The Christian Girl's Guide to Divorce

Jul 15 2012

Worth the Risk

I went to a wedding recently.

The last wedding I attended was two years ago, in June. I flew to North Carolina for the big day, but wasn’t exactly sure how it was going to affect me. I wasn’t divorced yet. In fact, I had only just filed the first round of paperwork, two months prior. The fact that it was the second wedding for the groom, however, made it a bit more tolerable.

Happy, hopeful, Christianese-naïve and virginal couples made me sick.

The wedding was small and lovely, and I was excited to be there. I thought a happy wedding would take my mind off my failed marriage. Yet, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself. I quietly sobbed as the couple recited their vows to one another. It was hard to hear them promise that they would “forsake all others”, and remain true as long as they both lived.

X and I recited those same, exact words to each other on our wedding day. I remember how good it felt to hear his vows. I was safe. My husband would love me and stay by my side, until death parted us.

Not even ten years later, he chose to break his promise. That choice sent a pulsating wave of destruction that pervaded our souls.

I brushed away my tears (and sweat, for it was a bloody hot and humid Southern day), and perked up a bit. I knew how much pain the groom had endured when his first wife selfishly left him, and it was truly a blessing to see him marry the amazing woman God brought into his life a few short years later. Their love story was evidence of God’s grace, and true redemption. The couple’s relationship and subsequent union was nothing but encouraging to me, and I was filled with hope, once again.

Yet, as I sat down in my designated seat at the reception, I violently tore my place card in half. How dare they display my married name?

“I AM LESLIE SPENCER!” — I remember screaming, then marched up to the band and demanded to sing a song.

I sang several, then sneaked off with the only single groomsman and downed a couple shots of Sweet Tea Vodka. But Sweet Tea Vodka was gross, and it didn’t fill the vacuous hole that I felt in my tattered heart.

I missed my husband. I wished that he hadn’t turned out to be such a fucking disaster. I hated him and I loved him, all at the same time. In a way, I was furious that he wasn’t at the wedding. After all, if it weren’t for his friendship with the groom, I would have never met him.

I took a walk, alone, around the lake on that warm, sticky Southern evening. Bullfrogs and cicadas sang lovely duets that echoed across the water. Mosquitoes fed upon happy, unsuspecting party guests. Fireflies danced and flickered their brilliance in the moonlight. Joy, laughter, love and hope truly filled the beautiful backyard wedding and reception, and I was grateful that I could experience it all as a fresh divorceé, even if I were caught up in my own misery and pain.

Enter last weekend’s wedding.

It was the largest I’ve ever attended — 550 guests! — and the first with Korean translation. It also might have been the fastest engagement, ever. Everyone was thrilled for the couple, whose love story is a heartwarming, romantic fairytale. Two friends, who had been single and known each other for a long time, finally decided to go on a date, and that was that. Less than six months later, they were married.

I happily sat in the large, Methodist church on Wilshire Boulevard and scanned the crowd for attractive men. Much to my chagrin, those whom I had singled out were attached to equally attractive women.

I decided to give it a rest. After all, I wasn’t attending the wedding to meet someone. I was there to support my friends; to uphold them in their commitment to one another. And, for a moment, I marveled at how content I was — and have been — being single.

Eventually, the lovely bride floated down the aisle to be united with her groom. I smiled, took pictures and cheered for them in my heart. I cheered for myself a little bit, too, because (a) I wasn’t crying stupid tears over X, and (b) it felt so good to not feel sorry for myself anymore. Ugh. Self-pity is tiresome, and certainly not attractive, especially at weddings.

I felt like I had passed Level 1-2 of the Super Mario Brothers Game of Life. (Hello, Level 1-3. I am very much looking forward to your secret underwater adventure.)

Weddings — for me — are happy again. They are…easy. Wow.

My friend and pastor, Joseph, officiated the beautiful ceremony. From my perspective, the fifteen (or eighteen?) flower children behaved themselves perfectly. The bridesmaids looked happy and comfortable in their own dresses (seriously, people, this is a huge plus!). People laughed; nodded in agreement; dabbed away tears when the groom got choked up, and breathed in the beauty of the couple standing before them.

Two people were pledging their lives to one another. That’s a huge commitment.

As the ceremony progressed, I took a deep breath in, and let it out. I knew that I’d have to prepare myself for any sort of emotional reaction that might sneak up on me. Frankly, I dreaded hearing the couple recite their vows.

Suddenly, to my surprise, Joseph predicated the next part of the ceremony with what seemed to be a disclaimer.

He spoke to the groom first.

“I want you to say your vows, and then close your ears,” he said.

What?

I leaned forward, on the edge of the hard, wooden pew. My ears were definitely open.

“You see,” Joseph continued, “You are making a promise, but it is not based upon what the other person promises you. “

I gasped.

That is the most amazing thing I have ever heard.

Maybe it is a simple concept – but I finally got it.

Love — and commitment/marriage — is a choice. Love isn’t based upon what the other person does, or doesn’t do. We choose to love; we choose to keep our promises, even when the other person fails us. And people will always fail us.

X failed me — as he said — “spectacularly”. But I failed him, too. Maybe my failures weren’t as tangible, but we both broke promises along the way. Why? Because we’re human.

And the amazing epiphany I had in that pew, at 11:36-ish a.m. on a hot, July morning, is that nothing is guaranteed. Life is messy. It is not a linear product of good, or even bad, choices. Relationships are hard. Choosing to love opens ourselves up to a whirlwind adventure of life lived to its fullest.

Choosing to love is worth the risk, even when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.

I am grateful for my marriage to X, because it was a learning experience. I loved him, almost desperately. I still love him, in some sort of way. And, deep down, I know he loves me. At the same time, I am beyond grateful that I am not married to him. X goes down in history as a faint glimmer of my past.

It was — and is — all worth it.

Henri Nouwen said it best:

Every time we make the decision to love someone, we open ourselves to great suffering, because those we most love cause us not only great joy but also great pain. The greatest pain comes from leaving. When the child leaves home, when the husband or wife leaves for a long period of time or for good, when the beloved friend departs to another country or dies … the pain of the leaving can tear us apart.  Still, if we want to avoid the suffering of leaving, we will never experience the joy of loving.

And love is stronger than fear, life stronger than death, hope stronger than despair.

We have to trust that the risk of loving is always worth taking.

Amen.

May we choose to keep our promises.

May we choose to forgive.

May we choose to love.

Because the risk of loving is always worth taking.

Jun 20 2012

17 Comments

F Bombs, Ramblings

Judging By Its Cover

The past couple of weeks have been a whirlwind.

First of all, I’m pretty sure that I have found the ending to my book. I am excited to write about it. And, of course I can’t give it away here. You’ll have to buy the book (wink, wink)!

I have had a lot to process recently. Whereas before, I might have been stricken with grief or pain for weeks upon end, questioning God; fairness; my purpose or path — simply questioning the meaning of it all – I found myself digesting the circumstances, and thanking God that He allows me to live such an amazingly blessed life.

