It's YOUR turn to pray!

My husband and I have a mini-battle every night of our lives.

We argue.

About prayer.

Ironic, eh?

It goes like so:

We are cuddling on the couch watching television. (I'm totally into the X-Factor right now.  My man humors me.  But then again, I humor him with all his antique boring car shows.)  10 p.m. rolls around.

Mr. Hotty Pants Pistol:  *yawn*  I'm going to bed. I'm beat.  I gotta get up at 5 to lift. *yawn*

(My husband lifts weights every morning and is stronger than 10 oxen. He is built like a Mack truck and looks super scary. If I weren't his wife I wouldn't mess with him... But I AM his wife and messing with him is in the contract.  It's my JOB.)

Me:  Mmk.  I'm gonna read for a bit. I need to unwind.  I'll go to bed soon.

Mr. Hotty Pants:   So... you want to say a prayer.

Me:  Yup.  Your turn.

Mr. Hotty:  Nope.  It's your turn.

Me:  It is NOT!  I said it last night!

Mr. Pants: No. I said it last night.

Me:  Whatever.  It is TOTALLY your turn.  I'm not saying it.  YOU'RE the patriarch of this household!

Mr. Pants:  Oh.  I see.  The old patriarch of this household card.

Me:  Yup.

We stare at each other real hard until one of us crumbles.  It's usually the person whose turn it really is.

The one praying always rolls the eyes and sighs heavily before beginning, just to let the other know... 

Then we hold hands and pray.

We pray for kind of a long time.  We have a lot to be thankful for. 

We also have a lot of requests for blessings, pretty please with a cherry on top.  Blessings on our children, home, parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, leaders of the church, political leaders, hungry people, sad people, angry people and confused people.

I like praying with my husband.  I even sorta like the mini battle every night of our lives.

Perhaps, however, from now on we should have a system. 

He will pray the even days.  'Cause he is even-tempered.

I will pray the odd days.  'Cause I am odd.

The Evil Spirit Teaches You Not To Pray In The Forever 21.

I prayed as I entered the Forever 21 today.  I prayed a real actual prayer.

In the immortal words of MC Hammer, (that's word) We pray... we got to pray just to make it today...


Amen, people.  It's HAMMER TIME!

So I prayed as follows:

"Please help me find school clothes for these girls.  Help me stay in my budget and find things that will make them happy.  Help me to be patient....  Oooo that's a cute skirt...I wonder if they have it my size... um... sorry, Lord.  Let Thy spirit be with me today in all I do..."


I try to pray always and not faint. Just like the scriptures say.


Matthew 7:7 says, "Ask and it shall be given unto you; Seek and ye shall find ..."   


Today I was seeking school clothes.  Why not ask for help from a higher power?  I wasn't gonna be able to find super cute deals and steals for both my girls without divine intervention, now was I?  No.  No I wasn't.  That's the truth of the matter.  The very soul of the core of the school shopping matter.

Miracles occurred today.

There have been many a shopping trip in my life with these daughters of mine that have ended in tears of frustration.  Funny cuts, ugly prints and ill-fitting frocks have all contributed to these minor meltdowns.

I kept a silent prayer in my heart as I led my girls from rack to rack.

"I LOVE that skirt, mama!  That is SO cute!" said Serena, smiling.  She is so very proud of her new braces.  She is the envy of all her bare toothed friends.

"I'm really diggin' this t-shirt, Mom,"  said Bella.


"That's a really ugly t-shirt, Bella," said Serena.


"Mom, tell Serena to quit saying everything I like is ugly.  I think everything SHE likes is ugly.  Like that ugly skirt she loves so much."


I smiled.  Things were going well.  Things were going very well.

"Let's be kind to one another about our individual choice of clothing," I said.  "I would wear both the skirt AND the t-shirt.  Not TOGETHER, of course, that would be ridiculous.  But I like them both.  You each have a great sense of style."


"I like really girly, pretty stuff and Bella likes super casual funky stuff, like fringe leather vests," said Serena.  "What's YOUR style, Mom?"


"Eclectic."


"What's that mean?"


"It means you can't fence me in.  I like a little bit of everything.  I love to borrow from any given style and make it my own."


"Daddy says you're Bombshell style.  But when we watch the Style channel it says that Bombshell style is mostly about, like, Victoria's Secret stuff..."


