The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

Dec 18 2012

Hope, Sad

Daniel Barden, 7

Last Friday, tragedy struck a small town in Connecticut. A troubled young man ravaged an elementary school with guns, killing 26 people. Twenty of the victims were children, all between the ages of 6 and 7 years old.

I was heading up to my hotel room in Houston, Texas, when I saw the news splayed across multiple television screens.

My initial reaction was shock.

Another one?

Yet, I carried on about my day. The band had been invited to a private tour of NASA at the Johnson Space Center and Neutral Buoyancy Lab. I needed to geek out on spaceships for a minute, so I posted silly pictures of me posing in an astronaut’s helmet; holding hands with a diving dummy; and with Brian Setzer and (half) his Orchestra behind Apollo Mission Control desks.

After a fulfilling tour and good Tex-Mex dinner, I returned to my hotel room. I flopped onto the hard bed and flipped on the television. Every news channel was laden with the day’s tragedy. Still, not much information was known, but the media coverage was almost too much to bear. I felt guilty my day had been uneventful; just fun and silly.

On a deeper level, I felt a bit selfish that my new life is going so well, and others are enduring so much pain. I would never assume my experience with pain and loss is anywhere near the depth of losing a child, but I know well the crevasses along the journey of grief.

Suddenly, I wanted to ignore it all. It was too heavy. I changed the channel, and somewhere between the ending of The Lord of the Rings and the beginning of Die Hard, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I trudged down to breakfast. My driver, Steve, was just finishing his meal. Steve is a good, solid man who fiercely loves God, his wife, and his children. He is also a successful tour manager, fellow musician and friend.

He sat quietly. I plopped down my grits and coffee next to a saxophone player, and invited Steve to join us.

We all began to talk about our day off, and quickly learned Steve’s best friend had lost his 7-year old son, Daniel, in the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting.

Daniel Barden

Suddenly, the media-heavy tragedy really hit home. It felt as if someone had punched us all, squarely, in the gut, heart and face.

Feelings of guilt welled up inside of me once again. I had no words of wisdom; no profundity to share. Sometimes it’s best to say nothing at all. At the same time, therein lay an opportunity to help: to support the support of a family who is searching for answers; who needs comfort and peace.

Tears were present in Steve’s kind, blue eyes as he talked about his best friend’s family.

“They are as precious as you will find,” he smiled, mournfully, as he stared into his coffee cup. “It’s killing me to be away from them. I can’t even imagine what they are dealing with right now.”

He continued.

“As we were crying together over the phone last night, [my friend] didn’t mention ‘stricter gun laws’ or ‘gun possession should be a felony’, but rather, ‘how could someone do this? How do we go on?’”

All politics aside, in the wake of such senseless tragedy, how do we go on?

I don’t know. But God does.

Everyone’s journey of grief is different, but at some point in the process, we all have a choice. We either turn to the Father, or we turn away from Him.

I, for one, cannot do life without Him. It is my fervent prayer that we all turn to Him.

*****

Long after the saxophone player left his tip on the breakfast table, Steve and I still sat. He described how happy and spirited Daniel was, recalled how his parents first met, and detailed how Daniel and his older siblings were — and are — the light of their parents’ lives. Steve then showed me a picture. It was of Daniel, posing playfully with his older brother and sister on the beach. His smile instantly indicated he was full of life, pure joy, and missing his two bottom teeth.

I pushed aside my half-eaten grits and allowed my eyes to well up with tears.

And then, Steve perked up.

“It’s so awesome to picture little Daniel’s face glowing as he sits on the Father’s lap,” his deep, blue eyes twinkled. “God is good.”

And, for an all-too brief moment, we were quiet. Comforted. Grateful for the glimpse of joy in a sea of sorrow; grateful for hope.

There is always hope. God is always good. May we find comfort and peace in the loving arms of our Creator.

Daniel Barden has.

Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” ~Matthew 19:14

Additional close friends of the Barden family have set up a fund to help them in their time of grief. If you are able, financial donations are appreciated and welcomed. Please pray often for this family — and all the families — who have lost their precious loved ones.

http://www.bardenfund.com

Tagged Connecticut shooting, Daniel Barden, Newton, Sandy Hook

Dec 13 2012

5 Comments

Hope

On the Road Again, Part Three

Two songs in, beads of sweat have already formed on my brow. I’ve not done much singing yet, just movement. Soon, my bouncy, curly hair will become wet and stringy, my feet will go numb in their 4” designer heels and the perspiration will overtake my face, neck and chest, but I don’t care. The energy onstage is pulsating; the excitement from the crowd, intoxicating.

There isn’t much time to mop up the sweat, or gulp sips of water. Brian has his Vixens on stage for all but three songs in the entire show. He features us vocally in two separate solos, and invites us to join the trio set to spread a little “Jingle Bell Rock” and “Blue Christmas” cheer. (Never mind that last paradox.)

When it’s time to “Rock This Town”, the entire venue is on their feet, screaming, clapping, dancing and cheering. It takes hours to come down from such a high. My ears ring a bit and my face hurts from grinning, but every night on stage is worth it. I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

*****

A few days ago, we had a show in Peoria, Illinois. We drove overnight from Nashville, and arrived in Peoria around 8 in the morning. I stirred from my cozy bunk on the bus and dragged my luggage to my hotel room. Outside, the weather slowly warmed from a brisk 19 to a tolerable 34 degrees. The sun was shining happily and the sky illuminated a deep, clear blue.

I decided to take a walk. The last time I had been in such a small town in Illinois was in 2009.

Aurora.

I distinctly remember the toy trains in our hotel lobby, slowly chugging their way through overgrown, overly lit Christmas wreaths and past an astounding assortment of Nutcracker and ballerina figurines.

A single, fake daisy was glued into the bottom of a red, bulbous vase and placed atop every three-legged continental breakfast table. The lone cereal dispenser was surprisingly low on Cheerios and high on Frosted Flakes.

I ventured outside to see what else Aurora had to offer. The sky was dismally grey and there was cold, hard snow on the ground. My boots, although warmly lined, had a small heel on them, so I slipped across the ice on my way towards the Fox River.

The Fox River, Aurora, Illinois.

When I reached the bridge, I stopped for a moment, and noticed something moving in the icy water.

Ducks.

I stared at the birds in horror. First of all, I know nothing about ducks or their migratory patterns, but something didn’t seem right.

What the quack are these ducks doing, swimming through the ice? Why didn’t they fly south? How will they find food? It’s too cold for them to be out here. How will they survive?

I was so concerned for the ducks, I felt I should find the nearest convenience store, buy a loaf of bread, and feed them. But all that was in the vicinity of the poor mallards was a shoe repair shop, and a flashy casino filled with smoking gamblers, dragging their oxygen tanks from slot machine to slot machine.