I thank God for my freedom. I am beyond blessed.

I feel like I’m on standing confidently upon neutral, solid ground. I’m open. I’m expectant. I’m hopeful. I’m happy. Holy shit, I got to sing Jason Robert Brown‘s new musical with Jason, himself, and Tony Danza two nights ago (!!!) So many blessings are being handed to me — so lovingly — by the Creator of the Universe, and I am grateful to receive them. And, in writing this, I feel like I’m turning into that Precious Moments-loving, Sunday School-teaching, scrapbooking, squeaky-clean Jesus lover that can’t stop the Christianese talk. Even the “shit” is holy!

Crank up the Christian radio station, pop open the Martinelli’s and let’s PARTY!

The truth is, God is so good. He is good, all the time. And what I’ve learned from the past three years of sheer hell is that He has never forsaken me. My husband may have left me a long time ago, but God never has, and He never will. He has been so gentle and loving; slow to anger; quick to forgive, and extends me way more grace than I ever do, myself.

My prayer is that I am growing, transforming and learning to become more like Him.

So…

Amidst the roller coaster of the past few days, I received an email from a friend of mine.

She opened with saying that she was proud of me for not allowing my divorce to define me, and for not having turned my back on God, despite my circumstances.

I knew it was coming – the “but”. I continued reading.

My friend told me that she was not, at this time, able to “like” my blog’s Facebook page. She had thought and prayed about it, and even sought counsel from people whom she trusts. And, whereas she understands my deep love for Jesus, even despite my “rough” language, she was afraid that others may not.

She apologized, and reminded me that she is the wife of a pastor to — in my opinion — majorly conservative and ignorant people, which means she is being watched; open for criticism. In addition, she and her husband really feel like they are called to be missionaries to those people. She was sure that if they read even just the title of my blog – book – The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce, they would immediately judge us both.

She hoped I would understand, and assured me that she would support me as much as anyone, if she could.

My heart was pumping furiously in my chest when I read my sweet friend’s message, but I immediately responded in kind. Of course I understand. In fact, I am a recovering “rules and regulations” Christian, myself. I grew up thinking that if I abstained from premarital sex, my marriage would be stronger and more blessed than those who had put out, or shacked up, beforehand.

Seriously. Ugh.

I went to a college that placed strict rules against drinking, smoking, dancing and sex (of any kind). I believed that if I used “rough” language, I’d be a horrifically bad example of Jesus’ love to others, or that what I had to say would immediately be negated because of my foul mouth. People simply wouldn’t know that I was a Christian if — or when — I drank, said “crap” (or something much worse), gyrated my pelvis to music, or went “in dark places with boys” (thanks, Mom, for that one).

I have watched couples, whom I have sat down and chastised for engaging in premarital sex, go on to have amazing, strong and loving marriages, and produce healthy, beautiful children. Once, X and I grumbled about and almost refused to go to a couple’s wedding. X was even the Best Man! Together, we believed their marriage wasn’t going to last. What horrible thinking, and how deliciously ironic! I have since apologized, and the couple quickly forgave me. Obviously, the old me was extremely ignorant and hurtful, all under the banner of Christ.

Well, look at me now! I’m divorced. I’ve been in jail. I even performed in a “strip show” on Broadway. I’ve made out with men: in private, in public, and even on an airplane. I say “fuck” sometimes. Loudly. (FUCKITY FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!!)

And I love and believe in Jesus more than I ever have in my entire life.

Christian or not — we are all covered in God’s amazing, loving, tender grace. Obviously that isn’t an invitation to live carelessly, but we don’t have to be afraid of strict judgment from the only One who truly has the right to judge us.

And so, the more I thought about my friend’s email, the more frustrated I became. I want her to not care what people might think. Of course I would never want to do or say anything to jeopardize our friendship, and I certainly don’t think that defending my flippant, hilarious, yet real use of foul language is worth the battle. Sadly, I do understand my friend’s position, even though I would have never known if she “liked” my blog page or not. I’m not keeping tabs, but maybe I should start. (Kidding.)

I realize that The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce is not for everybody. Perhaps the title is offensive, or misleading. Perhaps it alienates readers who are not Christians, or simply those who aren’t interested in reading about divorce. Most certainly the subject matter is provocative, but it is definitely not limited to Christians.

My book just might get judged for its cover, alone.

Yet.

Divorce is a taboo topic, especially in the Christian community. Nobody really talks about it, except for the standard, “God hates it.” Additionally, any books out there on divorce are either ways to avoid or recover from it; extensive psychological analysis of why/how it happened; or success stories of how people patched their marriages back together because they were both willing to do the hard work.

Although I am sure those books are helpful, some of them make me want to vomit. What about the relationships that don’t survive? Can those people end up happy? How do they get through it, in a real way? Furthermore, I guarantee that anyone who has been through a marital crisis, a breakup, or a loss of any sort, has dropped an F-bomb here or there. And what about grace? Where are those stories? Where is the reality; the true expression of humanity? Those of us who are separated, divorced or going through a divorce — regardless of fault or blame — need to know we are not lepers; outcasts; alone. Especially in Christian culture.

I am quite sure that we didn’t ask, or plan, to be in the position we are in. Some are victims of cruelty, abuse, abandonment, addictions or infidelity. Some just got married too young. Some, like X, don’t know who they are or what they want, but don’t want to be alone. Some bear the weight of the scarlet letter, and don’t want to be reminded of their mistakes. Others are miserable in dead-end marriages, and just want out.

God’s grace covers us all. Nothing is irreparable. Nothing can separate us from Him. God offers reconciliation and redemption, for each individual person. How do I know this? I’ve experienced it.

I understand my friend’s feelings about her and her husband’s ministry. I am not a pastor or a theologian, but, guess what?! I have a ministry, too.

It’s called The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce.

My prayer for this blog-turned-book is that people will see Jesus, even through my self-proclaimed bad behavior and language; even through my own judgment of myself and, at times, — gasp!! — other people. (Did you read the paragraph about scrapbooking and Martinelli’s? That one is sending me straight to hell.)

I realize that I will face criticism or judgment no matter what I say or do, but I’m OK with that. I’m real. I’m human. I make mistakes. My “good behavior” or glossy Christian appearance isn’t going to save me from anything. It certainly didn’t save my marriage. Clinging to God, who so fiercely loves me, is the only answer. Keeping my eyes focused on Him, and my heart aligned with His, keeps me moving forward and growing into the woman who He created me to be. That is my belief, and I will proclaim it loudly, using the voice that He has uniquely given me.

God is the only reason I have survived divorce, and divorce is but a tiny hiccup in this amazing adventure called life.

Jun 16 2012

1 Comment

Moving Forward

Broadway, Broadway, Broadway…

Re-entering “regular life” was difficult after such an adventure, but I was grateful to return to a job.

