It’s strange how there are so many possibilities. It’s a hard sort of dance to perfect; it’s like some sort of counterpoint that, I suppose, keeps things interesting, if nothing else. Because there’s the pulse, the tempo that shouldn’t change, right? It’s hope. It’s bright. It’s trust. But then there’s the melody that flits over it and it never seems to wanna do the same pattern of notes twice. It wanders and it feels like a thing that is hardly in my control and yet, it’s the sound of my life and I cannot help but wonder what it will sound like tomorrow.

Sometimes this terrifies me; sometimes I love this.

Because here we go, back to possibilities. And maybe, just maybe, the sound will be more beautiful than I could have imagined. I like this thought. I think I will build a little house here, wash my clothes and let them dry in these breezes. And I’ll wear them and feel clean and then my heart will be wearing these kind, hopeful thoughts and I will be clean.

Yesterday I was talking to my friend about the possibility of getting another job. A real job again. There’s a sense of relief that comes with that thought. And something could be on it’s way or, like a lot of things, it could just be another case of thankyoubutnothankyou. At which point he said, “then something better will come along.” And that’s the kind of thing I tell a lot of people, but man, I need to hear it for myself.

Because it’s true.
But like I said, it’s a hard dance to perfect–dreaming and hoping in the face of not knowing what the heck is really around that corner.

But continueing, always, to believe that if it’s not this, then it’s something better.

And it’s my job to keep building my house in a safe place. One where hope fills my mind and trust fills my heart and come on, Jessica, keep doing the things you love; you keep trying to do it well and then you look at those corners and it’s okay to wonder what’s waiting for you. It’s even okay to feel afraid. But what’s not okay is to stop. You keep walking and wait and see, cause sometimes what’s waiting for you is the best kind of surprise but you’ll only ever see it if you keep walking.

Lately I have felt like hiding and people keep finding me anyway. I know this is a good thing, but sometimes I cannot tell you what I am planning. I do not know how long I will be blonde and I do not know what I will be doing in September. I know that one is more important than the other, though, so I suppose we could discuss priorities, if you’d like.

Lately I have worn shorts that are short and a sweatshirt that is big and the act of constantly pulling one down and the other up is tedious at best and I think that I shall wear clothes that actually fit me tomorrow, if that’s alright with you.

Lately I have felt different. And my thoughts, they are saying some ridiculous things. I wonder what people think of me, especially those who knew me before this past November. I wonder if I am that poor girl and even as I write this I know that I am not. I am not pitiable. I am rich. Like my name, Jessica; which means wealthy one. This always embarrassed me as a kid, because I thought it must just mean that I have money or something. And money is nice, but it’s so very general that it’s boring. It passes through the hands of every person; it’s spent and earned all in the same day and you can never pick up a dollar and know that it’s mine just by looking at it.

But, wealth. I think it’s mine because of the way that the world interests me all the time. There’s so much of it and even when I feel down, I cannot help but listen to the sound of water rushing by and, for a moment at least, forget about what it was that made me walk in the dark in the first place. And then there’s autonomy and the way I can choose to embrace this life. That’s a gift; that’s wealth, too.

Lately I have been telling myself that I don’t need a man. Or rather, have been told that quite a bit. And it’s true. I am fine. I have so much to do. So many words to write and people to listen to and a story all my own that needs to be spelled out one way or another. But then there is the fact that these people who tell me this–they all go home to someone and it is, I guess, okay for them to need that someone, but me? I was broken. And there is broken and then there is the hard work of recovery and then there is the abruptness of it all. The way you had a man, or at least you were led to believe you did, and how suddenly the door slammed like someone suddenly telling you NO! but you weren’t even asking permission–you didn’t even know it was a possibility–but there it was, a resounding NO! anyway. And now you don’t need a man. Now you can’t need a man. Now you are fine and you are fine and you are crying but tears are easily wiped away anyway, because you are fine.

Lately I have been laughing because life is nothing if not hilarious. And there is nothing so tiring as contrived laughter, but there is nothing so freeing as laughter that comes from some deep place inside of you that glows with familiarity at the sound of humor because you feel like you’ve come home again. And you don’t think about it, per se, but you know that something, at least, can be so right that it’s dangerously close to being perfect, and wouldn’t it be tragic to have missed the way you and your friend are laughing so hard that simply breathing becomes the goal because that hasn’t happened in a while now?