So I stood, frozen, on that bridge. Helpless. Helpless to help the ducks.

Gentle snowflakes began to fall, and I started to cry.

I cried for the ducks and their unknown fate. I cried for their struggle with life in the frozen wintertime. I cried at not being able to help them. Additionally, I was slightly angry with them for not having gotten away when they had the chance. They were stuck in the ice and snow, until spring awakened warmth and new life.

The snow started to flurry harder and I shivered in my thin, wool coat. Dejected, I turned and walked back to the hotel, wiping away tears. I said a prayer for the birds and hoped they’d make it.

I wanted out of Illinois as soon as possible.

*****

Peoria, 2012: As I approached the riverfront, the whipping wind took me by surprise. At the same time, the sun warmed my face and the crisp air felt refreshing.

Peoria, Illinois. December 10, 2012.

I gazed out at the river. No ducks. Instead, a lone seagull flew overhead.

I chuckled a bit at the memory of the ducks in Aurora. In my desperate and compassionate concern for them, I couldn’t see they were surviving the season in their lives that day. They might have been cold, but they were swimming. They were surviving. There was nothing else they could do, but keep on.

Winter doesn’t last forever. Seasonal days aren’t always harsh and grey. Sometimes they can be warm and gentle. I think even the ducks know this.

And the most beautiful thing of all: spring is coming.

Tagged Healing

Nov 25 2012

6 Comments

Adventure, Beauty

On the Road Again, Part Two

Brian Setzer meets me at baggage claim. His beautiful wife, Julie, accompanies him. I see Julie first, wearing a bright smile, kick-ass pink cowboy boots (a gift from her husband) and a leopard-print hat. She throws her arms open wide and envelops me in an embrace.

“Awww! It’s so good to have you here!” she beams. “Welcome to Minnesota!”

Brian is standing behind his wife. He’s wearing 501’s, brown boots and a simple jacket. A red bandana is loosely tied around his neck and his signature pompadour is piled high on his head. I rush to him and he gives me a huge hug. He smiles and plants a kiss on my cheek.

“Hey, sweetie! How ya doin’? It’s great to see you!”

My baggage comes through the carousel and Brian immediately picks it up. He carries it up and down several escalators, out the sliding double doors and into the frigid parking lot.

Setzer loads my 51½ lb. suitcase into the back of his Cadillac Escalade with ease, and slides into the driver’s seat. Julie takes shotgun and I happily bounce in the leather bucket seat in the back, chuckling to myself.

My airport shuttle service is a rock star guitar legend.

It’s not too far of a drive to Mr. and Mrs. Setzer’s downtown Minneapolis abode. They casually turn over the keys to their furnished downstairs loft, where I will be staying the next four nights. They are eager to take care of me. Almost immediately upon arrival, Brian — “The Meat Manager” — fires up the grill, rubs his favorite seasoning blends on three farm-fresh pork chops and details how he best likes to serve them. Julie is busy preparing vegetables and setting the table.

I offer to help but my job is to relax, and be served.

Julie happily pours me a glass of rich, red wine as she and Brian both busy themselves about the kitchen. I glance at my surroundings. Brian’s daily crossword puzzle sits next to me, almost complete. Behind me in the open living/dining room, three shining Grammy awards are carefully positioned on the wall above a credenza, topped with anything and everything vintage and vinyl. It’s refreshing to see records, for a change. Grammy certificates and medals adorn the surrounding walls, as do pictures of Brian and Julie with beaming family members. I kick off my shoes, take a sip of the wine and let my toes sink into the plush leopard print carpet.

I’m family.

The next few days are simply delightful. Julie and I work out with Adam, her personal trainer, and enjoy a trip to the day spa. I cannot recall the last time — if ever — I have had a full day at the spa. Julie treats us both to a massage, facial, manicure and pedicure. We select matching sparkly, red nail polish. We decide pampering ourselves in the best way to kick off life on the road.

After all, we are much more than background vocalists in The Brian Setzer Orchestra. We are Vixens.

Brian calls Julie on our way home from the spa and asks her to pick up a few items for dinner.

“Oh, Brian’s going to make his famous ribs!” she exclaims.

Indeed, Brian happily makes our main dish every single night. We enjoy his ridiculously delicious ribs, rib eye steak, and tilapia. I barely lift a finger or shell out a dime, which is strange to me, since I am usually focused on earning my keep, not overstaying my welcome, or being a financial burden to anyone.

And I am often gently reminded of how happy Brian and Julie both are, having me in their home. I dub myself “the perfect third wheel”, eventually relax, and allow them to care for me.

It feels so good to be loved.

One night after dinner, Brian disappears upstairs, into his man cave. Julie and I relax by the fireplace and geek out on “Words with Friends” and “Draw Something”. Sounds of a serious game of pinball float downstairs, as does laughter (conversation with Brian’s longtime manager).

And then, Brian picks up his guitar.

I am instantly drawn to the music. The guitar has a rich sound, and Brian’s playing is better than ever. (How is that even possible?) I find him sitting on a bar stool, sipping tea and messing around with some jazz chords. I lean up against one of the vinyl snake skin chairs, careful not to disturb the framed, platinum Stray Cats record hanging closest to me.

“Hey, Les, do you want to see one of my favorite guitars?”

My heart skips a beat.

“Of course!” I almost shout.

Brian excitedly leads me into a large walk-in closet, where there must be at least twenty guitars in their respective cases, just waiting to be played to their fullest potential by their very capable owner.

He pulls out a 1950 D’Angelico, the very guitar used in the recording of The Christmas Song by Nat King Cole. Brian bought the guitar from John Collins, who played with Nat from 1951 until King Cole’s death in 1965.

“One of the coolest things about this particular guitar… “ Brian leans over, digs in the case and pulls out a tattered book of matches. He tosses them to me.

“…are those. Nat King Cole’s book of matches he used at one of his last gigs.”

All of the sudden, I am keenly aware I am holding a museum artifact. I carefully inspect the well-preserved cardboard, covered in palm trees and recognizable retro script. I open up the flap and notice exactly 25% of the matches are neatly torn off. I imagine Nat King Cole using them, one by one, to light a cigarette (or four – he was an avid smoker), and then stuffing them back into his pocket. Perhaps he only used them at that particular gig. And, somehow, they were passed from one music legend to another.

How I am holding them in my hand at that moment is a wonder.

Brian sits down the purple velvet couch, and I position myself next to him. The gigantic green Gretsch guitar fixture above us provides the appropriate amount of ambient lighting. Minneapolis twinkles in the distance.