I had been hired to play the role of “Cindy Lou” in The Marvelous Wonderettes, the show that I had performed off-Broadway. This time, it would not be anywhere near New York. The very large, professional theatre was located in La Mirada: a small, suburban town at the edge of the Los Angeles-Orange County line.

La Mirada is also where I had attended college. I had wanted, and been trying, to work at the La Mirada Theatre for the Performing Arts ever since my youthful, naïve, carefree and X-filled days at Biola University.

In addition, since I had only ever covered The Marvelous Wonderettes in Los Angeles and New York (performed three of the four parts, 61 times in my six-month contract, but who’s counting?!), it felt amazing to finally make one of the roles my own. I also was able to put to bed my association of the show with the ending of my marriage.

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream!

The show must go on.

Rehearsals began almost immediately after I returned from Paris. I had a problem, however: I wasn’t able to drive. Part of the reason I took off to Minnesota and France was that my license was suspended for the month of May, due to my “Wet Reckless”. I had to wait almost two weeks before I could apply for a restricted license, and I didn’t want anyone to know about my stupid mistake. I was embarrassed and ashamed.

God provided. He always does. Andrea and Lisa, a mutual friend of ours, drove me to and from rehearsals. I was able to carpool with the amazing girls in the cast. My stage manager even hauled me around, and no one seemed to mind. In fact, everyone was willing to help, without even knowing the real (shameful) reason why.

Missy, Cindy Lou, Suzy, Betty Jean and a hanger

Losing my license for a month might have been one of the greatest things to happen to me, for it forced me to slow down, ask for help, and not be so damn self-sufficient. Also, I got an amazing vacation out of the whole ordeal.

God is so good.

After “Wonderettes” opened and we settled into performing eight shows a week, I decided to tackle that old “Bigamy and Contempt” problem I had shelved for the past couple of months.

I wrote a letter to X, explaining that I was attempting to resolve our issues one last time. I firmly requested his compliance with our Marital Settlement Agreement, and gave him two weeks to send the money (which I knew he had). I sent the letter to him at Sister Wife’s house via certified mail. I also emailed a copy to him. I was fully prepared to take him to court. After all, I would win, hands down. There was no way he’d be able to charm his way out of jail. I mean, I couldn’t even do it, for my wimpy little misdemeanor.

Bigamy is a felony.

Yet, I still struggled with just letting the whole thing go. None of it was fair, but I wanted it all behind me. Furthermore, I didn’t actually care that X was married, legal or not. He made choices, and he had to live with them. They didn’t affect me anymore.

Our ties to one another had been brutally severed, but we were destined for separate lives.

June 7, 2011

Father,

I release to You my anxiety over the remaining money X owes me. I accidentally came across old texts last night from/to him and they were so unbelievably painful. He was so unresponsive in a time of darkness, and I was asking so many questions. How on earth were we going to heal? And then I’d apologize for asking, but he just didn’t step up. WHO KNOWS what all was actually happening then. It was painful to read and I am so glad I got out. Thank You, Lord.

So, I pray about my worries over the final step of this divorce. I need Your help in letting go, and I need your help in forgiving X and Sister Wife. I am still angry, Lord, and I think that is OK. Yet, I don’t want to carry over this anger into a new relationship.

I just want it to be done.

June 11, 2011

Lord,

I need help to get through today. Two shows. I am tired, especially vocally. I have thoughts of fear – of which I need to let go. God, I pray about dealing with X and the final part of my divorce. I do not want to spend my money on lawyers and court battles. I know he will not do anything, though – of course. I have to keep hounding and nagging to get anything out of him. NOT SURPRISED.

Lord, I just pray he sends the check. I do not want my life to get bogged down by him, or thoughts of him. I am still very angry, God. Maybe it’s because I’m back in La Mirada? I don’t know. I need help. I need help forgiving him; I need to move forward, continually.

And my mind wanders to dating. I don’t know what will ever become of it. I am not without potential suitors, but I am not interested in ANY!

I want to fall in love, I truly do. Part of me thinks that is so silly – or maybe I don’t deserve it because I already got my shot at love, marriage and a family. AND I recognize that as a LIE from the enemy and I REJECT it!

Holy Spirit, control my mind!

I lift up my dreams, my desires and my fears to You. I will wait for You, Lord. I wait. I need help with patience!

I long for NYC. What am I doing in California?! It’s ridiculous. I just don’t know how I’d do it (move to New York), but maybe I just have to. I love my little place here, but my dreams are in another city.

I feel like a loser, but I know that You have plans for me. My body aches and my soul cries for You. God, I give You my desires and pray that You will lead me to where You want me, instead of me forcing Your will – rather, me forcing MY will as Yours. I feel anxious for no good reason.

Oh, God, if only I could continue my theatre career in New York!

Broadway, Broadway, Broadway…

I have to go! God, will you lead?

Little did I know then, God would graciously lead me back to New York.

Jun 05 2012

6 Comments

Adventure, Moving Forward

“Please, Please, Please, Please, PLEASE Kiss Me!”

Happy divorcée in Paris!

A walk about Paris will provide lessons in history, beauty, and in the point of life.
~Thomas Jefferson

Whoever does not visit Paris regularly will never really be elegant.
~Honoré de Balzac

The best of America drifts to Paris. The American in Paris is the best American. It is more fun for an intelligent person to live in an intelligent country. France has the only two things toward which we drift as we grow older—intelligence and good manners.
~F. Scott Fitzgerald

Our days in Paris were busy with activity. Andrea figured out how to rent the bicycles that we had seen the locals riding all over town, and we were off to explore the entire city. I am convinced that the only — and best! — way to see Paris is on a bicycle (with a baguette in the front basket, of course!).

Best bikes in the world.

I like to ride my bicycle!

Our first mission on that gorgeous May day was to ride up to the Sacré-Coeur. We hunted for fabric in the neighboring garment district, and then lunched on goat cheese-stuffed tomatoes atop butter lettuce with a drizzling of vinegar, and a freshly baked, still-warm-from-the-oven baguette. Afterwards, we biked to the Eiffel Tower, stood in line to enter the Musee de’ Orsay (but got tired of waiting) and sweated through 90 minutes of Bikram Yoga.

It was my first experience with Bikram. The cramped room was cranked to 105 degrees (Fahrenheit), and almost as soon as I started breathing, sweat poured from every inch of my body, including my kneecaps. Somehow the offensive and pungent French body odor/sweat didn’t bother me, for I was distracted by the attractive, muscular instructor who sported a Speedo. He screamed at us the entire time from his platform at the front of the room.

“Tirez! Tirez! Tirez! Verrouiller le genou, bloquer le genou, bloquer le genou!!!”

It was…hot.

