I Choose You

Today, I choose You

Though all that is in me

yearns and aches and craves

something "more"

something else

something temporary...and not You

Today, I chose You

Though it hurts

Though it feels like settling

like giving up

like a consolation prize

Today, I chose You

Though I chose

And speak those words

Through tears

and pain

and defeat

Today, I chose You

Because You chose me

Because You love me

Because You have mercy on me

Even now

Even when

I don't want to choose You

Today, I chose You

Because of your promise

Because of your persistent pursuit

Because of your limitless grace

Because You always know where to find me

And, because You always know how to get me

Here.

Choosing

Wanting to choose

Surrendering

Wanting to surrender

Falling

Wanting to fall

Into the everlasting arms

That bore the cross for me

And bear me and my burdens now

Today, I chose you

Because You chose me

And, because You keep coming for me

When I choose

something "more"

something else

something ...not you

Today, I chose You.

My Saturday Night

Some single ladies hit the bars or go out with friends. Some curl up with a good movie or do a little pampering. Some, so I hear, even have something called a "date". Me? I do this...

"A dream is a wish your heart makes..."

I dream. A lot. Most of them are silly and strange and quickly forgotten. Some of them, though, have a way of sticking with me. A few nights ago, I dreamed (dreamed? dreamt?) that my nieces disappeared and I couldn't find them. That one was hard to shake. One time, I gave birth in a dream. Waking up with no baby was rough. Last night, my dream took place in a bus station. I was there with two friends. Two guy friends. They were meeting two other girls...and I was along for the ride for some reason. The girls arrived. They looked like members of a punk-themed roller derby team. They sorta tumbled off of the bus and fell into the arms of my friends. One was very happy with the arms in which she landed. The other, well, she was not. She was kinda mean. My friend, his name was Peter, tried to be kind and help her with the big trunks clunking behind her, but she would have no part of it. I felt bad for Peter. Once we all got on the next bus to head home, she opened one of the trunks and dumped the contents, numerous masks and helmets, out the window on to the people below. Peter sat with me because his roller derby gal didn't want him. I tried to distract him from the rejection by pointing out interesting landmarks along the way. Then, I realized that I loved Peter...that I wanted to be the roller derby gal he wanted. Well, minus the roller derby. I could feel my face reddening and now tried to distract myself from all the squirmy, tingly emotions going on inside me. I pointed out some oddly placed catholic relics to Peter, we were both amused. I made a joke. We both laughed. Then, he kissed me awkwardly on the cheek. We looked at each other and laughed. Our laughs turned to understanding smiles. My face got redder. My insides squirmier. He leaned in to do it right this time...and then...

I woke up.

Of Unicorns and Tigers...

Once upon a time, when I was in the 6th grade, I went through a unicorn phase. I hearted them. I wanted anything that had a unicorn on them. Luckily for me, there was also a fad going around with these little duffle bag looking purses, which also had a matching tiny duffle bag coin purse...and they had unicorns on them. They were like THE thing to have. If you didn't have a unicorn purse... you were a loser. And no one, I repeat, no one wants to be a loser. Least of all, or rather...especially me.

So I begged, borrowed, and bartered my way to a maroon unicorn purse and I went to the K&B, a local drug store, and bought a silver metalic marker and I emblazoned my name upon said unicorn purse in a beautiful script with a squiggly flourish beneath so that no one would even try to take my unicorn purse and pass it off as their own.

Shortly afterwards, I was riding the bus to school, cradling my unicorn purse in my lap, basking in the glow of its glory, minding my own business when an older girl (who also lived next door to me and was somewhat of a bully, especially to me and mine because her dad was a small angry man who hated our family for some reason) walked by and noticed my purse. More to the point, she noticed the carefully scripted autograph on my bag. Only, because it was sorta dark in the bus, and because she was partially illiterate and because she hated me, instead of seeing my name in beautiful script with a pretty flourish beneath, she saw the name of the boy she was currently crushing on and had, as recently as the previous weekend, made out with (so she said). His name was "Tiger".

In her illiteracy, hatred and impaired vision due to darkness, she charged at me and began hurling accusations and questions and insults. Nervously, I tried to explain what was really written on my bag, and internally questioned whether I really did like Tiger and through some wonder of subliminal, psychological effort actually meant to write "Tiger" on my bag. Despite my internal questioning, the bully soon believed my 'story' and left me be.

All that to say, up until about two years ago, any time my mom would see something with a unicorn on it, she'd buy it for me, even though my unicorn phase ended shortly after the Tiger incident. The last unicorn related purchase was a small cedar box with a well-shellacked top featuring a unicorn, of course, being tamed by a wizard. Classy.

p.s. tiger, his wife and children, now go to church with me. and the bully...she lives in a trailer with a few kids and one of her baby-daddys.

the end.

7 years later...

This face still gets to me. I saw it first in a dimly lit hospital room and I was transfixed. Emotions, levels of love I'd never known before flooded me and I was done for. Now, all these years later, though she's bigger...and sassier...sometimes, when I look at her face, I'm in that hospital room again. My heart is slain, again. I see those wide, inquisitive, tender eyes, those delicate lashes, that nose I would caress with my chin as I sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow". And. I'm. Just. Done.

I think, no matter how old she gets...or how sassy...at the end of the day, it will always come to that. She will always be that sweet girl, that amazing, tiny, sweet, wide-eyed girl staring back at me from her incubator, slaying my heart.

At least I hope so.

I sure do hope so. I hope that there will never come a day when I will look at her face and fail to be be struck by what an incredible gift she is in my life...what a miraculous, amazing, sweet and sassy gift. I hope there will never be a day when I don't want to hold her, caress her nose and sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow"...

and maybe kiss these.