Brian quickly tunes the old guitar, and begins to pick at the chords in the famous holiday song. Almost immediately, I am overcome with nostalgia.

It’s as if Nat himself is in the room. But he isn’t. Someone has to sing. I take a breath and begin.

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire –
Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

Brian nails the classic guitar riff, and then adds his own. He smiles at me, urging me on, and I continue, gaining confidence.

Yuletide carols, being sung by a choir
and folks dressed up like Eskimos.
Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Help to make the season bright.
Tiny tots, with their eyes all aglow, will find it hard to sleep tonight.

I start to improvise a little, and Brian follows suit. We both are wearing smiles on our faces as we make music together. I’m cherishing every moment; every lyric; every lick.

History is being made. At least for me.

They know that Santa’s on his way,
he’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh.
And every mother’s child is gonna spy,
to see if reindeer really know how to fly.

The guitar soars. Brian’s fingers fly across the strings. I control my voice and bring it back to a simple, straight tone. I can almost hear an orchestra swelling in the background.

And so, I’m offering this simple phrase
to kids from one to ninety-two.
Although it’s been said, many times, many ways,
‘Merry Christmas!’ to you.

We finish with reverence.

“Wow! Nice vocals!” Brian nods, approvingly.

I grin and take the compliment, for my multi-talented boss does not have bad taste.

We’ve done Nat proud.

Nov 20 2012

On the Road Again, Part 1

The sharp, icy air first hits my cheeks as I wrap my flimsy scarf tighter around my neck. I stuff my hands into my jacket pockets and instantly regret not having put on my gloves. A chill runs through my entire body. It is shocking, painful and energizing, all at once.

I put my head down and forge through the whipping wind. I inhale deeply and quicken my steps. The cold, fresh oxygen seems to pierce my brain. My eyes water, my nose runs and my fingertips are like stiff popsicles within the confines of my wool pockets. Each step feels interminable. My heart pumps obediently, yet not fast enough to circulate blood to my extremities. Within seconds, I cannot feel my toes.

I briefly lift my head out of the frigid darkness to catch a glimpse of friendly, glowing light. I push ahead with newfound determination.

Just a few more steps! You can do it!

The door slides open. Panting, I spill into the warmth.

A plump, midwestern woman with kind eyes smiles at me. “Have a nice evening naoow!”

“Zzzzpppffflllltthankyou,” I shiver back at her. Somehow, I manage to crack my frozen face into a feeble smile.

I have survived the jetway.

Oct 09 2012

5 Comments

Dating, Funny, Hope

Five-Minute Conversations With My 12-Year Old Piano Student

In addition to being a professional singer, actor, musician, designer and writer, I am a teacher.

I have taught special education, reading and theatre in the Los Angeles County public school system, and, in 2003, found myself administering private piano and voice lessons. The majority of my students hail from a small, quiet community nestled at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains. I spent the first eight years of my life there.

One of my piano students is twelve years old. I have taught her since she was in first grade. Both her brothers — now in college — were under my direction in their respective 6^th grade musical theatre endeavors: Treasure Island and The Music Man. The entire family is smart, funny, talented, witty, kind and generous. They are good and very real people — the kind you want to be around all the time.

12-year old piano student and I were quite compatible from the beginning of our student-teacher relationship. Early on, I noticed she was quick-witted, honest and blunt.

When she was six, she learned a simple (albeit stupid) song called “The Hot Dog Stand”.

I stood close to her and explained the eighth notes in the piece.

“May I ask you a question?” she politely inquired, as she innocently focused her intense blue eyes upon mine.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Could you please not talk so loud? I’m right here and you’re talking very loudly.”

I have written down snippets of our conversation since that day.

*****
When she was seven, she told me she was going to the Dodger game, right after our lesson.

“Hey, me, too!” I exclaimed.

“Last time I went to a Dodger game, I got hit on the head with a baseball. The guy who hit the ball got traded to the Cardinals!”

*****

Recently, I asked 12-year old piano student for some dating advice.

“Don’t flirt with someone who’s out of your league,” she declared, matter-of-factly.

“Okay,” I agreed. “But what makes a guy out of my league?”

She thought for a moment.

“Someone who doesn’t like you back,” she answered. “He’s only out of your league because he doesn’t want to be in it.”

With that kind of perspective from the heart and brain of a 12-year old, I knew I needed to hear more. Before we settled into our lesson yesterday, I interviewed her for five minutes (and twenty-seven seconds).

So, what advice can you give me on how to find a date? I quit online dating a while ago. It’s tough to meet decent people.

Online dating is a place [where] you’ll never meet your match. The commercials lie! All the people are arrogant hussies trying to be awesome, but they’re not awesome. They do not possess the quality.

(Laughing) Could I then be construed as an “arrogant hussy”?

You are not an arrogant hussy because you don’t dress like one. The hussies have…makeup all over their face, and they wear all the weird clothes, and, well, they remind me of the 8^th graders at my school.

(Laughter.) So, would you say that men in their 30’s and 40’s –

(She cut me off.)

Men who are in their 30’s and 40’s and aren’t married are not really the good type.

How so?

For one thing, they can’t hold down a girlfriend.

Why can’t they hold down a girlfriend?

Perhaps they’re drunk. Perhaps they’re abusive or stupid or just disgusting, or, you know, stuff like that. One thing – I don’t say this actually happens – but one thing that always seems to happen in books: the good guy is married, and then he gets divorced to be with someone else, and ends up having an unhappy relationship. It doesn’t work.

What would you say to me? I’m divorced. But I didn’t get divorced to be with someone else.

If I were you, I just wouldn’t worry about it. You can’t control fate.

This is true.

Fate does as she pleases. What fate normally does is…not very fun stuff. I think you just got to show you can make it on your own. If you meet a nice guy — great! I’m happy for you! — but you don’t need one.

I know.

You’re doing GREAT without one.

Thank you!

So, I wouldn’t worry too much. The only people who are not doing well without guys are those who wallow on their couches all day, doing nothing but crying and eating ice cream.

That’s true.

So by the time they actually feel like, “I’m going to brace up and do something about it,” they’re 55,000 pounds! They ate too much ice cream and sat on the couch! And then they don’t do anything about it, and they’re back on the couch…

(Pause.)

Don’t wallow in self-pity.

Okay.

It never works.

It never works?

NEVER works. I have already experienced self-pity and I hate it. Don’t even let it…just ignore that emotion. Stay positive.

What do I say to my girlfriends who are dating guys but the guys aren’t really –

— Into it?

Exactly. They aren’t committal.

Guys who aren’t really committal…I have a feeling guys around this time [at your age] have probably had a relationship, and something terrible happened. Their wife, or whoever they were dating, probably cheated on them and they felt like she was THE ONE, so they don’t want to get hurt again.