And it was kind of nice, because everything that I was doing involved either people, music, or dance, and I happen to be in love with all three of those.

And it was kind of tiring.

And it made me very hungry.

Because see, now that I have these invisalign thingies, snacking isn’t really an option. At all. And do you know what the worst part of that is? The other day I had to turn down a fruit snack. A FRUIT SNACK. I love fruit snacks. And a friend offered me one out of the blue.  I quietly declined with a no thank you, and he looked pretty surprised that I didn’t take him up on the offer.

Actually, I am suddenly hyper aware of how many people offer me either food or drinks all the time. It’s like when you have some sort of injury with your toe and all of the sudden everyone and their dog is stepping on your toe, I guess. Probably, nothing actually changed, but now you are just noticing it because, OUCH!! MY TOE IS BROKEN AND YOU JUST BROKE IT AGAIN!!

Well now it’s like that, but with food and drinks and me all being hyper aware of having to say Oh, I’m good! or I already ate (yeah, like five hours ago…). or the plain and simple classic, no, thanks.

Which reminds me of my nephew Ollie. Have I told you this about him? I’m not sure, but here goes, and if hearing a repeat story about my adorable nephew is the worst thing that ever happens to you, I’d say you’re doing just fine.

But when Ollie was about two, I think, he was very strictly trained in the art of good manners (still is, actually). He was quick on the draw with his pleases and thank yous and even the rarer may I’s. But he also had his own agenda, as most of us do. And so when I’d watch him and tell him to please not go out the door right now, since we are staying inside, he’d very courteously toss a no thanks! in my general direction as he made a beeline for the front door.

Only with his little lisp, it sounded more like, No thankth! and he’d be on his merry way, having accomplished both being polite and getting his way.

Or so he thought…Cause I’d catch him before he got wherever it was he was going, and try not to laugh at the same time because goshdarnit, his little no thankth! was adorable even if he was being disobedient.

But right, no thanks. For the snacks. EACH ONE. Even when it’s a fruit snack and goodness knows, but I’d like to have one. And actually, with my invisalign, sometimes I am afraid I sound a little more like Ollie’s no thankth! then I’d like to.

But fruit snacks wasn’t the point, I’m pretty sure.

Though they are certainly good enough to be, I’m also pretty sure.

What I meant to tell you about was that during the last class I taught tonight–a hip-hop class–a guy stuck his head in the door, asking which one of us was Jessica. I told him me and then he asked if he could take pictures of us, because he was trying to enter some kind of photo competition. I said I didn’t mind if the class didn’t mind, and once we consented, he made himself more comfortable in the studio and mentioned to us that he could win some money with one of these photos.

I suggested he share it with us, if that’s the case, and then he awkwardly said, I’d…like…to in a way that indicated he would not.

Which is fine.

Then he started snapping pictures and suddenly I was wondering if tonight was the best night to wear my bright blue headband a little lower on my forehead than normal–a little more 80′s than normal–after all. It’s just those pesky roots, you know. And the pesky not showering every day, too. Makes me reach for headbands lately. Okay, well, just today. But did it have to be a bright one? Well, yes, cause we’re talking me, I guess. But, alright–did it have to be tied so low on my forehead?

Nope.

But it was, anyway.

And now I’m talking as if it wasn’t me who did it in the first place. Like I’m some sad victim–oh no, poor Jess. Looks like she’s showing the symptoms of that new disease: 80′s headbanditis. I guess it was just a matter of time, with that one.

Oh, but enough about the headband.

What I wanted to tell you was that the Picture Guy was standing by the mirrors while I was teaching a combination, and once I asked the class if they were ready to try it with music and they said yes, I joked with him and said, You can certainly try it with the music too!

And then gotcha, jokes on me, cause right away, he started kicking off his shoes and told me with just a little breathlessness since I guess those shoes were tied real tight or something that, actually, he is a dancer too.

Which, I am sorry to admit, did surprise me, because his body was not the physique of a normal dancer. And I know, what’s normal? but what I mean is, he did not in any way at all look how most dancers look.