The next morning we did more yoga (who knew that a trip to Paris would turn into a yoga retreat!!?) and (illegally) rode our bicycles through the Arc de Triomphe. Cars, busses and motor scooters honked and whirled around us as we furiously pedaled (and screamed!) our way through the roundabout. It was exhilarating! We made our way up to the Bois de Boulonge, where we rested our legs a while before continuing on our newfound mission: to find the racetrack. As we rode through the park and into the thicker woods, I noticed random, scantily-clad women standing along the street. Some were creepily concealed in the trees. Others were simply men dressed as women.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Andrea casually called over her shoulder, as she pedaled ahead of me. “There are prostitutes in these woods.”

…

(Chortle!)

You just need to know these things.

That evening, bodies screaming in happy exhaustion from our day’s adventure, we set out with a bottle of champagne to drink along the Seine River. As we traipsed down the worn, cobblestone steps of the Île de la Cité and towards the water’s edge, I was once again approached by a Frenchman.

This one was considerably younger than the first two.

He started speaking, quickly, in his beautiful language. He immediately wrapped his arm around me and gestured with his free hand as he spoke. Occasionally, he would gently touch my chin as he whispered sweet nothings into my ear. I allowed him to carry on for a while before I spoke up.

“I…I don’t speak French,” I apologized.

The Frenchman – who was definitely in his early 20’s – looked surprised.

“Oh! But you look…so…so…oh…S’il vous plaît embrassez-moi! Please kiss me!”

I stopped in my tracks for a moment and gazed at him, almost incredulously. This would be Frenchman #3. I was definitely getting what I had asked for, and then some!

He clasped his hands together, and his piercing blue eyes met mine. One of his iPod ear buds hung, lazily, from his right ear. He smelled young and fresh. He was definitely attractive.

He shook his hands at me.

“Please, please, please, please PLEASE kiss me,” he begged.

Andrea and I burst out laughing, and she covertly reached for her phone, readying it to capture the moment.

I looked up at my suitor. The River Seine shimmered behind me in the glowing city light. The historic cobblestone beneath my feet seemed to propel me forward, into this young man’s arms. There was a buzz of conversation between crowds of friends and lovers gathered along the riverbank, and the gentle breeze flirted with my freshly washed hair.

It was the perfect moment for even just a minute of romance.

I tucked a piece of disheveled hair behind my ear, and shrugged.

“Okay,” I smiled.

And so, he kissed me. Eagerly.

Oh, those Frenchmen and their kisses.

Shameless, Part Deux

I finally pulled away, and Andrea and I continued to walk. The young man followed us, attempting to coax me into his arms again.

“Please, please, please – more kissing!” He pleaded. I smiled, but kept walking away.

He continued to beg and plead and follow, until I finally turned to him:

“Je suis vieille — I am too old for you!”

He looked extremely disappointed, but finally got the hint, and darted back to his friends.

Andrea and I laughed and laughed. I was having quite a successful run as the “kissing bandit” in Paris!

As we made our way to a less populated area along the riverbank, I reflected upon this newfound confidence that I had developed on my journey – literally and figuratively. I couldn’t believe it, but it felt so damn good to be single, even if it were inappropriate to be kissing some random strangers on the street. I didn’t care. It felt amazing to be noticed, even by much younger men. What is more, it felt good to be free. I could just walk away, without my heart hurting; without it longing for, or being attached to, a man.

I could give away sweet, innocent (enough) kisses, but I could hold onto my heart. It might sound crazy, but it was empowering.

And so, our time in Paris rapidly came to a close. We ultimately decided to scrap the usual touristy things and headed (on bicycles, of course) to the horse races at Longchamp. We put money down on a Yankee horse and won! We picnicked again with Cecile in the Parc de Buttes Chaumont, and conducted a therapeutic ceremony in which I tossed an entire apple pie off the top of a monument. We dined with British actor Rupert Friend (who tried to disguise himself as “William”) at Jim Haynes’ 30-year old tradition of a Sunday dinner. I was determined to make Mr. Friend Frenchman #4. I chatted and flirted with him for about thirty minutes, but, decided that, alas, he couldn’t be my next French kiss, because he was English.

Okay, okay. He wasn’t interested.

We invested in the most amazing tea at Mariage Freres, attended mass at St. Germain des Prés and listened in awe to the massive pipe organ seemingly shatter the impeccable stained glass windows. We patroned the Opera Bastille and purchased tickets to see Andrea’s favorite: The Marriage of Figaro. It was my second opera, ever — the first being Offenbach’s “La Périchole” at the Sydney Opera House when I was on tour with my church choir at the age of sixteen.

To my surprise during Figaro, I started to sob at the Countess’ solo in Act III, wherein she ponders the loss of her husband’s love.

Dove sono i bei momenti, she sings. “Where are they, the beautiful moments?”

Andrea and I both sobbed tears of joy and empathy; tears at the overwhelming beauty of the piece; of art. Angst. Love. Marriage. Loss. And comedy.

In the afternoon of that last remaining day, we again drank champagne, just on a simple park bench in the Bois de Vincennes. The bench overlooked a glistening lake that was populated with happy ducks and happy people in rowboats. In the distance stood a ferris wheel, and the air was fragrant with a mixture of blossoms, freshly-cut grass and cotton candy.

This time, I definitely saw a single, red balloon floating in the breeze.

Andrea and I vowed to return to that same park bench when we are 80 years old. We also vowed to return to Paris every year we are able. (So far, we have kept our word, for, just two short weeks ago, we returned from a ten-day jaunt!)

We will ride bicycles, drink champagne, and frolic throughout the most romantic city in the world, for, as Michael Simkins puts it, Paris is a place in which we can forget ourselves, reinvent, (and) expunge the dead weight of our past.

Jun 05 2012

OOPS.

Sorry, readers.

The devil got into my computer and published that last post without me having a chance to edit it — like, AT ALL. Not kidding. I pushed some backspace button, and — wham! It published. So, please ignore it — I’m editing and will post again.

I’m embarrassed. Frankly, I am blaming the error on today’s traumatic laser hair removal experience (about which I am most definitely writing, next).

So, please: forgive the error! Delete — and carry on.

May 26 2012

14 Comments

I love Jesus, Moving Forward

From Blog to Book

I’m going through a bout of writer’s block.

Coupled with the fact that Andrea and I just returned from France, part Deux (ohh, the stories we have to tell!), I haven’t been able to really sit down and focus.

Perhaps the ailment is a bit psychological, too. The pressure is on now, to build readership and market myself and my book — oh, wait, did I say MY BOOK?!?!?

It’s official: I have signed a publishing contract with Burnside Books. They announced it on their website this week. What perfect timing, too: I signed the contract the day before I jetted off to France.

I’m an AUTHOR!

But the journey from blog to book was a bit of a bumpy one, at first.

Back in March, I was minding my own business at my favorite coffee shop, writing about bigamy (as people can casually do).

Between editing my post, sips of my lovely latte and distracting myself with my blog’s Facebook page, I noticed a new message in my inbox.

It was from a publisher named Jordan Green. Our mutual friend, Carlos, had recommended he read my blog. Jordan perused the first couple of chapters, and wanted to talk to me about turning it into a book.