Yeah.

They don’t want to feel that pain. I have a feeling they’re not getting committal – not because they don’t like her, or think she’s not perfect — they just think, “I don’t want that pain again. I thought this about someone else and I just experienced pain out of it; I don’t want that to happen to me [again].”

Guys just aren’t willing to take that many risks on stuff like this.

Do you think women are willing to take more risks than men?

Well, when you’re young; when you’re a girl growing up, you hear all these fairy tales about true love and all that, and you think, “Oh, I can’t wait for all of that for me!” — But guys don’t get that. They hear different stuff. So when girls are ready for their true love, but guys have experienced pain, they don’t want it.

Hmmm.

Listen: no matter how good you are, they are not going to move that fast. They’re not just going to come rescue you from the tower.

That’s true.

So to those girls who are growing their hair long to be like Rapunzel — just cut your hair!!

(Laughs) Okay.

I had to add that!

So, is there hope for a 35-year old single woman like me, to find a good man?

Oh, yeah! They’re still out there. There’s always a good man.

Where are they?

(Pauses): I don’t know. I’m not a geography person. I failed that. (Laughs.) But they’re out there!

(Laughing)

So, picture this: You are out walking one day. It’s afternoon, and the sun is setting, blah, blah, blah, and you pass this guy. And it’s great. You talk to him; you go jogging together. And then you learn he is in this relationship with a girl you once knew in high school. And she’s terrible. I mean, really terrible. He is having a little trouble with her, but he refuses to let her go because of her amazing looks.

But you — you open his heart to real things! And that is a 30’s-to-40’s romance.

(Wheezing with laughter): How did you get to be so wise?

(Smiles and shrugs): I’m an old soul.

Oct 05 2012

10 Comments

Dating, Ramblings

A Few Good Men

Last night I stopped at my favorite Pho restaurant to pick up a late dinner.

Andrea first introduced the hidden gem to me a few years ago, and I have been a frequent customer ever since. When I walked through the door, the owner was happy to see me. He flashed a big, crooked-tooth smile, patted my arm and took me aside.

“When you going to get a man?” His face showed genuine, deep concern.

I threw my head back and laughed, heartily.

“I really don’t know!”

His eyes narrowed. “Why you have problem?” He then waved his hand towards my figure. “You look good enough.”

I smiled and shrugged.

“No dates,” I offered, truthfully.

“Aha!” He wagged his finger in my face. “You too picky!”

*****

As I curled up on the couch with my hot pho and the next episode of “The Walking Dead” (I’m addicted!), I chuckled to myself.

It felt good to know my singlehood / lack of an active dating life was disconcerting to someone other than me. At the same time, I wanted to protest and assure the Vietnamese restaurant owner I don’t need a man in order to be happy, fulfilled or whole. In fact, I ceremoniously quit online dating for my birthday, and life has been much more peaceful. I got tired of sorting through tacky, suggestive or grossly misspelled messages from men I didn’t find intellectually stimulating, or even the slightest bit physically attractive.

Over the past two years, I’ve been a member of eHarmony, Match.com and Ok Cupid! (My sisters and I prefer to call it “Stupid Cupid”.) I’ve met a handful of nice guys, but ultimately, I’m done with it all. It just wasn’t working for me. Call me old-fashioned, but I much prefer meeting people in person.

I added extra Sriracha sauce to the salty broth and pondered the restaurant owner’s words.

What if I am too picky? What if I do need a man in my life? I certainly wouldn’t complain if a good one came along, but the whole process of not trying to find one is exhausting.

The truth is, I’m probably trying too hard. Admittedly, I think about it too much. For crying out loud, I’m spending my Friday evening writing out my frustrations instead of making out with a hot date. (Isn’t that what we all would rather be doing?)

And, yes, I’m picky, because I want to date good men; guys that I think are amazing. Recently, however, the good men I find amazing don’t look at me twice. It just is what it is.

So I keep convincing myself that I’m OK with all of this. Then, I go into “fix it” mode: I really should keep my mouth shut because I’m not going to attract the “right” person, or, worse: I’ll drive a good man away because I look and act like I don’t have it all together. It’s bad enough having Divorce and Reckless Driving on my record. Nobody wants a drama queen.

I know the negative thoughts are untrue, but sometimes I need an explanation as to why the good, available men are so scarce.

It’s disappointing.

My ex-boyfriend was absolutely amazing when he boldly pursued me. I had no idea things could be that good, or easy, with a man. He set the bar high in the relationship department until his fear of love, confusion and emotional withdrawal lead to the ultimate ending of our very brief relationship. Twice.

Besides a sprinkling of a few dates with my busy ex-boyfriend, I have been on one other date this year. I met the guy on Stupid Cupid, and he immediately asked me out. We enjoyed good conversation over beer a few Fridays ago. I liked him from the minute I met him. We laughed, flirted, exchanged semi-vulnerable stories and he seemed to genuinely have a good time. Afterwards, he drove me home, kissed me on the cheek and said he’d call me.

He never did.

And that’s it. That is the extent of my dating experience this year.

I paused the television just as zombies violently began tearing into the flesh of an unfortunate, terrified new character. I crossed my arms, sat in silence, and continued to process my situation. I was reminded of something my therapist recently told me.

“You’ll have to go through a few good men, Leslie, until you find one with whom you are most compatible,” she said, gently.

I have about six weeks left in Los Angeles, and then I will tour the United States with the Brian Setzer Orchestra until the end of 2012. I have never looked forward to anything more. In a way, my leaving will serve as an escape from the blank canvas that is my love life. I will not have time to sit and wonder why no one has the balls to ask me on a date. I will be too busy to think, or care, about any of it.

Yet, suddenly, I am encouraged. There isn’t just one good man out there. There can be a few. Or even more. I had a pretty serious relationship with one already. We didn’t work out, but I’m so glad I dated him. It was worth it. He was a good man. And, I went on a first date with another good man.

I’m not giving up, just yet. Surely there are a few good men in my future.

Perhaps good men are like flesh-eating zombies. They’re everywhere, coming for you (although some drag their feet), and you’ll never know what hit you until they find you.

Tagged Dating after Divorce, pho restaurant

Sep 24 2012

From the Rose Bowl to the Hollywood Bowl

I just met the man of my dreams!

…

Kidding. I actually went on a run.

I’ve been running the loop around the Rose Bowl and Brookside Golf Course for several years now. I’m not a huge fan of treadmills, simply for the fact that I don’t have anything to distract me from checking every five seconds how long and far I’ve been running. Since I just want the ordeal to be over, running outside makes more sense to me. It also makes me run faster, longer and harder. Bonus points: a stunning view of the San Gabriel mountains, interesting characters along the route, and you can always count on a fresh, California breeze, no matter how slight.