And then he told me, Yes, I train at the Y; I have since I was 8.

Which is when I wondered what it was he meant by that. Because nobody trains at the Y. If you are four, you might take a little dance class there. When you are six, it might even include fifteen minutes of tap. But when you are a grown man? No, I don’t think you are training at the Y. And if you really want to dance, you for sure do not do it at the Y.

But bless him, because before I knew what was happening he had jumped right in with the other dancers and managed to start the combination in something similar to the starting pose, at least.

And then I turned on the music and didn’t really watch because I didn’t want to embarrass him and also, I needed to be demonstrating for the class, anyway.

Still, this guy–he really went for it. And it made me smile. And it surprised me. And I hope he keeps going for it.

And I hope that if he does win some money for a picture in which I am featured–or more likely my blue headband, worn nice and low on the forehead is featured–then I hope he shares some of the spoils with me.

And I actually wouldn’t change that.

Huh?

I know, that’s strange. But hear me out. It’s not like I’m a misogynist. Oops, wait, that’s not what I mean. Well, I’m not a misogynist because, as it turns out, I don’t hate women. Like, at all. That’s like saying I hate people named Jessica. Although I do have this strange thing about wishing I was the only one with my name. Guess I need to still work on that whole sharing thing. Actually, my parents came close to naming me Honeysuckle, because I was born right when those wild flowers first make their summer appearance. And I know, having a name with the word suck in it would probably have given my parents just one more reason to have home schooled me, but hey! I bet I’d never meet anybody with my name, if I were Honeysuckle Latshaw. Wow, that’s a doozy.

But what I meant to say is that it’s not like I’m a masochist. And that doesn’t just mean…well that, right? It also means that you don’t want pain to be inflicted on you because you derive some sort of strange pleasure from it, right?

I’ll just assume that’s right.

But about life being unfair. A friend and I were talking about this. And we came to this conclusion: life is sometimes terribly unfair as in, what did I ever do to deserve this?; and life is also sometimes beautifully unfair as in, what did I ever do to deserve this?

And what if you took out the unfairness? ALL of it. You’d be left with death and taxes, I guess. Which are the only two things that are certain, according to Benjamin Franklin, anyway. And yes, I hate all the unfair tragedies. The randomness that makes us all wonder what God does with his omnipotence, anyway. It’s not like he sleeps. At least, not according to the Bible. And actually, I firmly believe that none of the evil that transpires around us is related to God at all. I think that it can be traced to us, to our selfishness, to living in a world that is, well, unfair; as well as living in a world in which we are not the center of the universe, that maybe a flood needs to happen or a fire needs to burn and no, that doesn’t make anyone feel any better about their house now being gone, but maybe it helps us to understand a little bit better.

Or at least keep us from building a house in a flood land or somewhere prone to fires.

And yes, it’s unfair that there are so many people who’s spouses treat them as they deserve to be treated, and yet, that didn’t happen for me. It’s unfair that many people are living in a home, when I am living in a bedroom (that is of course, in a home, but you know what I mean.) It’s unfair that I was faithful and was betrayed for my effort. Especially when that effort was spelled L-O-V-E.  But for every unfair bad thing that’s happened, I can list an unfair beautiful thing that has happened. It’s unfair that so many people have parents who don’t have time or resources to really take care of them, while my parents bend over backwards to help me, to make sure that I know I am important and loved. It’s unfair that so many people are so busy working on surviving, on eating their next meal or just making their next payment, while I am able to spend time on crafts that have nothing to do with my basic survival needs. Music. Dance. Writing. And yes, I will spend my last breath telling you that these things are absolutely essential to living, but I will not try to make that argument to someone who’s stomach is empty, someone who cannot remember the last meal that they ate.

And then there’s grace. Mercy. A way we have with God, a close connection to his heart that starts in the way he loves us and ends there too.

That is so unfair.

And I don’t understand this unfairness. Any of it. Not the bad or the good–but I guess it’s not really up to me to understand it. I guess it’s up to me to live a grateful life; to try to make life as unfair as possible for others.

In the beautiful way, that is.