"Daddy said that, huh?" I smirked. 


"Yeah.  Can I have these high heels?"


Serena had stepped into a pair of four inch silver stilettos and was hobbling about precariously.

"No.  You'll break your face."


"But ALL my friends are wearing high heels!  Emma wears high heels.  Emily wears high heels.  Grace wears..."


I am constantly being told what ALL the OTHER girls are doing that she is not.  Can it be true?  Do you think? That ALL the mothers of twelve year old girls have joined forces without my knowledge and have purchased 4 inch shoes for their daughters?  Are there, unbeknownst to me, tons of twittering tweens teetering about the halls of middle schools across the nation?

After three hours of scouring every article of clothing in the store it came time to make the purchase.

I was pleased.

A song came on over the loud speaker.  It was a booty shaking song if I ever heard one.  So I did a little jig and sang along as the girl at the register scanned our every item.

"Mom!  That is SO embarrassing.  Quit dancing at the register!" said Serena.

"Don't be silly," said I. "Dancing at the register is HEALTHY!  It's a healthy endevour.  You should try it."


"Mom!  The girl at the register doesn't want to see you dancing.  It's WEIRD," she whispered loudly.

"The girl at the register doesn't mind my dancing at all," I said clearly for all to hear (as whispering in front of the girl at the register is rude.)  "Do you?"


"I don't mind at all," said the girl at the register to Serena.  "It makes her happy." She gestured to me.


"It makes YOU happy," I said to Register Girl, still dancing.  "Look how you're smiling!  You can't help yourself."


We all laughed and bid adieu.  Parting is such sweet sorrow.

And so it was that I asked and I was given.  I sought and I found.

Some might think praying before a shopping trip to The Forever 21 is silly.

But I am told in the scriptures that "the evil spirit teacheth not a man to pray, but teacheth a man that he must not pray...
But behold, ye must pray always... ye must not perform any thing ... save in the first place ye shall pray..."  2 Nephi 32:8-9 

So if the evil spirit DOESN'T want me to pray in The Forever 21 than guess what I'm'a gonna do?  That's right!  I'm gonna pray in The Forever 21!!

I'm sort of a rebel.

And behold, the biggest miracle of all?

I bought nothing for myself.  Which thing I never has supposed was possible.

PS  My little khaki overall dress was purchased this weekend in Vegas.  Vintage.  FIVE BUCKS!!  I am truly blessed in all things.

Socorro!

Broiling oil splashed onto the majority of my face.  Huge, watery blisters formed almost immediatly.  I was eleven.

"Socorro!" I screamed before I went into shock.

Socorro in Spanish means "Help".

Socorro also happens to be a popular name for Mexican women.

Socorro was my second cousin.  She lived with us.  She was 17.

My mother was helping her become a legal U.S. citizen.  In the mean time, Socorro helped take care of my siblings and I while my mother built houses with her father and brothers.

"Vamos a hacer papas fritas?"  asked Socorro on a random summer Saturday.

Shall we make fried potatoes?

I loved fried potatoes.  With ketchup.

"Si!  Ensena me."  Yes!  Teach me.

Together we peeled the potatoes and sliced them.

I pulled out a huge pot.  I watched as she all but filled it with oil.

We waited for the oil to get hot enough.

"Can I put the potatoes in the oil?" I asked.

"Cuidado," she said.  Careful.

I took a heaping handful of sliced papas and prepared to gently slide them into the pot.

Suddenly, I became afraid.  I was afraid of the power in the heat.  I was afraid of the potential damage if I made a false move.

My fear forced me to throw the potatoes into the fiery liquid.

Angry oil flew at my face.  Arrows of outrageous fortune.

"Socorro!" I screamed.

I awoke in my bed.  Socorro was gently rubbing a cold, soothing substance on my blistered face.

Butter.

Old wives tales say butter can act like a salve and help a burn heal.


In truth, According to the Red Cross, putting butter on a burn can trap heat in, increasing the risk of infection.

Miraculously my blisters healed.  Despite the butter there was no infection.  Despite the severity of the burns no scars remained.

As I meditated today, this story, which had been stored in the recesses of my memory, reintroduced itself like an old friend.

Hello, it said.  Remember me?

Yes.  I remember you.  Why are you here today?  Not that I mind.  But why?

You've healed nicely.

Thank you.

