The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

May 13 2014

Lay Down Your Sword

It’s 8:30 a.m. in Hiroshima, Japan. I’m lying on a very hard bed in my very sleek hotel room, recovering from last night’s show, jet lag, and whatever disease I am fighting off from Hacking, Coughing Man in seat 49A on last Friday’s flight to Seoul, Korea.

I couldn’t help but recall my dream right before I woke up this morning. It took me completely by surprise because it involved my ex-husband.

I had almost forgotten he exists.

No, really. His memory is like a blip on a radar. I’m not quite sure if that is a victory or not. It just is what it is.

In my dream, X came to me, apologetically, and offered to finally pay the money he still owes me from our divorce settlement. I decided a while ago it was not worth pursuing, just like it’s not worth my time and energy trying to take those scammy mover thief guys in Florida to court over the money they stole from me.

Extremely difficult decisions.

Interestingly enough, however, my subconscious still holds onto a figure; an amount that will bring closure.

The truth is, when you’ve been hurt or have experienced loss, no amount of money can fix it. Ultimately, there is no satisfaction. You are still left with loss.

I suppose I’m sharing this to encourage you, friends, especially those of you who are in the thick of trials. To those of you who are fighting, tooth and nail for justice. For those who are in the hellfire of divorce.

Choose your battles. Know when it’s time to lay down your sword. The trial you are facing right now will pass. Preserve your heart. Save your energy. Life is unfair and people can be dishonest and cruel, but it does not change the fact you are still dearly loved. Keep moving forward. Keep trusting. God sees you. He will never forsake you.

Apr 15 2014

9 Comments

Ramblings, Some Kind of Crazy

Dear God, Where’s Mine?

A few nights ago, I got angry at God.

It wasn’t an overly dramatic scene. At nearly 2:00 a.m., I was in my pajamas, feeling sorry for myself as I overlooked 5th Avenue from the open living room window. I clenched my fists, beat them against my thighs and muttered, low in my throat (so as to not wake my sleeping roommate):

“Why, God? Why did you give me a desire for relationship and children when it’s so clearly NOT happening?! Just take the desire away! Else, speed it up already and spare me this misery! Quit teasing me! Everyone else has a partner. WHERE’S MINE?”

I shut the window, went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

Okay, it was a little dramatic. I’m almost embarrassed to admit any of this because I want to paint myself the picture of perfection; as someone who doesn’t need love, romance or a committed relationship and family to be happy or complete.

Sometimes I don’t even know if I want those things. They’re too much work. I’m tired of feeling hurt. I’m happy taking care of just myself. I enjoy sleeping in. I like not having to take anyone else’s feelings into consideration when I make a decision. Being single is great, until it’s bedtime and you’re cozying up to just a pillow.

I share this — what I regard as weakness — because I know I’m not alone in my desire for more. I’m not the only one who cries to sleep on occasion, disappointed by my own hopes and expectations; disappointed in circumstance.

But look at how awesome your life is, Leslie. You just moved into a brand new, beautiful apartment in New York. You’re in Manhattan, right by the park. You don’t even have to live in Brooklyn or Queens! And the rent is affordable!

I know. I know, I know, I know. God has been so amazingly gracious and personal with each aspect of this apartment. I wake up every single day, grateful for my home. Not having had a place to call my own for fourteen months can stir a wellspring of gratitude, but beyond that, I have always dreamed of living in New York. And here I am, in a situation and location better than I ever imagined. I will shout from the rooftops how thankful and hashtag blessed I am to have such a wonderful place to live, in my favorite city. There is no question from Whom this gift came. God is so good.

Your career is starting to bloom again! There’s an album coming out in just two months, and you get to travel and live like a rock star! Your life is so cool.

I will not argue the coolness factor of traveling with — and as — a rock star. In three weeks, I depart for Japan with The Brian Setzer Orchestra, and, almost immediately upon returning, I head west for gigs and an album release show/party with Louis Prima Jr. and the Witnesses. Our newest record, “BLOW”, will be released June 10^th and I couldn’t be more thrilled to be featured on it. I love both bands with all my heart. If I didn’t have these creative outlets, I would be terribly miserable.

But touring isn’t always as glamorous as it seems. Life on the road can quickly become weary and lonely. Ask anyone who travels for a living: you start to crave familiarity and the comforts of home after only a little while. It is difficult to make friends and plant roots in a new city when you’re always flying away. Once you’re on the road, you start to fantasize about washing machines, your favorite coffee mug and that one, special pillow that helps you sleep better than any other. Oh, yeah. The one you’re used to cozying up to every night.