The good news is that the instructor is also a massage therapist, and even told me that she’d give me a session for free because she’d love to work on my body. The bad news is that, from what I gathered, it’s a new technique she created that involves massaging with her feet. I’ll have to let you know. And heck yes, I’m doing it because FREE MASSAGE, YA’LL.  And yes, that’s the first time I’ve ever said or written the word ya’ll. In fact, I wonder if that is how you spell it.

The good news is that I found some cute underwear for 20% off the already low price of $1.95. The bad news is that apparently I still have to do laundry. Because there always seem to be more days than underwear. And yes, you can quote me on that.

The good news is that I was looking through some pictures of me in the photo box marked Jessica and man, was I a cute little blonde version of my brothers. The bad news is that there were quite a few pictures that I had to throw away. And if you don’t know why this is–one word: archives.

The good news is that my skin is no longer dry dry dry and flaking off like it’s always winter and never Christmas. The bad news is that it might be trying to teach me a lesson in gratitude because now it’s breaking out. Great. Maybe a song is in order: Breaking Out is Hard to Do. Only, wait. It’s actually easy; just look at me.

The good news is that I cut my toenails yesterday, a task that I always congratulate myself on because it really does seem like both such a hassle and a chore. A chassle, if you will. Which I did when I cut my toenails. The bad news is that I cut one toenail too short, making my poor toe bleed and now hurt like the dickens no matter how many times I try to explain to it that it’s just a little toe, that it shouldn’t be quite so powerful in terms of making my quality of life suffer.

The good news is that I got home tonight with the grand idea of making myself a fried egg sandwich. I took out the frying pan, buttered it while it sat on top of the stove, only to look in the fridge and discover that the bad news is that we have no eggs. So there I was, cooking butter for nothing.

The good news is that I doubled the recipe of mac and cheese that I made two nights ago, assuring that there would be plenty of leftovers for days to come, since mac and cheese leftovers is actually something I enjoy. The bad news is that once I realized I was cooking butter for nothing, I decided to have some mac and cheese only to discover that was gone, baby, gone too.

The good news is that my pop walked in with some Chinese food leftovers right after I discovered that a). we had no eggs for my fried egg sandwich and b). we had no mac and cheese for my mac and cheese leftovers. The bad news is that I don’t particularly love Chinese food, but as it was ACTUALLY THERE, I ate some.

The good news is that I am going to see my brother graduate from the UCLA screenwriting master’s degree program in June (which he didn’t know until now). The bad news is that airlines now charge you for a seat as well as the flight. I would like to know what their going rate for a flight without a seat is, but they are not forthcoming with that information. I wonder if the seat belt will cost extra too.

The good news is that I am going to sleep with clean, wet hair. The bad news is that I will either look really cool or really crazy when I get up in the morning, though they are not necessarily mutually exclusive.

I know, we must have really been scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one. Having already exhausted topics such as the ladies’ sewing circle board meeting Wednesday last, as well as the latest antics of certain people we only bring up to each other in order to pray for them more effectively, you know, we almost just ran out of things to say. But luckily, we pretended that there is something of note to discuss when it comes to the recent events of my life, and so our little conversation was able to continue.

And we were sitting and eating and talking, which are three of my favorite things to do. Especially when it involves nutella; especially when it involves wonderful people such as Lindsay. And that was not necessarily written in order of importance.

Both are fantastic.

But Lindsay mentioned something that I had never heard before. Something about certain flowers that bloom only after the worst devastation, a consuming fire that leaves nothing in its wake.

And it’s like I was Lucy and there was the professor, telling my siblings about Narnia and how I wasn’t crazy after all. Because look, those are some beautiful flowers that are blooming. Maybe even now. And it’s okay to notice some bits of beauty and color mixed among the ashes of what was burnt up and left for dead.

And Lindsay, she even sent me a link about these encouraging flowers, and when I went there I read this:

When flames race across the mountains consuming everything in their path and leaving a smoking blackened landscape of devastation behind, it is hard to imagine that robust regrowth that is waiting in the wings. Two weeks almost to the day comes the Fire Lily, which blooms scarlet and beautiful…

I know I say this a lot, but whoa.

I mean, …it is hard to imagine that robust regrowth that is waiting in the wings…

YOU THINK?