This evening, I parked my car in the same spot that I have for years, walked towards the faintly-scribbled, chalk START line, and began a slow trot. As I quickened my pace in the still-too-warm evening air, my mind raced ahead of me. I thought about the amazing week I just had. My day job has been extremely busy, yet exciting and fun. This morning, I got paid to play the piano and belt out worship tunes at church with some impressive musicians. It’s not overly glamorous, but it’s completely rewarding, and I’m getting more confident in using my piano skills as an actual, decent (and employable) talent.

Last weekend, I performed at the Hollywood Bowl with Brian Setzer. We played three nights of sizzling swing and riotous rockabilly music, backed by the luscious Hollywood Bowl Orchestra. There were ninety-six musicians on stage, plus adorable swing dancers and dramatic, scorching fireworks.

Thanks, Jess, for the pic. #fireworksformyfriend

Of course there was Brian: a legend; a man who will undoubtedly go down in history as one of the best guitarists in the world. He is a true Rock and Roll Hall of Famer.

Brian is backed by two beautiful, energetic singers.

One of them is me.

My boss is better than yours!

The performances were epic. I will forever cherish being on that stage, in front of at least 12,000 people each night – singing my heart out. Most of all, I owned it. This might sound haughty, but I deserved to be up there, and loved every minute of it. I will never forget the exuberance and joy that was emitted from my very being. It comes out in many different forms, but I feel it is most pure when I am singing. My soul soars.

Performing at the Hollywood Bowl was a dream come true!

*****

A smile widened across my face as I rounded the first corner of my route. One mile down. Suddenly, I had a memory of a September day in 2009, running the very same loop. The recollection was quite the antithesis of the warm, grateful and happy thoughts I was entertaining at present.

The memory was this: I had just discovered X searching for jobs in the Ukraine, even after he had promised me that he would end his (first) affair. All hope that my marriage could survive the near-fatal blow, crumbled. I didn’t know what else to do, but flee.

I ended up at the Rose Bowl, ready to run.

I stuffed my earbuds in as tightly as I could, cranked up the music, and started off. I was attempting to exercise my feelings of anxiety, depression, desperation and fear, to music.

I wanted loud, pulsating, strong beats, to remind me that my heart was physically working. I was alive, even though I felt at any moment, I might collapse and die of a broken heart.

The first song helped the endorphins kick in, so I put it on repeat. I picked up my pace, found a comfortable stride, and settled in for the first mile. As I rounded the corner, I carefully listened to the lyrics.

You used to light up the dark
with your unrelenting spark
It always put a fire in me

You used to say I’m the one —
the only ray of sun you could touch
without a fear of burning

What are you telling her now?
While you hold her in your arms,
are you pretending she’s me?

And just how long will you go on
before you realize you know she’s
‘The One” but you’re gonna lose her anyway?

Well, it ain’t over ‘til it’s over
and my world shuts down.
But this comes close, I’ll have you know
It’s just a matter of time

But it ain’t over ‘til it’s over!
But I won’t be made a fool

‘Cause leaving me the way you did was just so
Unforgivable

I found myself mouthing, singing, then shouting the words, “unforgivable”, over and over and over and over. Immediate, uncontrollable tears streamed down my face. Passers-by stared at me in horror.

I was dying right in front of them, and didn’t give a shit. Nobody would have been able to help me, anyway.

My husband loves another woman. He discarded me so quickly. There’s even a cheesy techno song that accompanies this story.

This is happening. It’s happening to ME.

Unforgivable. Unforgivable. She’s the one. She’s the one. He wants her. Not me.

I ran and shook; I ran and flailed my arms; I ran and sobbed; I ran and screamed. I threw my head back, opened up my mouth as wide as I could, and allowed blood-curdling cries of deep anguish to escape my body.

The pain was so overwhelming. I couldn’t hold it inside anymore.

I kept running. Harder. Faster.

Eventually I pressed “Shuffle”, and a new song came on: “I Won’t Stand in Your Way”, by the Stray Cats.

I got a low, down, dirty feeling
That I’ve been cheated on, and lied to
If it’s so, then it’s wrong, we’ve hung on for so long
Why don’t we have that magic anymore?

I got a strange, sneaking suspicion
That it’s been going on for some time now.
Something shines in your eyes;
something stirs deep inside.
I won’t stand in your way anymore

You said that I’m just a little boy
Who’s easily led astray
Well, aren’t you the same little girl?

I got a strange, sneaking suspicion
That it’s been going on for some time now.
Something shines in your eyes;
something stirs deep inside

I won’t stand in your way anymore.

I won’t stand in your way
I won’t stand in your way.
I won’t stand in your way anymore.

I couldn’t listen to much of my boss’ song that September day, 2009. It was almost too much to bear. I don’t remember how I calmed down, but it happened, eventually. I stopped screaming and allowed the sweet, California breeze to dry my tears. I finished running, stretched my legs, and went home.

Three years later, I would stand in the wings while Brian Setzer serenaded me (and an extremely large audience) with “I Won’t Stand in Your Way”. I sneaked a crude video as the spotlight framed him and his shining instrument. Brian slowly strummed the guitar and began his song as a simple ballad.

And then, it turned into a vastly different experience than when the song was first performed, so many years ago. Brian’s crooning voice soared through the monitors and out into the crowd. As the orchestra swelled, so did my heart. Tears sprang into my eyes.

This song – one that was once too painful; too raw; too close to my experience; too piercing to my soul – became one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.

I had a flickering moment of grief — but it wasn’t the kind of running, sobbing, screaming, out-of-control grief that was so commonplace three years ago. The dull pang of familiar pain was recognized, but quickly replaced by the intense beauty of the life that surrounded it; life that keeps moving forward.

Life that is accompanied by a swelling orchestra and spectacular fireworks.

That, my friends, is evidence of healing.

Sep 09 2012

18 Comments

Moving Forward, New beginnings

A Shooting Star

It’s amazing what can happen in a year.

A year ago, I started writing The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce. I had no goal in mind. For whatever reason, I wanted to tell my story, so I opened up. I didn’t think anyone would actually read it, or even really care. To me, divorce is ugly, yet so common, it’s actually uninteresting. Still, I was vulnerable. I portrayed myself as nothing other than real. Oh, and I exercised my potty mouth. A lot.

One year later, I have (almost) become a published author. In addition, I’ve finally accepted my talent as a writer. Mind you, I have always written, but it was in secret. For years, I wrote stories and hid them. I threw most of them away. I felt silly, writing things I knew nothing about.