It sounds like you’re just in another holding pattern. Look at how far you’ve come! Live your life and stop complaining.

You’re absolutely right, Voice-Inside-My-Head-Telling-Me-to-Shut-Up. But please explain to me why I burst into tears when I saw not one, but two fathers carrying their babies in slings at the park yesterday. Explain why I want to vomit when I see happy couples snuggling together; playing kissy face and ignoring the rest of the planet because they seem to be the only ones on it.

I remember those kissy-face days. I experienced some very recently. And they faded almost as quickly as they appeared.

Dear God, WHERE’S MINE?

You’re just hormonal.

Why, yes. Yes, I am. Here’s hormonal for you: I am thirty-six years old. My body is screaming for sex and babies. I can’t help it. God made me this way and I’m not very happy about it. I’m doing my best to control my urges. No sex? Add more cream cheese to my bagel, please. Cute baby? Replace her sweet face with that of a kitten. I think there’s an app for that.

*****

I plopped myself down in the pew at church on Sunday, hoping Dr. Timothy Keller would cheer me up with some very heady philosophy. My grumpy, gimme-gimme attitude needed fixing.

But Dr. Keller wasn’t preaching. A young Reverend spoke in his stead.

Ooh, he’s cute, I thought. Within seconds, I noticed a very large, gleaming gold ring on his left hand.

Okay. Next. Wait a minute! Don’t scan the crowd for single men, Leslie. Don’t scan the crowd for…

Too late. It’s just what single people do. We scan crowds. Especially church crowds. We will have sized you up by the clothing or nakedness of your left hand in a millisecond.

“Worship,” said the Reverend, “is a universal necessity to place our deepest hope in something. We expect and hope, in the end, this thing will save us. “

I started to take notes, and ended up writing one word over again: Idolatry.

The Reverend continued. “We can formally worship God, but still be giving our lives over to some other idol. We are convinced God is the best bet for us getting what we want,” he said.

Without being prompted, I immediately confessed my idols in writing.

Relationship. Love. Career. Money. Relevance. Success.

UGH.

The Reverend kept speaking. “Have you ever thought, ‘If only I had this one thing, my life will be meaningful’? And then you actually get that thing, and it’s powerless. It turns to dust. None of this sets you free.”

DAMMIT, I wrote and doubled-underlined in my notes. SO TRUE.

*****

I’m sure God forgives my cursing in church. What is more, I am sure He forgives me for idolizing anything other than Him and touting good behavior to get what I want. I really want to stop doing that.

God does not owe me anything just because I overcame tragedy five years ago. On the contrary, He is the reason I came out the other side, not completely fucked up. He is the reason I have joy in my life. God never promised me some fairytale ending. He doesn’t guarantee a tall, dark and handsome man to love and adore me, give me beautiful babies, then play Mr. Mom to them in Central Park while I rehearse my solo concert at Carnegie Hall.

It sure is a lovely fantasy, though.

The reality is, my Knight in Shining Armor is right before me, and He happens to be my greatest chance at love, ever. His love is unconditional. It is never fleeting. It never depends, nor wavers, upon circumstance or feeling. His love is constant, abundant and always available.

I’ll let you know if and when God answers my prayer about taking away the desire for relationship and children. My guess is He probably won’t, since it’s what makes me human. And, even if I do find myself a partner who eventually gives me babies, I doubt any of us will be surprised when I start complaining about parenting.

Until then, I must repeat the truth to myself. Life doesn’t always turn out how we want. I cannot miss out on what is good, right now, just because I long for more. I must stop whining about what I don’t have, because what I do have is far better than I ever imagined.

“Dear God,
Where’s mine?”

I’m right here.

Apr 10 2014

(Coolest) Humans of Harlem

I just returned from running, then picnicking in the park on this gorgeous spring day.

I sat alone in the middle of a park bench and quietly ate my bodega-made sandwich while a turtle and two geese sunned themselves a few feet in front of me. Dogs, children, mothers, nannies, businessmen, teenagers, families and runners passed by without incident.

“Hello there,” a man’s voice boomed.

I looked up.