I couldn't help noticing you spend a lot of time pondering the healing of the heart and soul.  You wish it for those you Love. 

Yes.  I suppose I do.

How does that healing come about;  do you think?

In my own experience healing comes through a great deal of Prayer.  Forgiveness of myself and others.  Patience.  Submission to God's will.

Would you say that as you kneel in humble Prayer you cry, 'Socorro?'

Yes.  Yes, I do.

Get Up and Work

It is for us to pray not for tasks equal to our powers, but for powers equal to our tasks.  ~Helen Keller
***********


I had a super sucky suckerson weekend.  Very poopy.  So then I got a doozy migraine.  (I never get those, hardly ever!)

I was so upset and sick I didn't even dress the cutest of everyone at church! To add insult to injury, I didn't even take a picture of me so you could see what I wore! And my outfit wasn't even exciting like usual, even.  Black dress. Black shoes. No jewelry. NO LIPSTICK!  I KNOW, RIGHT?  You could swear I lost my will to live. As if I were attending my own funeral!

I stayed at church for, like, 5 seconds because T-Bone was giving a talk.  And I'm a really good supportive Mommy, and all.

Rachelle was, like, "How are you?".  All polite and nice.

But I wasn't polite and nice 'cause I didn't say, Fine. How are you? 

Instead I said, "I have a migraine.  Can you see the vein popping out on the side of my head?  It's throbbing and everything."

And she said, "Yes."

I looked extra gross.
*******


Today I didn't want to get out of bed. I felt super bummed and sad.  That old Depression was creeping in.  He wanted to take me over. Sit on my chest. Sit in my chest.  Suffocate me until I gave up and gave in. 

I freaked.

When I freak I pray.

What else is a girl to do?

I buried my face in my pillow.  And I was like,

"I can't go back there!  I can't go to that quicksandy place. The place that doesn't let me out of bed. The place that holds me down.  The place that whispers self-destruction.  I can't.  Help! Help! What do I do??!  Ahhhhaaaa.  help."

I wanted a booming voice to say STAY IN BED AND CRY AND EAT OREOS ALL DAY.  YOU'VE EARNED IT!

That didn't happen.

 I was still for a minute.  What I felt was this:

Get up and work.

So I argued.

I don't wanna!  I'm tired.  Sick and tired!  It's all TOO MUCH!

I felt like a petulant child.

But I got up.

There is LOTS to do at my place on a Monday morn.  My fam has a super fun lazy party all weekend.  Every weekend.  Then Monday comes and... THEY LEAVE.

They are all like, "Bye, Mom!  Have a great day!"

And I wanna be sarcastic and sneer, "Ohhhh I willllll!"

Which means I really I won't.

I am tiny in my mountain of mess.

...and my hair is all crazy.

My loved ones bless me with dirty socks on the floor.  Trash over-flowing outta trash cans.  Filthy bathrooms.  Wierd goopy things under beds and in closets.  Laundry. Laundry. Laundry.

I threw myself into my work.  I sang.  I danced.  I cursed (a little, but not too much.)

I laughed with Maya.  She suggested we both put the empty brownie box on our heads as we snuggled with the garbage can.  Creative!  ...and sanitary.

"Mama, take a picture of me for your blog!  We are soooo funny!" she giggled.  "Ok, now YOU put the box on your head."

One man's trash is another man's treasure, you know!

When my older children returned home from school all was well.

The house smelled of bleach, fresh chicken soup and Love.

I felt like Queen of The World when my boy said, "The house smells so clean! I LOVE that!"

This morning I asked for "power equal to my tasks."

I wanted strength to do the things that seemed overwhelming and near impossible.

When I tucked my babies in soft, clean linens tonight I knew I had achieved something GREAT.  

With a little Divine Intervention:

I am Wonder Woman!

(Or Elasta-Girl Or She-Ra or Some Other Really Cool Female Super Hero.)  

 



Awareness

I'm feelin pretty powerful right about now.

Last year the rug was pulled out from under me.  I started having major panic attacks and super scary depression which only gave way to Manic Irrational Anxiety. 

So I ran to the doc.

"Fix me, Doc!" said I with tears in my eyes and my head between my legs.  "I'm crackin up! I've done lost my marbles!"

"No you haven't, honey, you're just having a hard time.  You have no chemical imbalance.  You will heal.  I promise.  Let's make you more comfy though while you heal..." she said.