Yes. It was almost impossible to imagine anything close to that when I was laying in my bed, letting people tell me things that I couldn’t believe because there was only one tape that was being replayed in my mind over and over again and that sounded a lot like Dorothy when she kept saying, There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home…Because all I wanted was to go back to how the mountain was. Because I loved that mountain, I really did. At least, I loved the mirage. It was all I knew and it was all I wanted and no matter how beautiful the fire lilies were going to be, I didn’t want them.

I wanted to go home.

But then, somehow, it happens. Just like they say–Two weeks almost to the day comes the Fire Lily, which blooms scarlet and beautiful…

And yesterday, it was four months to the day that the fire burnt my house down. And I do believe that I see some fire lilies. And I also look forward to the fire ephemerals. Because, see–

During the three years following a burn, “fire ephemerals,”  flora which flower after fire or disturbance, sheet the mountain slopes with carpets of color…

Carpets of color.
Now, that sound good.
Like a miracle, even.

You know what else sounds really good?
Maybe even the best thing anyone’s ever written about me to date.
This.

And in case you have a hard time deciphering it, it reads:

Jessica is my aunt. She goes on world tours with A Chorus Line. I love everything about her.

I found it when I opened my phone earlier tonight. It’s something my sweet nephew Ollie wrote about me that Darby made sure I read. She’s like that. Always spreading news around that bolsters the heart to believe in beauty just a little bit more before nightfall.

Remember when I talked about how many people other than the one who should have yelled to me, You stay alive! stepped in and yelled it anyway?

Well, here is just more evidence of that.
What a beautiful reason to stay alive.

I tried to explain to him that I’ve never been to an eye doctor in my life, and I certainly didn’t decide to start this week with a sentimental visit to his eye doctor.

He apologized for the misunderstanding.

I hope he enjoyed the appointment.

Or that he gets the money back if there was actually no appointment at all.

But this reminds me of something.

Just a few days after the whole truth of the matter came out, my brother Jason had flown in to be with me from California and had convinced me to come back with him to try to heal a little with Latshaw-WEST. So, I bought my roundtrip flight and that was that.

Until I looked at the bank statement just a few hours later.

And saw a huge purchase that had been made–but not in the same exact amount I had just spent for my flight.

So I called my bank.

Asked them what that purchase was.

Sure enough, it was a flight. And the teller said it involved Florida.

Jase, I mouthed to him while still on the phone, Drew’s skipping town. Going to Florida!

So I got off the phone with the bank and immediately Jason called Drew and confronted him.

Drew had no idea what Jase was talking about and I didn’t know whether I should believe him or not. Jase grilled him, though, and Drew didn’t budge. So, I called the bank again.

Got the same teller, told him that he must think I’m crazy, but I really needed to get to the bottom of this large purchase. He looked a little deeper into it and finally said, Miss Latshaw?

Yes, I affirmed.

Looks like the purchase was made with your actual debit card, he announced.

Oh really? You can tell? With no uncertainty? I made sure.

Without a doubt, He confirmed.

And there I was with egg on my face. I had my brother call Drew back right away, and listened as he quickly explained that he was off the hook.

So who made the purchase? Drew asked.

Jessica did, Jase explained, Just a little while ago.

And that was the time when I bought a round trip flight, saw the purchase show up in my back account, made my brother call Drew and accuse him for it, and then finally was made to realize that the purchase had been mine all along.

Duh.

In my defense, I had recently found out the most horrible news I couldn’t have even imagined. Seriously. I had at times imagined Drew’s death and quickly teared up, the thought was so terrifying. I had no idea to be afraid of anything worse.

Turns out Anything Worse came. And yes, it was the movie, The Ring, whereas my older, more innocent fears were the good old, soft and round Teletubbies, albeit pretty creepy in their own right.

But still, Jason and I still laugh about that one today. Just did tonight, in fact.

I am thinking that’s a hint for me to do something but can’t for the life of me figure out what that something could be.

Silly pop, speaking in such riddles. Perhaps if I were a smarter girl–if I went somewhere other than art school, for instance–I’d catch his drift.

Or you know, if I cared about vacuuming.

Oh, I jest.