Un-Giving Up.

Mornings. They used to be my prime time. I'd wake well before the sun, "rarin' to go", as they say. I woke, really awake and not at all zombie-like. I didn't hit the snooze button. The morning was here and I was glad. Mornings were my comfort time, the sweet spot of my day. I loved the look of my living room in the pre-dawn hours, illuminated by a lone lamp with small beaded fringe. I loved the smell of coffee (light and sweet) filling the house. I loved the feel of the little love seat I snuggled into, digging my feet between the cushions for warmth and coziness. And, most of all, more than the little lamp and the cozy love seat, even more than the coffee, I loved what came next.

After I got settled, I laid a pillow across my lap, placed my journal on one side and my bible on the other and read and journaled and prayed and read and journaled and prayed until the sun was up and it was time to get ready for work.

From this vantage point, those mornings seem like a crackly, black and white movie...recorded on VHS.

I'm not sure how, or specifically when, but those mornings were slowly picked apart and destroyed by TV at night and hitting the snooze button...and then, eventually, hitting the "giving up" button. And, since then, it seems, the fruit borne of those mornings is slowly rotting away, too.

But God...

A few cold and hazy mornings ago, I managed to get up without snoozing. I managed to read a tiny bit. I managed to get out of the door early enough to not be 3 minutes late to work. And, as I drove, I listened...to my thoughts, to the sounds of the road and to the music coming from my iPod. Just before I got to work, this came through the speakers and filled my heart with something I've known only rarely since those mornings of old ceased to be. What I heard was:

"Hope...is coming for me."*

In that moment, it was as if God blew on the faint embers smoldering in my heart and then, there was a flame again.

"Hope...is coming for me."

It was like I could see "Hope" running after me, searching for me, determined to find me. Desperate, even. "Hope" is coming for me...not to devour, or destroy, or disappoint, but to fill me and my life to overflowing with the things I truly need. Hope is coming to fan that flame to a blaze, consuming fear and doubt and disillusionment. Hope is coming to give me joy.

So, today, I'm hitting the "un-giving up" button...and waiting, because "Hope...IS coming for me... He's coming for me."

*this is the song, if you would like to hear it. :)

The Saints are in the Superbowl!

For those of you who maybe don't own a TV or have been living in a distant land without access to the outside world, guess what?

The impossible has happened.

Or in the words of local commentator, Jim Henderson, "Pigs have flown, hell has frozen over, and the Saints are going to the Super Bowl!"

After 43 years, nearly 4 hours of play and a perfect 40 yard field goal in overtime, the New Orleans Saints, one of the oldest teams in the NFL to never make it to the Super Bowl, earned that right last night...

and they got to do it at home in the Dome!

It was a long, emotionally wearing and, at times, frustrating game. And though I tried to remind myself that "It's just a game. It's just a game.", it really felt like so much more.

Growing up a Saints fan, I don't ever remember feeling like we were missing something by not going to the Super Bowl. Sure, it would have been nice, but they were our Saints win or lose. Our families gathered to watch the games on Sunday. Our radio stations played countless Saints tribute songs. And we sported our black and gold all year long. Even as a small child, I knew who Tom Dempsey was and truly believed that Archie Manning was the greatest QB of all time. I loved the Saints because they were our Team and because of the memories we made as a family cheering them on.

Even all through this amazing season, I never really thought about the Super Bowl, I just enjoyed the ride! But this past week leading up to the game, all of that changed. Here we were, in a place we'd been only one other time before, at home no less, one game away from the biggest game of the year...or, for most of us (fans and players included), the biggest game of our lives. And then, the tears started to fall.

Now, I've never cried over football before, but, the team I love has never been this close to greatness and to finally getting the admiration and recognition they deserve. Or so I thought...

As emotional and excited as I am about our win last night, I am equally disheartened reading what others continue to say about us. Still, after the season we've had, our victories are basically deemed the other team's fault. Much is being made about how heroically Farve played in the NFC Championship Game last night and some even go so far as to say that the Saints didn't win...the Vikes lost or gave up the game to us.

What?

What about the fact that we went toe-to-toe with Mr. Wonderful, Brett Farve and won...despite the fact that we had the ball less than they did, were subject to some very disappointing and just plain biased calls/penalties and made some serious mistakes on our own that basically gift wrapped the game for the Vikes? What about all the effort our defense put into the game getting to Farve, forcing fumbles and turnovers and making interceptions. What about Drew Brees who threw the ball around a lot less than Farve and still managed to keep the game tied? What about our offensive line who actually protected our QB? What about a 23 year old kicker who messed up a chip shot not too long ago, scoring the winning points for his team to go to the Super Bowl? What about winning our first 12 games? What about beating Tom Brady, Kurt Warner and now Farve? What about 43 years of waiting? What about 4 years of working and training and building up a team that is actually a contender when it was once a joke? What about a Coach and QB who jumped in and made their adopted city their home at one of the worst times in that city's history? And, what about the fact that, when all is said and done and you tally up the bad calls, missed calls, mis cues, and mess ups on each side, it really comes down to which team was able to pull out a win in spite of all of that.

Say what you like, this time that team was the New Orleans Saints.

Finally!

In a couple of weeks, the Saints will be marching into the Super Bowl to the beat of their own jazz band and by the sweat of their own brow to take on our 4th Future Hall-of-Fame Quarterback. We didn't get here by luck, by playing bad teams or because of other people's mistakes, we got here because we won the most games in our Division and put Brett Farve's pants on the ground a whole heck of a lot. So, folks/doubters/biased sports writers and commentators, stop making excuses for your favorites, accept reality, and deal with it!

The Saints are comin'!