I straightened up on the hard, wooden bench, glanced at my surroundings and scratched at the back of my neck. I leaned back into my computer screen and placed my fingers over my mouth (which was agape), furrowed my brow, and shook my head.

Really!?!?!

I immediately wrote him back, gave him my phone number, and we ended up chatting the next day. Within a few minutes of our phone conversation, I had a publishing contract in my hands.

I will be the first to admit that I am new to this whole business (I know, fellow writers. Please don’t hate me!). I have spent years of my life dreaming for and working towards a career on Broadway. I made it (kind of) off-Broadway, and have been struggling in my acting career ever since my marriage imploded. I never, ever thought I’d be an author. Okay, yes, I have been writing since I was a kid, and my degree is in Journalism. I’ve always been a fan of my writing and crack myself up – I just never thought that I would have a voice beyond my actual voice.

So, after I “Facebooked” the exciting news that I had my first publishing offer, my friend Ken contacted me. I have known Ken since I was a happy, dorky, rotund senior in college with a bad haircut. He and his gorgeous wife attended my wedding, and I actually hadn’t seen them since. Having had experience in contract negotiation, Ken offered to look over mine and help me however possible, pro bono.

This is another testament to the amazing people who God has allowed in my life, and brings up at the most perfect moments.

Yet, I still needed to do “due diligence”. So, I flailed around, freaked out and tried to get a few agents, but ultimately was – kindly – rejected.

One agent told me I had a long shot on my hands, especially with the topic of divorce.

“Retail hasn’t always been favorable, sad to say,” he graciously replied.

Sigh.

I get it. I do. Nobody wants to read yet another “guidebook” about divorce. Christian divorce. Except that my blog-turned-book isn’t just about that. It’s about the journey; the process; the feelings. And, really, there’s nothing out there in Christian literature that even begins to deal with the epidemic and reality of divorce. It’s what I wish I could have read when I was going through it, just to know that I wasn’t alone, “motherfuckery” and all.

I’m so glad someone picked up on that.

Still, it took several weeks of negotiating, praying, wondering, hoping. I lost faith a few times that it would actually happen, but decided I’d be okay with it. I’d continue writing, anyway.

Old, familiar fears crept in, too.

What is X going to think or do?!
I’ll just say it (because you’re all thinking it): X was the writer.

I actually think Sister Wife will be much angrier about the whole thing. Honestly, I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes. She married a guy who just had “an affairs”, still loved his first wife, and wasn’t even divorced. Enough said.

But this isn’t about revenge. Truly. When I started this blog eight months ago, I had no idea the scope and impact that it would have. I just sat down and started writing about my journey. I have said it before: my intention is not to defame or hurt anyone.

I just want people to know that they aren’t alone. More importantly, I want people to know how amazing, wonderful, good, faithful and awesome God is.

He is the ultimate Healer.

Who is going to want to date the “Christian Girl” with a “Guide to Divorce”?!
It’s going to take a special somebody, that’s who. A godly, hunky, delicious man with a great sense of humor and understanding of grace who is not threatened by — well — me.

I’m really excited to meet him, by the way.

One friend of mine (whose similar divorce was recently made final) wrote in response to my encouragement:

You need to have some crazy, whirlwind, divinely appointed courtship that can be turned into a sequel to your book.

To that, I say: AMEN, brother, and BRING HIM ON!

And so, a couple of months later, the “deal” is in place. The book will be coming out soon. I’ll keep writing, don’t you worry. The blog isn’t going anywhere. And you, dear ones – keep reading and passing it along.

Finally, please buy the book! It will make an excellent stocking stuffer.

Thank you, Renee, for asking me to write about “overcoming”. That one post I wrote for your blog started it all. Thank you, Carlos, for reading, responding to and recommending me. Thank you, Ken, for all your help and encouragement. Thank you, Jordan and Caleb, for the opportunity to become a published author. Thank you for recognizing the need for a “guide” (ha!) to divorce.

Thank you, faithful — and new! — readers, for laughing and crying with me, and for graciously embracing this journey.

Thank you, Heavenly Father, for using me and my story to bring YOU glory.

I am so excited to see what You are going to do next!

May 02 2012

4 Comments

Adventure, Hope

Picnics, Padlocks and PDA in Paris

Paris.

It’s simply the most amazing city. The cobblestone streets; the architecture; the churches; the history; the language; the smells; the lovers; the wine; the light; the romance.

The next day, Andrea and I had plans with her longtime friend, Cecile, who is a winemaker. We met her for an early afternoon picnic of the most amazing Corsican sandwiches in the Place des Vosges. Cecile flamboyantly arrived with a large, refrigerated bag full of carefully chosen wine, fruit and beautiful wine glasses. She dressed her tiny frame impeccably French, a la Audrey Hepburn. In addition, she wore a large, floppy hat, fashionable sunglasses and bright red lipstick. She squealed with excitement when she was reunited with Andrea.

Cecile

As the three of us conversed in and out of French and English (guess who needed the English), I gazed around at my environment. I couldn’t get enough of it. The sky was a piercing blue, lightly adorned with fluffy, white clouds. The air, warm and fragrant, playfully caressed my hair, and the lazy sun gently warmed my skin. Parisians lounged on the grass near us, sipping wine; reading books; chatting; strumming guitars. Children played in the fountain, and lovers gazed into each other’s eyes, exchanging kisses and affectionate caresses.

I swear I saw a single, red balloon drifting in the breeze.

“So, Lezzzlie,” Cecile filled my wine glass. “I hear zat yooou? Are wanting to kiss one of our men?”

We all laughed.

Andrea and I took turns explaining that we were in Paris to celebrate my divorce (how does one interpret the humor of “Sister Wife” in French?), and that I had a goal of finding someone to kiss during our short stay.

I honestly didn’t think it would happen, but it made for a good story.

“Yes! Zees is a good plan!” Cecile exclaimed, as she examined, then swirled the fresh wine in her glass. “You, Lezzzlie, are the American COUGAR! You will find a man to kiss – maybe two or three? – and you become ‘ROWR’! Cougar!” She howled.

Language barriers are, at times, quite hilarious.

Cecile’s friend, Geraldine, met up with us a couple of hours later for coffee. As we sat at the little café across the way from the ancient courtyard where we had picnicked, I couldn’t help but think of the four of us as some sort of bizarro, French “Sex and the City” characters. There was one exception: Geraldine was intolerable. She’d never make the cut.

We finished our coffee and crepes, said goodbye to Intolerable Geraldine and Lovely Cecile (“Goodbye, see you soon, American COUGAR!”), and made our way to Notre Dame for the late afternoon mass.

Afterwards, we leisurely headed towards our apartment to prepare for an evening outing. As we neared the Seine, we noticed a rather large crowd gathered on one of the pedestrian bridges. Happy picnickers occupied every inch of the Pont des Arts. We managed to find a space to sit down, and, seeing as we had leftovers from our afternoon picnic, we easily fit in.