He was impeccably dressed in a black suit, bright red shirt and red vest. I immediately noticed his shiny red, patent leather, snakeskin shoes. A cream trench coat hung loosely against his thin frame, and his dyed-blonde hair was covered with a crisp, black fedora. Delicate, arthritic fingers clasped a marble-topped, wooden cane.

He grinned.

“May I have some of your sandwich, young lady?”

“Would you like half?” I smiled, and prepared to hand the wrapped, uneaten portion to him.

He laughed.

“Well, you are such a nice lady! But what would your man say if he knew you were sittin’ there with your shoes off, eatin’ a sandwich and talkin’ to a stranger?”

“Oh! Well, I like to talk to people. And I don’t have a man,” I answered, truthfully.

He leaned in and gripped his cane. “Now, you lyin’! What’s a girl like you doin’ without a man?! Who you gonna go home to?!”

I chuckled.

“Well, sir, I’m not really looking for a man right now. I’m taking some time for myself.”

“What’s your address?” He joked.

I laughed, and we exchanged a few more pleasantries. He turned to walk away.

“You promise me you’ll get yourself a man soon,” he said over his shoulder. “It’s a waste for a good woman like you to be all by herself! You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Aight now.”

Halfway down the long, green park bench sat another man, wearing a T-shirt, sweats and sunglasses. High atop his head perched a green beanie that read, “HARLEM.” As the older gentleman passed him by, he shouted, “That man is supa fly! He da pimp!”

I burst out laughing. He shifted his body in my direction.

“I heard every word he said to you! He an ol’ pimp! Mister G! His shoes musta cost more than my whole getup. Ha!” He threw his head back and cackled, loudly. I could feel the vibrations of his laughter through the wooden slats of our shared bench.

“You know,” he yelled, “I’m just sittin’ here, mindin’ my business and enjoying this beautiful day.”

“Me too!” I replied.

“It’s been the worst winter!” He shouted. “This is probably the nicest day we have had in a long time!”

“I agree! It’s a blessing,” I shouted back at him.

“YES!! I like the way you think, girl! It is a blessing!”

Feeling a little inspired, I yelled, “GOD IS GOOD!”

The man cackled again and threw his hands towards the heavens. “YES!!! HE IS GOOD ALL THE TIME!”

Our laughter echoed across the sparkling Harlem Meer.

“You know, girl,” my new friend called to me, “I am just enjoying the sunshine, drinking my drink and praying to God I don’t get arrested for being black!”

I raised my Diet Dr. Pepper to him. “Me, too!”

“HA!” He continued. “I ask the cops, ‘Why you gotta stop-and-frisk? Why don’t you just stop and sip?'”

We howled.

Eventually, he got up to leave. He approached me gingerly, but extended his hand.

“Lady, I hope you have a nice day. You’re the coolest white woman I ever met. Most women like you would never talk to a black man like me.”

I smiled and shook his hand. “Well, I’m black, too, you know.”

He clapped his hands, threw his head back and delivered a final, boisterous laugh.

“You stay away from that pimp now, ya hear?”

I laughed with him. “Will do.”

As I watched him walk away, I chuckled to myself and shook my head. Another man spoke. He was sitting to my right.

“I heard that.” His tone sounded slightly scolding. He put his book down, rose from the bench and approached me.

I looked into his eyes, and noticed they were kind, despite the deep creases around them. His temples shone with flecks of grey hair.

“Excuse me, Miss. I just have to say that someday, I hope the honor will be ‘coolest human.’ Because you are definitely that.”

Apr 06 2014

4 Comments

Moving Forward, Self Discovery

Dear 21-Year-Old Leslie

Dear 21-Year-Old Leslie,

I came across a bunch of your journal entries today. I read through your pre-marital struggles, your very evident unhappiness in your two-year engagement to X, your breakup, re-engagement and your enabling and tolerance of his wishy-washiness about you, from early on.

I wish you would have had the strength to stay broken up with him, from the very minute he had doubts about you. I wish you would have heeded your instincts. I wish you would have truly believed what you wrote about knowing you could be happy without him; knowing you deserved better.

I wish you had never married him.

But you did, because you loved him. And that’s okay. I want you to know 36-year-old Leslie forgives you. Your struggles, your cries to God even this very day are similar. You crave love and partnership, but I’m proud of you for finally standing up for yourself. I’m proud of the woman you have become. I’m sorry for the pain and suffering that got you here, but I’m really glad you made it.