Her compassion was as healing as the Candy she doled.

She became my Willy Wonka. 

"The snozberries taste like SNOZBERRIES!" she said as she wrote out scripts by the fistfulls.  Sweet. 

The harder I cried the more she prescribed.  I wasn't manipulating.  I just couldn't get a grip.

I flew high for a few months and knocked myself out with double servings of Ambien every night.  I didn't have to THINK.  I was coping so it was cool.

I started waking to the fact I was Crys: The Living Dead.  The world was falling apart around me and I didn't care.  I obsessed about nothing.  I lived in my imagination always.  It was better there.

It took some doing to get off the Anti-THIS,  Anti-THAT, Sleepy Sleeper-son pills.

How did I do it, you ask?

A) I prayed damn hard constantly.  Made a nuisance of myself to the Big Guy Upstairs.  He didn't mind.  I spent HOURS on my knees with my head to the floor in the ass-up position in supplication. 

B)  I read a bunch of inspirational crap that all pointed in the same direction.   The direction of Awareness/Gratitude.

Here's how I do:

Today I started wiggin' out a little so I was like,

Mmmmk, Crys.  Be aware of your surroundings. Deep breath. Everything is chill. FOCUS!

I went for a run.

I became aware that the music on my ipod is TIRED AND PLAYED OUT!  (If you have any good running music ideas lemme know.  I'm changing it up tonight.  I got an 8 miler in the morning...)

I became aware of the snow on the mountain tops close to my home. Ahhhh...  Soothing.

After my run,

I became aware I had to pee, which reminded me I was well-hydrated.  Hydration is very important to me because it makes me glowier and prettier and that's the main thing in life that matters, right?  Physical Beauty?

I was accutely aware of the 5 extra lbs I earned fair and square during the Holidays enjoying all manner of sinful delights.  Gross.  But sexy in an undeniably juicy, sensual way too.

 Later this afternoon,

I became aware I had not showered since my 5 mile run this morn.  My armpits reeked, which reminded me I have a healthy body capable of running 5 miles in the morning. 

When I began vacuuming my house I became aware that my vaccum SUCKS!  It sucks because it totally DOESN'T SUCK.  It's a DYSON and EVERYTHING!  The only thing it wants to suck is TIME.  Yeah.  My vaccum cleaner is Master of Time Suckage!  I have NO IDEA what those cleaning ladies that handled it for so long DID to my Sucky- Sucker Machine!  It revolts regularly, which reminds me I have my very own house with my very own carpet.  Major Miracle.

At the moment there are 7 children running amuck in my house.  A slumber party is in session.

I am currently aware these kids think I'm the Cat's Meow. 

I dance in the kitchen and kids that aren't mine shout,"Ouwww! Shake it Crystal!"

I was gonna take a shower 'cause I still stink but I changed my mind and decided to write this instead, which reminds me I have control over my mind.  I can change it.  I can heal it.  I can choose to be strong.

I gotta be totally straight up with you and admit I still pop a crazy pill every few weeks when I am aware I'm coming competely un-glued.  I also drink caffinated diet soda regularly, but I NEED THAT! 

Mmmmk now I'm gonna go shower.  I'm aware the smell is starting to burn my eyes.

Spiritual Freedom

"You look different.  Your energy is different," said a friend last night.  "There is a light in your eyes I haven't seen in you before.  I want that.  How can I get that?"

"You have to follow The Rules," I said.

She rolled her eyes.  "What rules?  Your MORMON rules?" she asked.

"No," I responded.  "THE Rules.  The Rules of Engagement.  The Rules of The Universe.  The Rules The Gods must abide."

She stared at me blankly.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean," I said.  "You know exactly what I'm saying."

She agreed that there are indeed rules that must be followed in order to recieve more Light and Knowledge.  Everyone on this Earth innately knows these rules.

"Following those rules is hard.  I don't want to.  I'm fine as I am," she said.  "I can't be confined like that."

I've thought/prayed long and hard about our conversation.

I understand not wanting to be confined.

I started running away from home when I was five because I wanted to expand my horizons.  My mother was terrified to take a shower because there was a good chance I would escape and be found an hour later wandering the crime ridden streets of South Tucson, perfectly content, with my thumb in my mouth.

I value freedom.  I crave adventure and excitement.  I have always been a free spirit.  I have always wanted to see more than what lay before me.