Sometimes I still feel that way. Yet I am compelled to write.

Recently, I made a grandiose public announcement about going to the mountains and divorcing myself from society for four days to finish my book. You see, after I signed the contract with Burnside (who, by the way, I am even more in love with because of this very blog post by my publisher, Jordan Green), I felt it necessary to stop blogging the story of my divorce.

I had to save it for the book.

And so, I made an abrupt transition from writing about the past (upon which I have perspective) to the immediate present, and it has become even more — say, poignant? Messy? Vulnerable? Powerful? — than even I can handle. Every post feels like a disaster, yet somehow I know it isn’t.

There is more to the story of my divorce. I’m just interested in living and processing today. I have moved on. I fell in love again, and ultimately lost that love, but I’m still standing. I feel stupidly hopeful. As I’ve continued to grow, I simply haven’t felt like writing about X. The details don’t matter much anymore, even if they are shocking and can capture an audience.

This is a problem, though, because books have to have endings. Admittedly, I feel paralyzed, and I’m not exactly sure why.

Perhaps it’s simply because I’ve placed so much pressure on myself to be good; relevant. I know I have a following (this still baffles and excites me!), and I have to deliver. Yet, suddenly, I feel like a horrible writer. Perhaps it’s just that there is an end in sight, and I may wind up being a one-hit wonder. Sometimes, I am afraid I’ll never get asked on a date again if I’ve penned a book on divorce. I’ve imagined the criticism I will face, especially from the Christian community. I’ve already endured a little bit of difficulty in personal relationships.

I hate to break it to you, people, but if you’re in my life, I’m probably going to end up writing about you. My birthday party last week was hilarious in that most guests ended up meeting one another and exclaiming, “OH!!! You’re so-and so?! I feel like I know you! I’ve read about you in Leslie’s blog!”

I stood back and marveled at the amazing creatures in my life that took the time to celebrate me. And the conclusion I came to is this: if I write about you, it means I love you.

*****

Back to finishing the book.

Once in the Sierra Nevada mountains, I was overwhelmed with the fresh, clean air; the blue sky, warm breeze, cool lake and familiarity of it all. My best friend Joy and I have been trekking to Hume Lake every summer since we were children. Her parents own an enormous family-sized cabin that is nestled on a hill, in between the most fragrant pine trees. As kids, we spent countless weekends swimming, jumping off the rock and paddling boats in the lake; riding four wheelers to the point of complete filth and exhaustion; hoping the two cute brothers that stayed a few cabins down would want to ride/hang out with us, and strengthening our bond of friendship, which, to this day, is the most loving, loyal and stable relationship of my life.

Hume Lake

The summer after I graduated high school, I worked at Hume — in the Snack Shop. It was a horribly crappy job with long hours — definitely not as cool as being a lifeguard — but the people with whom I worked made it worthwhile. Almost every evening, while all other staff members had to observe the 11:00 p.m. curfew, we were closing up. Afterwards, we’d sneak out around the lake, lay on our backs and gaze up at the brilliant stars.

I have never seen more shooting stars in my life.

I was 17 years old. My whole life was ahead of me. Little did I know, I’d leave that summer job early to attend my orientation at U.C. Davis, only to decide that I hated it with a passion and didn’t want to go. Less than a month later, I found myself registering for classes on campus at Biola University: a last-minute, spontaneous decision that greatly impacted my life. Four years later, I was married.

In 2007, Joy and I began an annual tradition of returning to the cabin at Hume together. We returned again in 2008, but 2009-2011 were too difficult to take the time away. Joy got married, and I got divorced.

Finally: August, 2012 lent the opportunity.

We swam, jumped off the rock and paddled a canoe across the lake. We rode the very same four-wheeler, which is now a bit rickety, but relaxed in the hot tub afterwards. We interacted with wildlife, talked for hours and watched every Jane Austen movie imaginable. I kept intending to turn on my computer and finish the last few chapters left in my story, but I ended up devouring two books, instead.

I just couldn’t bring myself to write.

One evening, Joy went to bed before me, and I decided to sneak out. I didn’t go far, but it was the first time since 17 years old that I had the opportunity to lay on my back again, and gaze up at the pitch-black sky, which was speckled with dazzling, brilliant light.

Oh, God, I whispered in my soul. This is amazing.

I breathed in the pungent, sweet air, and heard branches crack below the deck. The raccoons were out, eating the leftover peanuts, gluten-free pancakes and rotten nectarines we had thrown over earlier in the day.

I kept gazing up at the night sky.

God, would You show me a shooting star? All I need is one. Prove to me that You are here. I dare You. Just one.

I squeezed my eyes shut and opened them again, expecting a majestic display of solar fireworks, all because I had asked.

Nothing.

A satellite cruised across the sky, followed a few minutes later by a noisy jet.

Still, no shooting star.

The raccoons finished their snack and waddled off into the darkness.

Come on, God, please? Remember all those shooting stars You showed me years ago? Maybe I didn’t appreciate them as much as I would now. All I’m asking for is one. I know You can do that. No pressure, though. Only if You want to. I’ll just be down here, waiting. Well, until the bears come out. So…PLEASE?!

I started to realize how ridiculous I sounded. Me, a broken human being, demanding that God give me something just because I wanted it so very badly in that moment. The truth is, I didn’t need to see a shooting star to know God exists. I had the vast array of the heavens twinkling before me. I just wanted one for the sake of nostalgia; to say I saw a shooting star. Maybe even more so as a symbol that God hears me, loves me, and is willing to indulge me.

I started laughing, and then, to my surprise, tears of thankfulness rolled down my cheeks as the realization (part deux times twelve hundred) hit me:

I’m exactly where You want me to be. I’ll finish this book with Your help. Right now, I just need to enjoy this time with You.

I smiled, and let the remaining tears slide down the sides of my face, then onto the redwood deck. In the distance, I heard another branch crack, and decided it was time to go to bed.

I stood up and brushed myself off. As I headed back inside, I briefly craned my neck, one last time.

There it was.

It didn’t even last a second. It wasn’t the most brilliant or memorable shooting star I have ever seen, but I’m quite certain I’m the only person in the world to have seen it.

It was for me.

Aug 20 2012

22 Comments

Bad Behavior, Hanging On, Hope, Moving Forward, Ramblings

While I’m Waiting

I’m impatient with my impatience.

I know better. I really do. Yet it still doesn’t stop me from (a) being angry, (b) feeling sorry for myself, (c) crying pathetic tears into my pillow at night, (d) trying to take things into my own hands (ONLINE DATING IS HEINOUS!) and (e) wanting to give up, altogether.