I want you to know it’s okay to have loved and lost. It’s good to love people. It’s okay to open your heart and be vulnerable. It’s scary and painful, but it’s better than the alternative, which C.S. Lewis so beautifully illustrates:

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

Leslie, I want to encourage you to keep believing in yourself. Keep moving forward. Look where God has brought you! Look at the cherry blossoms blooming in your gorgeous New York City apartment. You have prayed and longed for this city for years. And now you are here. It took time, heartache, tears and a massive leap of faith, but you are right where you are supposed to be.

Keep believing. Keep loving. Keep trusting your gut. Keep trusting the Lord.

God’s got you. He’s never going to let you go.

Love,

Feb 05 2014

1 Comment

Hope

Limbo

She couldn’t do it. No matter how hard she tried, it wasn’t going to work. The snowdrift was too high for her feeble feet. She pushed harder, but the harder she pushed, the steeper the incline became. Dirty, dark slush seeped into her stockings, and her shopping bags, hanging loosely from the handles of her walker, began to slip.

“Come on, Ida. You can do this,” she muttered. She encouraged herself a little louder. “You’re not dead yet! Just a few more steps forward!”

Alas, the bright green, synthetic felt covering her walker’s wheels was too soggy to get past the storm drain’s grating.

Stuck.

“Sheeeyit,” she muttered.

The flashing walk sign delivered a ten second warning. She glanced to her right. Several rows of glowing headlights glared at her, waiting impatiently for their chance to accelerate forward. At rush hour, there would be no mercy.

After all, this is New York.

“Hey, lady, lemme help you,” A rough yet kind, deep voice soothed her left ear. One, three, four, then six strong hands were gently placed upon her, lifting her out of the gutter, past the dirty snow and safely onto the sidewalk.

It was swift; effortless. Breathless, she looked up to see who had helped her. Three fresh-faced, teenage boys smiled at her.

“Are you all right?” the boy with the deep voice asked.

The light turned green and the rows of headlights sped past her. One bright, yellow taxicab tore near the storm drain, sending a seemingly vengeful spray of slush up onto the pavement. It narrowly missed hitting all of them.

“Yes…yes, thank you,” she replied, a little shaken. “Thank you, boys.”

“You’re welcome,” another boy squawked. “Be careful!”

And, almost as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.

*****
Today marks my one-year anniversary of living in New York.

I am sitting on the blue velvety couch in my roommates’ cozy apartment, surrounded by boxes, and my one and a half suitcases. Two months ago, the three of us applied for a bigger apartment and have been waiting, ever since, for the final word of approval.

The process has been so difficult it borders on comical. The details are exhausting. Let’s just say they involve an eviction notice; politics; red tape; 700+ pages of paperwork; begging over social media for a wealthy guarantor; illegally squatting in the current apartment; losing $850.00 to a shady, Florida-based moving company; an expensive, last-minute, one-way plane ticket; missing the flight for a mandatory, in-person “income verification interview”; my roommate getting punched in the face; a sea of tears, a gallon of whiskey and almost giving up hope.

It’s just been too much.

On top of it all, I just pressed the pause button on a brand new relationship with a wonderful man whom I fiercely and dearly love. Our relationship started off long distance, and a great job opportunity extended that distance. I am confused. I am scared. I am heartbroken.

Oddly enough, this season of limbo has been the most trying yet. Sure, I have survived divorce. I have thrived in the aftermath. I am finally living in the city of my dreams, but it hasn’t looked like I wanted it to. At all.

Today, we still have no answer. I had hoped God would wink at me on my official anniversary. In my Disney-esque spiritual fantasy, we would have signed the lease today. At the same time, I know we are going to move into this apartment. The wait will be worth it for many reasons: we will live in Manhattan, not Brooklyn or Queens. We will live a block from Central Park. Best of all, my share of the rent will be a mere $14.00 more than what I paid for my first apartment — when I got married — fourteen years ago.

I will not just survive New York City; I will thrive here.

*****

I’m quietly celebrating my anniversary this evening. Much like the scene I observed on the corner of 75th and Broadway last night, I cannot push forward any more. I’m stuck in limbo, but I know there will be swift, strong hands to help me. I know there is always a soothing voice in my ear, even from the least expected source. I know I’m not alone.

And that’s enough for now.

Jan 07 2014

7 Comments

I love Jesus, New beginnings

Diamonds are a (Divorced) Girl’s Best Friend

A year ago, I sold my wedding rings.