The sun began to sink, slowly, into the picturesque horizon. We poured and enjoyed the remainder of Cecile’s wine, which somehow managed to stay perfectly chilled. We were flanked on all sides by the Institut de France, the Palais du Louvre and, upstream, the majestic Notre Dame Cathedral. Far off in the distance, the top of the Eiffel Tower inched its way towards Heaven.

It was surreal.

We are awesome.

As we absorbed the breathtaking scenery, I noticed that there were hundreds of padlocks in various shapes, sizes and colors, affixed to parts of the bridge. Most all of the locks were engraved with the initials of their lovesick owners. I later learned the meaning of these “love locks”. It’s simple: Go to the Pont des Arts bridge with your person. Attach your lock to the bridge, throw the key into the river below, and your love is forever sealed.

I (retroactively) decided, right then and there, that I’d be back someday with an engraved padlock and the one I love. I don’t care how long it takes to find him, or for him to find me; I don’t care if I’m 80 years old.

I’ll be standing on that bridge with him, and our lock will hang on through all kinds of time and weather.

And, yes. It’s dramatic and romantic, just how I would like it to be.

Hope, Part Padlock.

We finished our second picnic of the day, and wandered again through the white, dusty courtyard of the Palais du Louvre. We snapped pictures of the glorious sunset, which shone its brilliant orange light through the glass panes of the Louvre Pyramid.

We ate a sensible meal at the apartment and spent some time planning our next day’s adventures – how to rent the bicycles we saw all over town?! — and then Andrea and I headed out on foot once again for an after-dinner aperitif, and to explore more of the city at its most brilliant: nighttime. We chatted excitedly about our full, yet relaxing day, and decided that we needed to make picnicking more of a regular routine when we returned home. As we rounded a street corner, I heard a group of men laughing and carrying on in the café across from where we strolled.

Suddenly, one of the taller, more attractive men was waving his arms and beckoning to me.

“Hey! Hey! HEY!”

True to fashion, I waved and shouted back.

“HEY!”

The rest remains a bit of a blur, but, suddenly, I found myself in the arms of a very tall, very dark, very handsome, very muscular, very French man.

And he was kissing me.

I mean, kissing me.

And, well, I kissed him right back.

Andrea did not miss the opportunity to snap some (blurry) pictures.

Shameless.

After a few minutes of a very public make out session, Andrea pulled me away from my “date”. I laughed and started to walk away, but decided I hadn’t had enough of that first-time experience. So, I turned around and went back in for just a few kisses more.

Yep. I was that Christian girl.

In Paris.

Andrea pulled me away again, and we squealed as we began to run away.

My Frenchman called after me — “HEY!!!” – but we kept running, stumbling and laughing up the cobblestone street.

What had just happened?! I had made this grand declaration that I was going to Paris to kiss someone, and, BAM, within 36 hours of setting foot in the City, I had a marriage proposal and a kiss on the cheek from one man, and a very passionate kiss on the street from another. I was starting to realize I’d have a much better chance at finding a date in Paris than finding one in Los Angeles.

Time to move.

Sure, if that had happened back home, I might have called the police or sued the guy for sexual harassment.

But Paris was different. What is more, I was different. And it felt good. It was empowering. There was something so thrilling about being grabbed and kissed, like I so needed to be. I needed someone – anyone, I suppose – to see me for who I am.

Frankly, I am just kissable.

And, as Paris – or I — would have it, the kissing wouldn’t stop.

Tagged Adventure, Dating after Divorce, Hope

Apr 13 2012

Hot French Waiter Part Deux

Andrea and I landed at Charles de Gaulle in the early morning. We fumbled around the airport, found a way to purchase train tickets into the city, and, although exhausted, we happily planted ourselves on the commuter train.

I glanced around at the passengers and noticed a young woman reading the bestseller, Eat, Pray, Love.

“That’s what we’re going to do, “Andrea joked. “Except we’re going to Eat, Pray, Love in a week!”

We burst into excited laughter. Our adventures were just about to begin!

Once we made it into the city, we navigated ourselves — and our ridiculously heavy luggage — through the underground Metro. We had rented an apartment in the Marais for the week, and were desperate to settle in.

Thankfully, Andrea speaks fluent French (I told you I have amazing friends), so we were able to make our way to Rue de Quincampoix looking far less touristy than we actually were. We met up with the apartment owner – a lovely young artist – but quickly realized that neither of us had Euros to pay the rent. (Note to self: change money before getting on the plane!) Delirious, we scrambled around the neighborhood to find a bank.

Money and keys finally changed hands, and we were officially Parisian residents. The two-story, 290-square foot apartment was much smaller than either of us had expected, but it had everything we needed. As soon as we climbed upstairs, we didn’t care. The view of the Parisian rooftops, not to mention the steeple of St. Paul- St. Louis Church (and the sound of its glorious bells), was worth the price alone. Sharing a bed was funny, but we were used to it.

We headed out, still dressed in almost two-day-old clothing. I was convinced that I smelled like re-circulated air from the plane, but it just didn’t matter.

We were in Paris.

We lunched at an outdoor café, just blocks from our apartment and the Pompidou Center. I turned my face towards the warm, glowing sunlight and inhaled the sweet afternoon breeze. It smelled of cigarette smoke, baked bread, history, B.O., champagne, romance and hope.

I suddenly realized that I had fallen in love. Paris had my heart. I was transfixed, and hungry for more.

We finished our light lunch and were off to the grocery store to stock our tiny kitchen with the most delicious French cheese, bread, jam, yogurt, tea, lettuce, fruit, vegetables and, of course, wine.

We returned to the apartment, took turns hovering in the Barbie-sized shower, and headed out again.

Over tired/excited, I dressed in the most ridiculous outfit I had packed – a green mini dress, a gold scarf my sisters had bought for me in Italy, a black leather jacket, and brown, almost-knee-high boots.

What not to wear in Paris…

There was no set plan, but to explore.

We strolled towards the Seine. Our first stop was at a little café on the corner, overlooking one of the many famous, picturesque bridges. We had easily been lured in by a Hot French Waiter (Part Deux!), who eagerly served us. We nibbled on cheese and sipped little glasses of Kir as we watched the afternoon sunlight start to fade into a glorious, bustling city glow. Somewhere beyond my view stood the Eiffel Tower, in all of its glory.

I can’t believe I’m here!

Inevitably, I had to make my bladder gladder, so I excused myself inside the restaurant. Not looking where I was going, I ran into Hot French Waiter Part Deux and almost knocked over his tray of wine glasses.

“Oh!! Je suis désolé! Pardonnez-moi!!” I blushed, and tried to fake a good French accent. Maybe he wouldn’t notice that I couldn’t speak a lick of his native tongue.

He smiled, and grabbed my hand.

“Êtes-vous marié?

I stared at him. My hand started to tingle.

“What? No…no, my name is not Marie,” I replied, and then I realized I had blown my cover. Actress fail.

He threw his head back and laughed.