I care so much about vacuuming. I follow every vacuuming blog there is on the interwebs and have even recently paid for a year’s subscription to a German magazine called Das Vacuuming as either a pretty late or very early birthday present to myself, depending on how you look at it.

Okay, I jest again.

So I don’t care an inordinate amount about vacuuming and if you ever find me reading a vacuuming blog than you can just go ahead and shoot me right then because the chances are that yes, folks, Jessica has actually lost it. All the emotional turmoil has finally fried her brain and I’m pretty sure the first sign of an ill functioning brain is the frequenting of vacuuming blogs. And if they start to comment? Forget it. You might as well ask them if they could drop you off at work on their next trip to That Plant That The Muppets Jumped In To Get To The Imaginary Jungle and is there room in Santa’s sled for one more?

Check your loved one’s history and save a life.

But I think I care about vacuuming a normal amount. And maybe that normal amount will actually motivate me to do it tomorrow.

Wait a second.

Pretty sure tomorrow is the Sabbath around here.

Guess we’ll see if that normal amount of care I have for vacuuming is enough to get me to do it come Monday.

It’s enough to make me curse.

The other day I had a friend over. He wanted to look at some papers on my desk but these weren’t just any papers: they were the papers I was using to meticulously hide my divorce papers. And so when he nonchalantly reached to grab them, I jumped.

I jumped like I was a starving child and he was trying to take my last piece of bread. It was weird and out of character and he looked at me like it was weird and out of character, but neither of us said a word.

The truth is I was embarrassed.

I didn’t want him to see what I was hiding, but an even greater truth is that the entire world is going to be seeing what I’ve been hiding.

Because it’s real.

I sang at a funeral a few weeks ago and ran into someone I haven’t seen in a few years. The conversation was casual and eventually got to Drew as she asked me how he’s doing. Trying to give nothing away, I apparently failed miserably because right after I said, He’s…okay…with no fewer or no more words than just those two, she abruptly asked, Are you guys still together?

And it took my breath away. But not in the way that most ballads mean, not even close.

Nor did I know how to recover.

So I said the party line that has since become old. We’re going through a hard time. He’s made bad choices and we’re separated.

And then she said that was too bad. She said it like I told her my old Aunt who last I checked was 108 had just died peacefully in her sleep. She said it with distant compassion.Then she mentioned someone else we both knew, a mutual friend, who had just gotten a divorce too.

She said too and the importance of that word was not lost on me.

I hadn’t even mentioned divorce and now a friend of ours had just gotten one too.

I wasn’t ready for that conversation. And I sure as heck wasn’t ready for commentary on the fact that I was a gaping wound who had managed to put on a dress and sing Ave Maria that morning. I wasn’t ready to tell people that I was bleeding from the jugular and then be offered a band-aid and a pat on the back.

You better believe that my response to the question, How’s Drew? got a lot better when I was asked the same thing at the reception for the funeral. I actually may have overcompensated, to be honest, because as soon as I heard the words I answered loudly. Cheerfully. Like there’s nothing I’d rather be talking about then how Drew is doing.

Oh, he’s great!!!!! I said.

But then when this woman asked me where he’s working, my oscar winning performance lost the oscar. I couldn’t for the life of me remember where he was working. Not even the city he worked in.

As I was deliberating, taking too much time to answer such a normal question, my friend Christian jumped in like a champ.

He’s doing the sleep tech thing in Dover, he said with a smile.

Yes! I said. In Dover! He’s working in Dover!!!! And I am pretty sure I sounded like I was one stop from the loony bin.

Well, maybe I am, actually.

The thing is, I just don’t always know quite what to say. The truth is a start, but how much of the truth? And do I really want to get into it? All the time and everywhere?

No, I don’t.

Not at the gym. Not when someone I haven’t seen for years asks me how Drew’s doing, if we’re still in Newark. I’m on the bike and the last thing I want to be doing is communicating that I am going through a divorce, that what seemed like one of the couples who would definitely make it is now definitely not making it. That I am a cliche just like all the others. That I might as well have had a reality show called The Newlyweds and then made a country album that flopped. And the fact that my name is also Jessica? Well, perfect.

So I don’t tell him.  And I don’t know, maybe that is wrong, but I don’t know how to do this at all, least of all perfectly.