Actually, a diamond is *not* forever.

Although it was empowering to rid myself of the final remnants of my marriage – the most symbolic token of all – I agonized over the possibility of keeping the diamonds and repurposing them.

Another ring? No.

A necklace, perhaps?

In the end, I sold the engagement diamond to a jeweler for $45.00, and dumped the one I could not sell – a tiny fleck of a Tiffany diamond – into the Pacific Ocean. I decided were I to have diamonds in the future, I would buy them for myself.

*****

A few weeks ago, I performed with Brian Setzer at the Dolby Theatre in Los Angeles. Andrea attended the sold-out show, and met me in my dressing room afterward. She presented me with a stunning pair of handmade chain mail earrings, and another gift.

“This is from the Saudis,” she smiled.

For a year and a half after my divorce, Andrea and I designed an entire home for a very prominent family in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. I was grateful to have such an exotic job, and the opportunity to work with/learn from one of my best friends. The project was extremely detailed. There were many times I wasn’t sure we’d meet our tight deadlines. We had to source, purchase, store and ship everything overseas, even down to mattress pads and pillowcases.

I had worked at Andrea’s successful, Los Angeles-based firm since the fall of 2009. She hired me because I was desperate for work. My derelict ex-husband had long ceased his marital duties, including financial contribution. I was on my own.

Last December, Andrea made some major changes to her business. She needed more architects on board, and I was graciously let go. There were no hard feelings; it seemed a natural progression for both of us. The loss of that job was ultimately the catalyst that pushed me out of the nest, and a blind leap of faith into the next chapter of my life.

*****

Two days before Christmas, I opened the little teal bag Andrea handed me. I read the card first, tracing my finger along the etching, “TIFFANY & CO.”

Dear Leslie,
Your spirit, energy and professionalism made it all possible for us to get the job done. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Love, Fahda and Khalid

I carefully unwrapped the glossy, white ribbon from the familiar blue box, and gasped.

Inside lay a diamond necklace.

Tears welled up in my eyes. It was exactly the necklace I would have designed for myself, even with an old, tainted diamond. I hadn’t admitted it, but I truly believed I would never receive a Tiffany diamond again.

It was at the bottom of the ocean, Titanic-style.

One year later, I have a brand new, gorgeous piece of jewelry I wear every single day. I cannot help but marvel at God’s kindness and provision. This diamond is shinier, bigger and brighter. This diamond is forever, because not only is it a gift from the bottom of people’s hearts, it is a very personal gift from my Heavenly Father.

He truly makes all things new.

Sep 17 2013

11 Comments

Self Discovery

Autumn in New York

I’m lying on my back in the middle of Sheep Meadow in Central Park. The clouds above me appear ominous, threatening to reveal the heavens and pour torrential rain upon the earth.

Yet, not even a drop falls. The breeze is refreshingly light; the air warm and fragrant with fall.

My phone buzzes, and I reach into my heavy, oversized bag to respond to a single text message. It’s from my best friend, Joy. Her first child – a healthy girl named Autumn — will be delivered via C-section on the first day of autumn. At the same time, Joy’s grandmother is dying. I immediately call her. We talk for over an hour, laughing, crying and marveling at what this week entails.

We conclude a new season has truly begun.

After I hang up the phone, I wander out of the park and through a neighborhood of Upper West Side brownstones. The comforting smell of incense hits my senses and I am drawn through the open door of The Church of the Blessed Sacrament. Several individuals are scattered throughout the sanctuary with their heads down in fervent prayer. The organist rehearses the same sixteen bars of music, over and over again.

I drop my heavy bag on the wooden pew. It makes a loud noise and startles a sleeping homeless man on the far end. I didn’t even realize he was there.

“Sorry!” I whisper loudly, as he raises his head to see who violently roused him from his peaceful slumber.

He groans and rolls over. I close my eyes and inhale, deeply. It smells of musk, smoke, incense, urine-soaked clothing and fresh rain.

It has finally begun to sprinkle outside.

I don’t spend too much time in church. My neck, back and shoulders ache from sleeping the past week on a well-worn couch. My eyelids are heavy, and if I stay too long in that hard pew, I might end up cuddling the homeless man.

I’m tired. I’m kind of lonely; longing for human touch and affection. I haven’t realized it because I’ve been so busy. I also have a sudden urge to write. I just want to write and write and write and vomit everything on the page so I can process.