I’m embarrassed at my fickle heart. I go from being extremely happy with my life “as is”, to completely devastated that I’m not where I want to be.

Yesterday morning I dressed myself for church, feeling obligatory, pudgy and tired, with touch of low-grade frustration. I arrived a few minutes late and picked a new place to sit, alone. I’ve been attending church alone for over three years now. I’m quite used to it. I’m okay sitting by myself. In fact, I’m getting so good at doing things alone, I sometimes forget what it is like to have a companion.

My problem is that I’m okay with all of this. I have told myself I have to be. For the most part, I’m just fine being single. I’m fine with not getting asked out on dates. It’s totally understandable, because it’s not the right time, or the “right” guys aren’t asking, or whatever other stupid-ass reason. It’s okay that I have to suppress my raging sex drive (I write about this a lot, don’t I?!), because I know better. I want to have sex when it’s right, with the right person: one who will not just use me, empty me of my full, capable heart, and then leave.

Side note: When you’ve gone from having a very regular, healthy (except in the end) sex life to NOTHING — ?!?!?!

#((^)@M#%(O)#@T)($*&()H)*(***(E)$&^*(&(#$R)(#@=F)($@U#)(C$)(%#K@)(*E@#%)R(@#%Y*(!!!)@#%*()

F R U S T R A T I O N.

Tears.

Of course, it’s not just about sex. I long for relationship.

So, I’m waiting. Hoping. At the same time, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be held, desired, caressed; loved – specifically, by a man. And in those recurring moments of despair I know the answer is to turn to God for help. Except that I feel stupid, selfish and silly, because I should be stronger than this.

The truth is, I’m not strong at all.

I’m sick of this “single” bullshit, and pretending that it’s okay. It’s not. It sucks.

And so, a few minutes after I slipped into my seat and greeted the friendly, churchy-hipster faces around me, Joseph began his sermon.

It was about “the meantime.” Waiting.

Oh, come on, God. I don’t feel like listening to this today. I know I have a bad attitude, and I’ll try to fix it. I don’t want anything to apply to me, personally. I want to be left alone. Can’t Joseph give some illustration about somebody else? An update on the Kenyan mission team, or maybe a typical four-pointer on how to love my neighbor, all beginning with the letter “L”? I just feel like checking out today.

Alas. His intro was really good, so I decided to cast aside a little bit of my negativity. I pulled out my journal and pen, and began taking notes.

The “meantime” is the time between wanting something and having it, I wrote, almost as quickly as it left Joseph’s lips. We equate waiting with wasted time. If we have any hope, the meantime can bring up negative feelings. We begin to distrust, disobey and despair.

Sigh. It’s so true. I am chief of the triple D’s.

We need to wait…for the RIGHT thing.

How many times have I heard this?? Yet, I can’t poo poo it, because I know it’s truth.

I then started to think about all of the warm bodies in the room, and for what each person might be waiting; hoping; longing.

I know a few couples who are waiting to get pregnant. They’re trying everything they possibly can, all while praying, hoping and believing that God will answer those prayers. It just hasn’t happened yet. Time is running out.

I know families who are waiting to hear news – good or bad – about their loved one’s illness. What an agonizing place to be: wondering if your child/husband/brother/mother is going to suffer and die, and soon.

I know a woman who is waiting for her husband to “come around” – to see her for who she truly is, and to love her deeply; intimately. He’s just not capable of it right now. She still believes in the potential of the man he can become, and is waiting. It’s caused a lot of pain and confusion in her life.

I thought about my own journey, and how I’m waiting for God to answer all of my prayers. I’ve been praying about moving back to New York since July 2009, even when I was still married. I’ve been praying for my dad, step-mom and sisters to plunge into a deep relationship with God. I want to spend eternity in heaven with them. I’ve wondered and prayed about a second husband. I actually started writing to him — whoever he is — two years ago. It feels so cheesy.

And dare I even pray and ask for a career and children? I do.

There’s nothing that I can do to make the waiting easier, not even with a good attitude. I just have to sit, and wait, in the meantime. I know I do a horrible job at it, but I also know that God is in control. I get frustrated with myself at how small and petty my complaints seem to be, but they’re real, and I know they don’t go unnoticed. I know God cares, and I know He’s not going to forsake me. He hasn’t done so thus far.

My mind drifted back to the sermon, and I continued taking notes. I started to tear up a bit when Joseph pointed out, “As long as we are breathing, God is not done with us.”

Okay, God. I surrender. You got me. And I KNOW You’re not done with me yet.

As if that weren’t enough, Joseph “landed the plane” (hilarious pastoral terminology for wrapping up a sermon) with a 5-minute film. The lights dimmed, and a beautiful, blind teenager named Alyssa was projected onto the screen. She’s been blind since birth.

Great. I feel even more like an ass. My life is good, and this poor girl is blind. She wins. I suck at being a Christian.

“If I could see,” Alyssa said, “I don’t think my faith would be as strong.”

The camera then cut to her walking onstage and sitting down at the piano, and Alyssa played and sang – like an angel — an inspiring, beautiful song that she had written.

I started to cry harder at this point, and heard a few other people sniffling around me. The woman sitting one seat away from me dug in her purse for several tissues.

“I have so much joy and so much anticipation,” Alyssa’s voiceover soothed the congregation, “because I know the first face I’m ever going to see is Jesus, and that means the world to me.”

Wow.

I realized something at that point: Alyssa will never see. Not in this earthly life, at least. She is waiting for something that you and I take for granted, daily. Her whole life is a “meantime”.

Yet she still has hope. She still has joy. She still has an impact on — and purpose in — this life. She literally walks by faith, not by sight.

I have struggled with this post simply because it doesn’t feel poignant or special. I have no “plane to land”; no physical evidence of my hope and faith, or even my prayers being answered.

Yet I still hope. I wait. I trust. I believe.

Over two years ago, a friend of mine made me a CD to help encourage me as I endured the real-time pain of my divorce. I never used to listen to Christian music (I was way too cool for it). Now that the scars have begun to fade, certain songs pop into my head. Today, “While I’m Waiting” is on replay in my mind.

I’m waiting
I’m waiting on You, Lord,
and I am hopeful
I’m waiting on You, Lord
Though it is painful
But patiently, I will wait

I will move ahead, bold and confident
Taking every step in obedience

While I’m waiting
I will serve You

While I’m waiting
I will worship

While I’m waiting
I will not faint

I’ll be running the race
Even while I wait.

It’s hard to wait. The meantime can really suck. But may we keep moving forward, with boldness and confidence; may we keep running with endurance the race set before us (Hebrews 12:1), and hold unswervingly to the hope that we profess, for He who promised is faithful (Hebrews 10:23).