“I ask yooooou? Eeeeef yoooou? Are married,” he repeated, slowly, as if I didn’t understand English, either. His thick French accent was palpable. I took in a deep breath. Paris felt so good. And, there I was, standing in the middle of a romantic café, holding hands with a man. Just like that.

That familiar, wide grin spread across my face.

“No, I am not married. I am very single!” I laughed.

“Ouais!”

Still holding my hand, Hot French Waiter Part Deux got down on one knee.

I gasped.

“Veux-tu m’épouser? Will yooooou? Marry me? Beaauuuutiful, smiling woman!”

He stared deeply into my eyes as his lips lightly brushed the top of my hand.

Oh. My. Lorn.

My heart fluttered, my knees grew weak, and my bladder screamed at me.

“Uhhh, can I get back to you on that? I have to find ‘les toilettes’!”

Good one, Les.

He laughed, jumped up and gently guided me towards the restrooms.

Hot French Waiter Part Deux was busy when I returned to Andrea and our table. I gave her the quick replay. Why, yes, I had just received a marriage proposal within hours of landing in Paris. My life really wasn’t all that bad.

“You have to kiss him!” She urged.

“What?! No! No, I can’t do that!” I shook my head, and felt the hot flush of embarrassment rise to my cheeks.

“You said you were coming here to kiss somebody,” Andrea pointed out. “He just asked you to marry him. You can certainly give him a kiss!”

She was right. I was just so overprotective of myself, not to mention inexperienced. I had been on a handful of dates and only kissed three men since filing for divorce from X.

I took another sip of my Kir and reflected on my “love life”.

In August of 2010 — on X’s birthday, to be exact — I had a wild, unexpected makeout session with an old college crush. It was our second date – the first having been three months earlier. It was new, exciting and dangerous, and everything felt so…wrong.

He never called me again.

In December of that year, my friend basically dared me to kiss him, so I did. It was actually very sweet, but I insisted that we remain friends.

And, I had met a guy just a couple of weeks earlier, while in Minneapolis. I was out to dinner with my lovely friend and fellow Vixen, Julie (she is married to Brian Setzer). The restaurant was packed, so we sat at the bar. I thought nothing of it as I struck up a conversation with the friendly, cute bartender. He happened to be extremely smart, and a talented filmmaker, as well.

He asked me out on the spot.

I was shocked. That never happens in Los Angeles. At least not to me.

Why not? I thought. I was leaving town the next day, so nothing was going to happen.

Much to my own surprise, I found myself agreeing to kiss him, as well. He was old-fashioned, chivalrous and sweet. He treated me well and respected me. He also begged me to keep kissing him. He told me that he had never met anyone like me before. He was crazy about me, all in a matter of a few hours.

What was happening?

My self-protective, Don’t-come-near-me-and-hurt-me-you-douchehound signal had begun to flicker off. Apparently a stronger, Come-ask-me-to-marry-you signal had switched on. I needed to find a balance.

Andrea and I finished our “happy hour”, planted a few Euros atop the bill, and got up to leave. Hot French Waiter Part Deux swiftly re-appeared.

He held out his hands, as if I had mortally wounded him with my sudden departure. After all, I had never responded to his marriage proposal.

I walked towards him, put my arms around him, and hugged him hard. I then planted a bold, firm kiss on his cheek. He seemed rather surprised at my expression of affection.

“Merci,” I whispered, and then turned and sauntered down the cobblestone street, feeling happy, confident and – I daresay – sexy.

My French kissing warm up was complete.

Apr 06 2012

Paris, Part 1

Saturday, May 14, 2011 Dallas, TX

Finally left Minnesota. It was not at all what I had expected. I didn’t think I’d meet some guy and have a pleasant “date”. I didn’t think Bemidji would be what it was. I didn’t think I’d have more grief to process. I just don’t have it all figured out, and that’s OK. Part of me is scared to go home; scared not for Paris, but the aftermath. I am scared that I’m unworthy; that I have to figure it out before anything can happen.

It’s just not true.

I’m growing. Learning. Changing.

Am I running? A little bit. Los Angeles has been difficult these past eleven months (when I last got out).

I am realizing that I can’t push anything. I can’t force anything to happen. I have to allow life to be natural.

And then I wonder, where is he – this magical, mythical man that everyone thinks I’m going to meet? I’m sitting in an international airport in Dallas, Texas, soon to be heading to FRANCE. And I just can’t help but wonder what he is doing right now.

Where is he? Who is he?

I have to let him go even before I know him. I have to be open. I AM open, but I have no idea how much further You want me to go. How much deeper? How much more self-reflection and introspection does one have to go through to heal?

Healing. Heal, heal, heal.

I think I’m getting there.

Four days later, Andrea and I excitedly boarded a plane to Paris, France. We skipped down the aisle to our respective seats (I danced and sang), flopped down and kicked off our shoes, ready for the ten-plus hour flight to the most romantic city in the world.

The male flight attendant sensed our excitement (who isn’t excited about boarding a plane to PARIS?!), and asked us what the purpose of our trip was. Andrea giggled and exclaimed, “We’re celebrating Leslie’s divorce!”

Someone on the plane clapped.

Suddenly, we had somewhat of an audience, so Andrea and I tag-teamed sharing my story. The flight attendant’s eyes grew wide, as he listened.

“Wait – hold that thought,” he interrupted, and raced to the back of the plane. He returned with two mini bottles of vodka, and the female flight attendant, who wanted to hear my tale, as well.

I have to admit: “Sister Wife” hooks ‘em, every time.

“Girl, you are going to get laid,” the flight attendant squealed, and then proceeded to tell me how she would be living vicariously, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I laughed, nervously. I was not — and am still not — interested in casual sex. I believe that sex is sacred; special. And since my self-esteem had been in the toilet for so long, I couldn’t flush it further, no matter how much I long(ed) for a romantic, passionate, hormonally charged encounter (in Paris!)

I had, however, made up my mind that I was going to kiss somebody.

I explained that my divorce had been official for a couple of months, and an 8-day jaunt to Paris with my “wife” was the perfect ending to the madness of the past two years. It was exciting to think that the world was finally starting to become my oyster.

As Los Angeles rapidly disappeared underneath the wings of our 747, I started to think about the last time I had been to Paris.

It was September, 1997.

X and I were both studying in England for the semester: I in London and he in Oxford. We decided to take the Chunnel one beautiful September day, and, a little over two hours later, found ourselves wandering the streets of Paris. I remember it being beautiful, and so much more exciting than London. I remember the Louvre; I remember the croissants and coffee. I can still sing the song we made up to remember the Metro station closest to where we stayed. I remember snapping pictures of the Eiffel Tower, and “stalking” the tunnel where Princess Diana had been killed, just weeks earlier.

It was completely adorned with flowers.

I remember my short, choppy blond hair, my chunky belly and my horrifically bad choice of shoes.

I also remember being blissfully in love, and engaged to be married to my favorite person in the world.

We were in PARIS!