I’ve missed New York. I’ve missed myself in New York. New York is the best date I’ve ever had. It’s the place I can fully, truly be me.

Since it’s finally fall, I decide a pumpkin coffee drink is in order. I head to overpriced, corporate coffee land and plant myself at the tall bar in the window.

I throw a few words up on the computer screen and decide they’re shit. I distract myself and post a picture I took of myself in the park. Look, I know: selfies are annoying. But I don’t care. I like myself. Actually, I love myself. I’m as happy as can be. I never want to forget these beautiful days.

Go ahead. Click on it. It’s a good one.

After I receive substantial validation on social media, my gaze extends outside. I watch all the people briskly walking by. A school of yellow taxicabs swarm in the background, as does an occasional, hurried ambulance. The high-pitched sirens and flashing lights aren’t much noise pollution anymore. They just go with the territory. It’s home.

A homeless man in a fairly clean, blue jacket has positioned himself next to a tree, in between a smoothie cart and a newsstand. I observe him for several minutes. He never asks for money, just patiently waits for people to read his sign. Most pass him by, not even noticing.

Autumn in New York

I watch a man in khaki pants, a canvas jacket and white New Balance sneakers go out of his way to offer the man some money. The exchange is brief, yet pleasant, and New Balance Sneakers Man walks away with a smile on his face, visibly pleased with himself.

I smile at him and keep writing.

An hour later, the homeless man by the tree has left his station, and a more vocal homeless man has taken his place. I can’t hear him through the glass, but he’s dancing on one foot and talking a mile a minute to all who pass him. I gasp and realize I recognize him. He’s the same man who offered me chocolate on the train, on Valentine’s Day.

Almost as soon as I’m finished typing this last paragraph, he, too, is gone.

I smile, remembering that blustery, lonely, wintry day. I was different then. I’m different now.

Now it’s autumn. Autumn in New York.

Autumn in New York
Why does it seem so inviting?
Autumn in New York
It spells the thrill of first-nighting

Glittering crowds and shimmering clouds
In canyons of steel
They’re making me feel I’m home

It’s autumn in New York
That brings the promise of new love
Autumn in New York
Is often mingled with pain

Dreamers with empty hands
They sigh for exotic lands

It’s Autumn in New York
It’s good to live it again

Autumn in New York
The gleaming rooftops at sundown
Oh, autumn in New York
It lifts you up when you run down

Yes, jaded rou’es and gay divorceés
who lunch at the Ritz
will tell you that it’s divine

This Autumn in New York
Transforms the slums into Mayfair
Oh, Autumn in New York
You’ll need no castles in Spain

Yes, Lovers that bless the dark
on the benches in Central Park
Greet Autumn in New York
It’s good to live it again

Autumn in New York
That brings the promise of new love
Autumn in New York

Is often mingled with pain
Dreamers with empty hands
They sigh for exotic lands

It’s Autumn in New York
It’s good to live it again

*****

To my sweet, precious, soon-to-be-born niece, Autumn, whom I love as my own already: I cannot wait to meet you.

Welcome to this world. You are loved beyond anything you can ever imagine.

Aug 29 2013

11 Comments

Adventure, Ramblings

Thirty-Six

A couple of weeks ago, I visited my gynecologist.

Per usual, she cheerfully entered the room.

“HI, LESLIE! So! Any relationships this year?” she asked, as she briefly reviewed my chart.

“Oh! Oh, no. No, no, no…nope. No relationships,” I responded, shifting my sit bones on the noisy paper lining the table.

I racked my brain for a moment and felt slightly panicked. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been asked out. March? April? Did an extensive, yet fairly innocent make out session with a tall, well-built, sexy Australian I met at a NYC film premiere count as a date?

No. No, it didn’t, although he did offer to fly me to Vegas for the weekend to “hang out and see some shows.” I actually considered it. Christianity/morality/self-respect aside, a weekend of hot, wild, noncommittal sex sounded pretty tempting.

Knowing my heart, however, I quickly decided against it.

Cheery Doc’s lips twisted in sympathy. “Well, I’m sorry. The good news is, no STD testing for you!”

I tightened my grin, and my knees.

“Yep! Trying to quit! Heh, heh, heh!” The sweat underneath my arms started to soak into my powder-blue, paper gown.