My life as a Mormon mother and wife seems to be the most confining job I could have possibly chosen.  There are SOOOO many RULES!

I've prayed and asked God, Why?.  Why was I born into a religion that expects so much?  Why do other people do horrible things and emerge visibly unscathed while my guilty conscience devours me whole for mistakes I make?

I still don't know.

I do, however, have a great deal of Faith.  Faith is my Power.

This religion has been given to me and my moral code won't let me rest unless I live it fully.  I have faith there is a reason for all things and people in which I come in contact. 

I need what I will experience and have experienced in this life to progress.  I can feel the truth of that statement in my very soul. 

I have heard people talk in church and say "Following rules is True Freedom."  It always made me roll my eyes and bite my lip.

I have prayed not only to read and hear the truth of those words but to feel them.

Suddenly, I do.

Suddenly I see a vision before me of drug and porn addicts, pregnant teens, and alcoholics.  I see the chains with which they are bound.  Strong and unyeilding.  I have been spared these sorrows.

On a higher level, I see a spiritual world that only exists for those with enough Faith to see.  I feel bursts of Light that consume me during prayer and mediation. This is a gift given only to those who are obedient to the Will of God.  They are new to me.  I have never experienced this transcendence before.  I have never tried so hard ot be obedient.

I am enjoying a Freedom of Spirit I never thought possible.  I can see that so many around me are asleep.  They walk in darkness at noon day.  I remember what that was like.  I have fought for the Spiritual Freedom I now enjoy.  I intend to keep it.

SPECTACULAR

"Why do you have a tear, Mama?" asked Maya an hour ago.

"I don't, honey," I lied.

"Yes.  I can see it.  Why?"

"I'm kinda sad.  I'm gonna miss my mommy and daddy, Maya," I said.  Tears flowed freely then.  I felt ridiculous.  "Is that silly?"

She nodded.

"I'm too old to miss my mommy and daddy, huh, baby?"

She giggled and nodded again.

I told ya'll I would write if something SPECTACULAR happened. 

I'm moving out of my parent's house tomorrow.  Today I pack my little boxes.  Tomorrow I will be mistress of my own castle once again.

For those of you who missed my dramatic saga.  I was once a princess with an enormous custom home and Gucci at her finger tips.  Then the housing market went to crap and I had to sell my Royal Palace and move into the mansion inhabited by King Daddy and Queen Ama.

So why am I sad?  Who is their right mind would WANT to live with her parents when she is 34 years old with a family of her own? 

I'm rarely in my right mind.  I don't even know what that means.  Next!

I actually really LIKE my parents.  Nuts, huh?

On broken nights, which were often, I would find myself at 2am at the piano with tears flowing like the Nile. Musical sorrow drifted through the house. My mother would find me and sit quietly listening on the cold slate steps. 

She never mentioned the self-produced salt water on my face.  Instead she would wait until I was exhausted and the pipes had stopped gushing.

"I need some tea," she would say.

And I would follow her to the kitchen and let her talk.  I listened as she told me stories of Mexico and cowboys and magical dreams and God and The Devil.  I listened as she recounted story after story of Apaches and brave defenders of their families.  Of a woman who is my ancestor that carried a knife in her boot and rode horses with her skirts flying wildly behind her.

My mother healed me with these stories.  These people she spoke of are strong people.  They are my people.  She Healed me with tea and Love and true stories.

On other nights when I felt empty and bruised and battered I would go to my Dad.

"Daddy, I need a blessing."

Even if you don't have faith in my religion how could anyone argue with a blessing of protection and Love upon the head of a wounded daughter by a caring father?  What could be more beautiful?  Or more real?

I believe in Miracles.

My dad would bless me with his prayer and again I let the tears fall as he spoke.

"You are easy to Love.  God has an ease with you, Crystal.  He loves you.  I love you."

The greatest lie I have allowed myself to believe throughout my battle with depression is No One Loves You As You Are.  They Only Love You For What You Give And How You Make Them Look.

Do you ever feel that way?

My daddy healed me with his prayers and his Faith.  His faith in God and his Faith in Me.

Like a pathetic child who has spent almost a year mentally curled up in the fetal postition with her thumb in her mouth I don't want to leave this security.

I am a heart patient shakey from surgery. 

I have healed for the most part.