And while the man at the bank today was fumbling through my divorce papers, trying to figure them out and then notarize them, he apologetically explained, I’ve never been married .

To which I said, Well, I’ve never been divorced.

Which is the truth.

And I have no idea whatsoever what I am doing.

And it sucks to be attaching stupid papers to your heartache; as if the facts of our marriage, the details of our intertwined lives could ever encompass who we’ve been and who we are now. And how trite that this thing that is negating us could give me a paper cut.

But God, this is real, and I will feel my way through the dark until somebody turns on the light.

I just hope that happens soon.

Heck, it doesn’t even have to be an email. You could scrawl down something kind for me on a napkin that you used to wipe your mouth after you ate a donut . Because though I might think it was odd at first, after wiping away the sugar or jelly or chocolate or whatever it is you prefer on your donut, I would read that something kind and I would appreciate it. And then I’d probably want a donut of my own.

But now you know.

About the emails and kind notes, I mean; not necessarily about the donut.

But tonight I got this email with a link to a speaker in L.A. named Erwin McManus and a certain message he gave. My friend told me that he thought of me throughout much of the message and wondered if it might do me some good to listen to it.

So I did.

And I have to be honest, I wasn’t altogether convinced that it was the same message he had meant to refer. I mean, there was the part about building a house for habitat for humanity and the Wright family that was going to live in it and then there was the part about a church wanting to give 60k away and then there was the time that Erwin himself found out something cool about God providing and he started crying in the food court of the Westfield mall. Now I am all for houses and I am sure this particular one made for a spectacular new year for the Wright family and good for them. I am also not at all opposed to giving away 60k or even crying in food courts, though that probably wouldn’t be my first choice of a place for me to let myself go, so to speak.

But why any of this should make my good friend think about me right now just beats all.

But I kept giving Erwin (and my friend) a chance to say something that stuck to me.

Plus I was in the bathtub and my hands were all wet and I didn’t really want to get them all over my computer.

But then it happened. Something stuck. And I was like, okay, okay, I get it. And the gist of it was that one of God’s names is the Prince of Peace and, when translated, that can be just as simple as meaning, the provider of our well-being.

Well-being.

–a good or satisfactory condition of existence; a state categorized by health, happiness, and prosperity.

And that got me to thinking. About a lot of the things that I normally would need in order to feel like I have well-being. And how maybe that list should be a lot shorter than it is. Read: GOD. Do you need to see it again? I know, it’s kind of hard to read it all the first time, kind of overwhelming, so here it is: GOD.

And now let’s all try to memorize this list: GOD.

That’s not to say that I shouldn’t desire other good healthy things. That I shouldn’t keep working on the relationships that God has given me; nor should I just start ignoring the things God has given me to do. But I guess my point is that all of those things, they aren’t necessarily constant, you know? They shift. They ebb and flow. And lately the ebbing has been all consuming and has hurt like the dickens. The ebbing has made me want to swear, and I don’t swear.

But my well-being.

That is directly relating to who God is and He doesn’t change. He doesn’t ebb. Though I wonder sometimes if maybe people doing all that painful ebbing to others makes Him want to swear too. He could do it in an Old Testament way. Something about an ass and he could mean a donkey but he could also mean something else, say a particular creation of his who is acting like one, and it would be a double entendre and he’d chuckle to the angel Gabriel and Gabriel would roll his eyes but laugh too because who isn’t gonna laugh when God makes a joke?

Probably only the devil and do you really want to be in that boat?

I didn’t think so.

And after I finished listening to the message, I emailed my friend and thanked him. But not without letting him know that I had to wade through a lot of rhetoric that made me wonder why he thought of me at all while he was listening to it. But the well-being thing, I said, that was good. That made sense.

And then he wrote back and was like, Jess, that was the complete wrong one. So sorry. Here’s the real link I meant to send. And I was like, Oh. Because by then I had already listened to one long teaching that was not really meant for me and now I had another one to listen to but now I was really tired and so I didn’t have a lot more to say than Oh.

But the well-being part. That still holds true. Maybe I am off the hook for the Habitat for Humanity stuff tonight, but I certainly can give the God-being-the-provider-of-my-well-being stuff a closer look. Because honestly? It did help.

And it still does.