Doc nodded, knowingly. I changed the subject.

“So, my birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks!” I announced. “Guess it’s time to find a baby daddy,” I chuckled.

“How old are you going to be?” She asked.

“Thirty-six.”

“Well, Leslie, you might want to consider freezing your eggs at this point, just to be on the safe side. I’ve got a great recommendation for an infertility doctor.”

I felt the blood rushing to my head. Freeze my eggs? Infertility? What?! Wait a minute. I’m healthy. I can still have kids, right? I have to find a decent date, first!

And then, for a brief moment, familiar anger at X welled up.

I wasted good years of my life with that guy. I didn’t choose this. I didn’t choose this. I DIDN’T CHOOSE THIS!!!

The moment passed, as I reminded myself how grateful I am to be completely free of X. I squeezed my eyes tight and thanked God for sparing the world one more fucked up product of divorce.

God knows. He is good.

There was no more mention of infertility, frozen eggs or STD testing after that. We chatted about the blog-turned-book, my new life in New York, and Doc did her thing.

“Everything looks beautiful!” She exuberantly informed me. “Happy Birthday!”

As irony would have it, I left my doctor’s office with a six-month supply of birth control, and the name and number of the infertility doctor.

*****

Tomorrow I turn 36 years old.

Thinking back on the past four years of my life – the ones with the greatest suffering, pain, weeping, grace, growth, adventure and ultimate joy – I am not at all where I thought I was going to be.

I’m exactly where I should be.

I never imagined I’d live out of two small suitcases or not have a place to call my own for an entire year. I have never made this little money in my life, in an attempt to pursue my dreams. Haughtily, I figured I would have met an amazing man and be taken off the market by now. I didn’t even plan on spending the summer in California, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have recorded an album at Capitol Records.

Joining Judy Garland, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Louis Prima, the Beach Boys, Bobby Darin, and more, in this recording studio.

Studio B, August 23, 2013. My voice is recorded amongst those such as Judy Garland, Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Louis Prima, the Beach Boys, Bobby Darin…the list goes on.

It took pain and suffering, and a huge leap of faith to get there, but I am finally starting to see just a glimpse of what God wants to do with my life. Things are falling into place.

This year – 36 – will see my book, The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce, published and on bookshelves. An album with Louis Prima, Jr., where I am the featured vocalist (not just a backup singer!), will hit the charts. I will tour with Prima and Setzer.

Best of all, a week from tomorrow, I will board a plane back to my beloved New York just in time for the most beautiful season of the year (and the only one I haven’t yet experienced): fall.

At 36, I don’t think of myself as divorced anymore. I’m single. I’ve got a way to go, too. I still need a place to live. I still need work. I still need to make more money to really be able to support myself. I don’t have it all figured out.

It’s okay, though. God’s taking care of me.

And I’ve never been happier.

Jul 11 2013

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Ramblings

Spoon Me, Jesus.

Recently, I made a dumb mistake. What made it even dumber was the fact I blatantly ignored the still, small voice (rather, it was booming, loud and clear) that said,

“Not a good idea, Leslie. Don’t do it.”

Yet, I did it anyway.

The result? I spent an entire day feeling guilty, sad, angry with myself, afraid, remorseful, disappointed and ashamed. I beat myself up for hours upon end. I even felt sick, and muttered,

“You’ve really fucked it up this time, Leslie. Way to go. Way to ruin everything.”

What is this, 2011, and I’m back in jail, with Pretty Gum Chewer and Pock Face at my side? It certainly felt like it. Haven’t I learned anything in this new life of mine?

I’m definitely being dramatic here, but the truth is, I am terrified of making mistakes. I always have been. Yet, I keep making them.

Humanity, 101.

As I called upon my trusted friends – all whom were unfazed by my confession — they talked and prayed me off the ledge.

“Leslie, you need to stop beating yourself up. God doesn’t see you as you see yourself. Look at this as an opportunity to allow Him to reveal just how much He loves you,” one friend gently stated.

Is it really that easy?

The answer is yes. Yes, it is. It’s called grace. It’s the very definition of the gospel.

I guess I still don’t get it.

I really want to.

*****

Despite my own failings, I’m extremely tired of accepting shitty circumstances and making the best out of them.

I’m lonely. I’m needy. Sometimes I’m sick and afraid. I’m desperate for attention, recognition, validation and LOVE.