Aug 04 2012

16 Comments

Hope, Ramblings

Thirty-Five.

It’s my birthday this month.

I love my birthday. I really, truly do. On that blessed day, I make a point to excitedly scream at every single person I encounter, “IT’S MY BIRTHDAAAAAAYYYYY!”

I advertise my birthday by wearing T-shirts, banners, crowns, pieces of flair – whatever I can do to get the most attention. It’s totally obnoxious, but come on.

IT’S MY BIRTHDAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY!!!!

This year, however, I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. My birthday will land on a Thursday. I’m not planning a party. (I actually think it’s gross to plan your own birthday party.) Most everyone is out of town for Labor Day weekend, anyway.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not feeling sorry for myself (okay, maybe a little). The truth is, I just don’t think I’m all that excited.

I’m going to be thirty-five.

I’m not at all where I thought I’d be. If life had gone as I planned/fantasized, I’d already have a Tony award, TV series, a budding film career, a couple of albums and books out, a devastatingly handsome and devoted husband, and be pushing out my second baby – all by the age of 35.

I know. Laugh it up with me.

The career stuff is not to be bemoaned. I am talented, and I am successful, even if I haven’t completely “made it” yet. I still believe that we never, truly “arrive”, else we’d be terribly bored. The nature of my career affords me the luxury of not being time-sensitive. With the help of perspective (and therapy), I’ve really learned to calm down and enjoy the ride. I can do a whole bunch of things. I write. I sing. I act. I direct. I teach. I design. I perform. I lead. I play. Surely I can make a living with at least one of the talents God has graciously bestowed upon me.

The truth of the matter is, my body is a time-sensitive machine, and the desire for sex (oh, LORD have mercy!) and babies is at an all-time high.

I can’t help it. It’s how I was made.

I want to have a baby. Or two. Or several.

But I can’t. I have no husband, and I would never choose to be a single mother just to fulfill some biological or egotistical reproductive desire. So, in twenty-six days I will turn 35, and officially be labeled “high risk” in the childbearing department.

It just is what it is.

I feel like I don’t have the right to complain. I had the opportunity to have children in my marriage, and I chose not to. In fact, I was terrified. I did everything possible to prevent pregnancy. I used birth control and condoms. Part of it was due to my own immaturity and selfishness, but deep down, I never felt safe enough to have a baby with X. Even though I wanted kids, I just couldn’t do it, and I’m so glad I didn’t. My divorce would have been much more painful; involved; devastating, and I’d be tied to X and his family forever.

God is good.

As much as I rejoice in my newfound identity, and the perspective, wisdom and humility I’ve gained throughout this journey, I’m still turning 35 in a few weeks. I have no prospect of even a date in sight, much less a boyfriend/husband/child.

I find myself in a common predicament. There are many amazing, 30-something, successful single women in the city who want exactly what I do: a stable husband and family, and a career.

Having been married, I know that life isn’t “complete” when we find a partner. Yes, those first stages of courtship and romance are blissful; exciting, and you can’t even breathe when the other person is out of your arms. I long for the day when my heart and stomach flutters in the presence of a man. I ache to feel lovesick again. It’s one of the best feelings in the world.

But real love quickly grows out of its infancy of “feeling”, and becomes complete in maturity, and the constancy — almost the difficulty — of it, is what makes it so special.

I can’t wait for the day when a man chooses to love me, no matter what.

Yet I can. I’m willing to wait. There’s no rush. I want it to be right. I do not want to get divorced again. Oh, HELL to the no. (And, please, no more Sister Wives. They’re amusing, but ultimately tiresome.)

At the same time, I don’t have a lot of time. I would like the opportunity to physically bear children. I also do not want to be in my 40s when this potential arises. This is obviously completely out of my control, and, as the clock continues to tick, I am accepting of the very real possibility that I may never have children.

Per usual, my casual musings invite the following commentary:

Most Sensible, Cliché and Inarguable Statement: “I don’t understand why someone as beautiful, talented and smart as you could be having such a hard time finding a date. Don’t worry. You’ll meet “The One” when you least expect it. He’s out there, somewhere. And you have plenty of time to have a baby. Enjoy your life as it is right now!”

Smug Marrieds with Smug Babies: “I’m too busy posting Instagram photos of my amazing, happy life to bother with your sad, single one – AREN’T MY HUSBAND AND KIDS THE BEST IN THE WORLD??! — but if you want my input, refer to the aforementioned. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish these cupcakes – I found the perfect Pinterest recipe! — for my MOPS meeting.”

Smug Pregnant People: “Ohhh, my goodness, I can’t wait to get this baby out. One last date night with the ‘hubs’ before Junior arrives! Did you get the invitation to my baby shower yet? Make sure you check the registry: we want the bathtime Sophie the Giraffe, and organic nipple cream.”

Tired Marrieds: “I am so living vicariously through you. Take. Your. Time. There are plenty of good men out there, whose vas deferens are still functioning. Plus, kids are expensive.”

People Who Overspiritualize and Ignore the Reality of the Situation, But Are Also Inarguable Because They Pray for You: “God will give you the desires of your heart. I’m praying for a husband to come your way. I’ll pray for your future children.”

Random Male Advice: “Invest in a new vibrator and be glad your boobs aren’t leaking.”

Divorced People With Kids: “I’m just so glad I can focus on me now. I have all the time in the world to find the right relationship, especially since my ex has the kids half the time.”

Other Divorced People With Kids: “God, if I didn’t have my kids, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Single 30-something Friends: “If I have to go to one more wedding or baby shower, I’m going to vomit. I wish I could experience the joy of a happy life, with a family. What is wrong with me; why won’t anyone choose me? I have so much to offer, but I’m all alone.”

Other Single 30-something Friends: “Here’s the deal: when we hit 40, I’ve got dibs on a Chinese baby girl, and you adopt an Ethiopian one. Else we’re headed to the sperm bank with our frozen eggs.”

Actually Helpful and Accurate Statement From a Real Married with Real Babies: “The grass is always greener. You want what I have, and I want what you have. So often we look at each other’s life and imagine the other’s blessings for ourselves, completely overlooking that in our own hands, we are in possession of answered prayers.”

Here’s the truth: I am actually very happy with my life, as is.

I also want more.

I understand that we don’t always get what we want, when we want it. And as far as God fulfilling the desires of my heart? Well, I now know that His desires for me astoundingly surpass anything I imagine, dream, or want for myself.

So, as my 35^th birthday rounds the corner, I rejoice in the fact that I am, indeed, in possession of answered prayers. I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. What is more, God has done incredible things for me. It took me losing everything to gain a real life, and I trust that life will be nothing short of amazing, no matter what.