My heart is in the right place.  (There are times I have found it precariously lodged in my knee cap or elbow...)

I look forward to becoming whoever it is I am supposed to be.  I look forward to becoming the best of both of those SPECTACULAR people I call parents.

I'm not done crying today.  I will water the cardboard boxes I pack tonight and tomorrow I will ready myself for a new adventure.

I like adventures.

The possibilites are endless.

I like possibilities.

FORWARD MARCH!

     

BALLS

This post is for adults only… Talia, this means YOU. :)

It upsets people when I find levity in the inappropriate. When I find animal pleasures hilarious folks wish they could just make me disappear.

But I CAN’T HELP IT!

In The Problem of Pain, C.S. Lewis compares humans to dogs. He writes that God views us like puppies that need to be trained into submission and good behavior. He says dogs are ALMOST lovable. With a good, firm hand from a loving master they can become respectable, loyal and happy companions.

Here. Here, Mr. Lewis.

I AM A DOG! I am a dog in training. RUFF! (If I could have my druthers I would be a fancy, expensive, lean dog like a Great Dane… I’d prefer to not be a Hotdog Dog or a Yorkie .)

I was once at the grocery store and ran into a man of authority in my church. We got to talking.

He said, “I know your uncle, Deloy. His brother, DICK, was a good friend of mine.”

My eyes widened.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no!!! I could feel it coming and it couldn’t be stopped.

I began to giggle like an IDIOT in a psych ward wearing one of those blue gowns that exposes the entire rear.

“DICK?” I asked as I tried DESPERATLY not to laugh TOO uncontrollably. I thought I might hyperventilate with the extreme effort expended in not laughing.

I admit it was beyond immature behavior on my part.

He remained very calm and looked at me with loving concern and disappointment.

“Yes,” he said. “Dick and I went to school together.”

HE SAID IT AGAIN! I thought aghast.

IS HE DOING IT ON PURPOSE?? I asked myself.

DOESN’T HE KNOW I CAN’T BE TRUSTED TO MAINTAIN A SERIOUS CONVERSATION REGARDING OLD SCHOOL CHUMS BY THE NAME OF DICK??

COULDN’T HE HAVE SAID RICHARD, FOR PETE’S SAKE?!

I couldn’t pull it together. I just couldn’t. It was simply too ironic for an important, spiritual member of my Ward to be asking about DICK!

I’m sorry!

Actually, I’m NOT sorry. I suppose I WISH I were sorry.

People who know me well know I struggle to keep my head above gutter level. Given my religion and the folks that generally surround me I feel I’ve been dealt a tough card given my tendency to find filth amusing.

I battle it CONSTANTLY.

I try to sing little church songs in my head to clear the wicked thoughts away.

You think I’m kidding. Would that I were!

When I write posts that are a bit edgey , like this one, my whole world seems to go up in flames. Many of my family members and Mormon Moms the World Over want it to STOP.

Everyone wants a Crystal that makes people feel cozy and safe. Stories about DICK make people feel upset and out-of-control.

KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, CRYS!

I’m really not sure what to do about it.

I TRY SO HARD to behave myself. I really do!

I am literally TERRIFIED when I go to my book groups of what idiocies might emerge from my lips.

I try hard to NOT laugh when people talk about boobs, butts, sexual mishaps and uvulas (which sounds naughty but isn‘t). I’m SUPPOSED to have this in check, right?

When I am in a group of wholesome Mormon Moms I feel judged. But often, I realize, they are not doing the judging.

I am judging and berating MYSELF for not thinking like they do. For not being more calm and clean from the inside out.

I wonder WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!

I do the stuff I’m told will create the perfect saint. I go to church, read my scriptures daily, pray constantly and make sure to be a do-gooder whenever the opportunity presents itself.

How do I deal with the fact I am expected to fold my hands neatly in my lap and NOT think the word BALLS is funny? Because to me BALLS IS FUNNY!

I’m guessing God isn’t done training me yet. I’m a diamond in the rough. I’ll be brilliant and valuable when He’s done with me.

I’m a rebellious puppy in training. I’m still chewing up His favorite slippers and pissing on the rug.

A few more painful and jarring newspaper whacks to the head and maybe I’ll finally be lovable.

Woof.