What I really want – and am too embarrassed to admit — ?

I want to be spooned every night, by someone who isn’t going to leave.

Is that too much to ask?

I feel silly writing this. But, hey, let me vomit my feelings today, because I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m running a fever and can barely move from the couch. I can say whatever I want. No regrets. Right? (Snicker.)

I’m tired of being vulnerable. I’m sick of being the divorced person who spills her guts, has moved forward beautifully, but is still lonely and disappointed by the mediocre, slim pickings of available men. I’m done being single, but I’m not interested in dating because it is AWFUL, HEINOUS, HORRIBLE, DRAINING and feels like a TOTAL WASTE OF TIME. I’m TIRED of hoping there’s a man out there who will get it; who will love, value, respect and appreciate me for WHO I AM. I’m EXHAUSTED with lazy, little boys who are looking for a mommy. (I was married to that. Not doing it again!) I’m impatient, and soothing cliches from well-meaning folk turn my tongue bitingly caustic.

Sometimes I even feel like life is passing me by. Even though I am enjoying every moment in beloved New York, I still long for things beyond my control.

But wait, Jesus is supposed to be my boyfriend, right?

In so many ways, I KNOW He is. No human will ever complete me. I KNOW THIS. I KNOW IT, KNOW IT, KNOOOOWWWWWWW IT.

Jesus has pulled me out of the shit storm of life, set me free and re-booted my heart. He has graciously and lovingly helped me grow into a beautiful woman. I see it! I have fleeting moments of feeling complete, and I experience lovely, personal incidences when He woos me and shows me how much He loves me, whether through creation, a song, the sudden appearance of a white butterfly, a bicycle ride through Central Park, the love of a friend, and providing for me, every step of the way.

Still, my restlessness triggers a thought. Perhaps I haven’t trusted Him enough to be everything. I want my boyfriend Jesus to spoon me at night. I want to feel it.

Good grief, I sound crazy.

In Chapter seven of his book, The Meaning of Marriage, my pastor and theological crush, Dr. Timothy Keller, writes,

“If singles will learn to rest and rejoice in their marriage to Christ, that means they will be able to handle single life without a devastating sense of being unfulfilled and unformed. Why? Because the idolatry of marriage that is distorting their single lives will eventually distort their married lives if they find a partner. So there’s no reason to wait. Demote marriage and family in your heart, put God first, and begin to enjoy the goodness of single life.”

YES, brother man. PREACH. I HEAR you and UNDERSTAND.

Right now, however — at this exact moment in time — singlehood does not feel anything like goodness.

*****

Perhaps I’m standing on the precipice of enlightenment. Perhaps I’m just being a total brat. I think either option is okay, for I will continue to move forward, and hope for things that may not come to fruition. There’s a huge part of me that wants to conquer my neediness for human love and affection, but unless I acknowledge the truth – I desire it – I really won’t be able to move off this couch with any sort of integrity. (Got to schlep my pathetic self to the drugstore for some medicine. This illness is taking over my body, fast!)

My ultimate challenge is to trust God to be everything in my life. I want the knowledge in my head – He loves me fiercely and will never leave me – to travel to my heart. I want to surrender everything to Him.

Sigh. This might be the hardest thing I have ever done.

Tagged Ramblings

Jun 10 2013

Father’s Day

My chosen industry is difficult, wonderful, unforgiving, inspiring, fleeting, and absolutely beautiful. If given the chance — just to be SEEN, even for a moment — you may land the role of a lifetime, or walk out the door, empty-handed.

As artists, our passion and drive keeps us striving for more.

I’m settling back into community in New York, and have been working hard to pay my bills. I’m still living out of a suitcase. In fact, I just realized I will spend the rest of the year, living out of my suitcase.

And, I actually haven’t sung much. I love singing more than anything. Even more than writing. I miss singing.

I may present myself as “having it all together”, but I have to tell you, friends, starting over — no matter what age — is not easy. I’m happier than ever, but life has also never been more difficult.

This Sunday — Father’s Day — I have been given the opportunity to sing at Redeemer Presbyterian Church, at the 5:00 and 7:00 services on the Upper West Side.

Tim Keller will be preaching. I LOVE me some Tim Keller. It’s kind of a dream come true.

I’m not posting this to advertise, but to declare how good God is. He knows my heart. He knows how much I long to sing.

And He saw fit for me to sing for HIM, on Father’s Day.