enough time or attention. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten used to how cute she is when she sneaks onto my lap. Maybe I need to improve my cat mothering.

Then I had to admit it to Larry. He smiled and nodded. He didn't try to psychoanalyze it. Maybe he moved the cat off his lap to hug me, I don't remember. But he understood. And maybe he's getting the hang of it that when women talk, men don't necessarily have to go out and solve it (like buy a new bed NOW!) Just listen.

That night Honey jumped up, Larry kindly moved her off. The next day Larry fed her. Uh, after I showed him where the food was and how to feed her. (That would have been a good idea right from the start). The next morning when Honey jumped up to greet us (and ask for food) I wasn't threatened.

The great thing about problems is, I can talk to Larry about it. And the hugeness of the problem kinda goes away.

We're adjusting, and getting back into the things we liked doing together. This weekend we went swimming, biking, mastered the barbecue, and Larry finally took a yoga class with me.

Larry and I got back into reading out loud together. We started in on The Gospel of Mark, and Brian McLaren's book, The Secret Message of Jesus. Honey jumped up on Larry's lap, but later she parked herself between us, sure to have her back touching one of us and her paw touching the other.

Yeah, I can feel jealous of my cat. But there are some thigns she'll never get from Larry.

I sneer at her and say, "hey you can love your master, just don't LOOOOVE your master."