X and I only stayed for the weekend. One night was spent in a small, dark hotel (in separate beds, of course!), and the other was spent on twin bunk beds in a youth hostel.

It was a rare thing to have a room to ourselves in a cheap hostel, so we were excited. We were determined to be good; behave ourselves. After all, we were saving sex for marriage.

Of course, we inevitably ended up messing around. Clothes came off, and we passionately pushed the boundaries of our pledge to stay pure until our wedding night.

The next thing I remember is a lot of blood. Blood everywhere. On the sheets, on X’s hands, on the pillowcase.

When I finally realized what had happened, I was mortified. Guilt, shame and embarrassment flooded over me. I cried. X held his head in his hands. We prayed, and asked forgiveness for our naughty behavior.

Although we hadn’t had sex, we clearly had broken…well…you know.

We cleaned up the mess and made up some story to get fresh sheets. I slept alone, on the top bunk that night, feeling like a terrible, dirty slut. I actually wasn’t naïve enough to believe that my virginity had been taken from me, but something in me changed from that moment on.

I remember telling X that Paris wouldn’t ever seem as romantic again.

And, because of my guilt, I didn’t want to return. I wasn’t interested in Paris anymore. It held our shame, and we left it there.

X and I maintained “good” behavior until our wedding night, which ended up being a long, drawn-out, two years later. It was a terrible struggle, but we managed to stay virgins, however you look at it. It is something of which I will always be proud.

At the same time, it made the betrayal of X’s infidelities slice even deeper into my soul.

Cut to: Fourteen years later. Divorced; unsexed; unaware of my actual attractiveness; free.

It was time to re-claim Paris for me.

It would only be a matter of hours before I would kiss my first Frenchman.

Apr 01 2012

11 Comments

Ramblings

Loneliness

Loneliness is the most terrible poverty. ~Mother Teresa

Loneliness is the first thing which God’s eye named, not good. ~ John Milton

The next chapter in The Christian Girl’s Guide to Divorce is all about Paris. Don’t worry. We’ll get there. For the moment, I am choosing to reflect upon the present.

Hey, this is a blog. It’s my story, and I can do what I want, including time travel.

Pflllbbbbt.

The past two weeks have been harrowing. Mind-numbingly difficult. I have struggled with wicked emotions, fear, grief, and, mostly, loneliness.

At first, I was quick to blame my emotions on a new birth control pill. After four days of nonstop crying for no (and every) reason, I decided that it was pointless to ingest birth control when I have not even the prospect of accidentally getting pregnant in the first place.

I felt a little better.

But the crying kept on.

Monday morning, I showed up at my therapist’s office with my eyes practically swollen shut from sobbing myself to sleep the night before. I was frustrated. Hadn’t I moved past this phase? It was embarrassing.

“You’re depressed, Leslie,” she offered, gently, yet matter-of-factly.

What the hell? No way. Nope. Not me. I am not depressed. Depression is for sad, lonely, crazy people. I am happy. I am hopeful. I am excited about life. I have first-world problems, like, how do I negotiate the book deal I was recently offered (!!!), which screenwriter’s pitch do I accept to make a movie based on my blog (!!!), and which week in May is better to travel to Paris and the south of France?

As I clutched my coffee cup and talked about the reasons why I had been so sad lately, it all started to make sense. I think.

My mind drifted to the brief relationship that I recently ended, and the sweet, dynamic, amazing times we shared together. It baffles me how wonderful relationships can be in the beginning, in that “infatuation” stage. And when things start to crumble a bit and then it all comes crashing down on you, you can’t even begin to deal with thinking about couples. Romance is off the table. Other people’s happiness is, all of a sudden, an encroachment upon your personal space. It magnifies your pain.

I have spent so much time working through and healing from the pain of my broken marriage. I did not expect this broken dating relationship to hurt almost as equally.

Perhaps it was because it was my first experience post-divorce? Perhaps I am ultra-sensitive? Perhaps it was my first attempt at doing things differently? Dating the “right” type of person? Perhaps it’s because I allowed myself to be open and vulnerable again, and freely fall in love with someone? Perhaps.

Maybe it’s too soon, maybe I can’t be in any relationship.

I still miss him, even despite the things that didn’t feel — or maybe weren’t at all — right.

And, of course, everyone has an answer.

People Who Offer Free, Bad/Annoying Advice: “You were married a long time, and now you’re divorced. You have a long road ahead of you. It could be years before you meet the right person.”

Smug Marrieds: “I seriously couldn’t date these days. I don’t know how you do it. But don’t worry! You’re going to meet the most amaaaazing guy.”

Tired Marrieds: “I am so living vicariously through you. Take. Your. Time. There are plenty of good men out there. Enjoy being single.”

Divorced People with Kids: “Be glad you don’t have kids. You’re free! You can go anywhere; do anything you want.”

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

Pregnant People: “You have plenty of time to have a baby. You can have a baby into your 40’s!”

Recently Met the Love of their Life: “I had totally given up. I lost faith that it would ever happen, and, wham! When I wasn’t looking, he just fell into my lap. I’m sooooo happy.”

Single Person Who is in Denial: “I’m so happy right now. I really am happy being single.”

Single Person Who has Given Up: “I believe in love, just not for myself. It’s never going to happen for me.”

I seriously want to strangle all of you.

Of course, re-living the experience of my broken marriage in such a public forum does not mask any sort of growing pains that I have experienced. I am proud of “putting myself out there” after such a long time. I’m doing a pretty damn good job navigating this new life, as a Single.

What is more, I haven’t lost faith in God, or even men.

I don’t even know the point of this blog post. I don’t know why I have felt so paralyzed over the past week, not having had any motivation to write, or move forward, past this phase of loneliness. The crying has subsided for now, but the ache and hollow in my chest still threatens to well up and spill out.

It’s Palm Sunday, and it’s a beautiful, glorious, sunny, clear day. I’m sitting a block away from the ocean, in a coffee shop. I have been writing for about two hours. I daresay it’s just rambling, not writing. In 41 minutes, my computer battery will die, and I will walk back to my car, alone. I will drive home, alone. And I will sit for the remainder of the evening, and try to entertain myself, all by myself.

I’m not unhappy. I’m just lonely.

And in my loneliness, I am most alone.

And, yes, I know that I am not entirely alone. I have Jesus. I’m so grateful for Jesus. But Jesus can’t physically spoon me at night, or hold me the way I so long to be held by a man.

At the same time, I welcome this loneliness. I am choosing to sit in it. I have to endure this part of the journey, and I will, because I know that it’s beautiful. I know, somehow, deep down, that this growing pain of loneliness is going to be so fruitful.

I am a mass of calm and calamity, confusion and strength. I know to not allow my emotions to guide my future. I have faith in the God of the Universe that, in addition to many other dreams, He is leading me to that one man who will love me for who I am, exactly as I am. Broken, imperfect, divorced, potty-mouthed, frighteningly honest. That’s me.

Until then, I will wait.