A Buddhist and A Mormon

A Buddhist and a Mormon walk into a bar…

Just kidding. I’m not gonna tell a joke. This is a serious post so if you don’t want your heart strings pulled I suggest you stop reading.

OH! GOOD! You’re still here.

Story time.

I made a new friend yesterday.

“I’m Buddhist,” she said. “I’ve been a spiritual dance teacher for over a decade. I have received permission to continue learning in India.”

We sat cross legged and eyeball to eyeball on the floor of a busy hallway and talked.

Something was off. I could FEEL it in my bones.

“I spend a great deal of time in meditation,” she said.

Ugh. I could NOT get over that SOMETHING was WRONG with this woman.

Generally when I converse with very spiritual people who spend a great deal of time in prayer and meditation I feel a sense of calm. Very spiritual people calm me.

She continued talking. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

We talked about all the Stage Moms who were bickering and stressing over tu-tus and tights.

“It’s all so SILLY,” I said. “The things that are upsetting these women are so TRIVIAL!”

“I have been watching you today,” she said. “You are such a kind, happy person. You seem to be at peace amongst all of this chaos. I need someone like you in my house!”

Then she began to cry.

I immediately put my hand on her leg. She held my hand tightly.

“I am so unhappy! I’m ALWAYS in pain,” she said. “And I NEVER cry. NEVER! I always pretend I‘m Ok.”

“Then cry,” I said. “Go ahead and cry. I understand.”

And she did. She cried hard. Her tiny frame shook with the sobs.

I just held her hand.

“My little girl was taken from me! My x-husband fought me so hard! The courts just TOOK HER! He was so mean! She cried for me! She cried when she understood it was not her choice anymore. SHE WANTED MEEEE!”

She crumbled.

She told me details of her serious depression through her tears. I felt her pain acutely. My heart burned with her pain.

“I’m at the bottom! I’m so low I can’t ever come back. I KNOW in my heart I will NEVER be healed. I will NEVER be ok. I AM NOT OK!”

I remembered a conversation I had with my brother somewhat recently.

“Joe,” I said. “Things just cannot get any worse! I am so unhappy! It just can’t get worse!”

“If things can’t get worse, then they will get better. You can only go up when you are at the bottom. Good things will happen for you,” he said.

So I looked my new friend dead in the eye and said, “You are NOT Ok. I can see that. But you WILL be.”

“I will?” She sounded like a lost little girl. I felt her. Broken and Bruised.

“Yes,” I said with all the conviction of my soul. “If you are at the bottom, you can only go UP from here.”

She began sobbing hard again.

“But I HAVE NO HOPE! I prayed so hard to be able to keep my daughter. My teacher and all my friends prayed and NOTHING happened. She was TAKEN from me! I’m WORTHLESS. I’M SO WORTHLESS,” she wailed.

I can’t tell you how hard I prayed throughout this conversation.

Please, please God, HELP HER! Help her to see her great worth. Bless her and her child. Give her peace. Give her comfort. Give her hope. Let her feel Thy Love. Let her feel MY Love.

I repeated these things in my mind over and over as she spoke.

I comforted her as best I could with my words and my touch. But mostly I listened and prayed.

I felt calm and strong.

Since Fashion is ALWAYS a factor I looked down at my crazy silver pants and thought, “This is the WRONG outfit for this conversation. Completely incongruent with the subject matter.”

One of the last things she said really struck a nerve for me personally.

She said, “In my spiritual practice I’m a MESS! I’M THE WORST ONE!”

I often feel that way in my own spiritual practice. Among other Mormons I often feel I am the worst one. Do YOU ever feel like you’re the worst one?

I’ve had an epiphany:

SPIRITUALITY IS NOT A COMPETITION.

We all have trials we did not expect to face in life. We have all made mistakes we never intended to make. We have all been damaged in some way, haven’t we?

But we are not given the same trials and experiences as someone else. Our struggles are unique to each of us; Therefore, no comparison can be made.

My new friend is not the worst Buddhist and I am not the worst Mormon.

After we had conversed for an hour on the floor and our hands were sweaty from all the holding she asked me a question.

“I feel silly at this point. But what is your name?”

I smiled. “I’m Crystal. What’s yours?”

She smiled and told me.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

And it really was.

What an amazing honor for a stranger to trust the light she sees within me.

Om Namah Shivaya.  Namaste.

PS  I really dig that this dress has pockets. Fab lil detail. :)