writing from my blanket cocoon

I dropped off a homemade dinner for Stan tonight while he was at work. Then I tried to force him to make out with me in the call room, but I think his nose was congested. He said there were cameras in the rooms, so I pretend-slapped him to save my own skin. There are no cameras in the rooms. It was a very wifey thing to do — bringing him dinner, I mean. His attending came through the door as I was leaving, and he asked if I was visiting because Stan was on call.

“Yeah, I brought him dinner, too.” What I wanted to add was “Best wife EVER!” Instead, I trumpeted, “Best sife EVER!” and pointed at myself with both hands before I realized I said “sife.” Sarcastic humble brag gone awry. I hope my susband enjoyed his dinner.

I thought I was running late to make another dinner date. Every first Wednesday of the month, our church goes to Breakthrough to make and eat dinner with the men at the shelter. Sometimes, I think it’s common to resort to the thought that as much as you want to be a blessing to those you serve, you end up more blessed than those you came to bless with your blessings. This is blessology, people. I think it’s a way to psych ourselves out to keep doing what we’re doing. Maybe also to avoid pride. Like, I thought I was coming here to be awesome, but I found out I’m not awesome. You’re the one that is awesome. I also think it can turn into secret patronization.

Because sometimes, I don’t think it’s so awesome. Sometimes, the conversation turns awkward and neither of us have anything to say, the random guy I sit with for dinner or myself. The guy I’m talking to will say, “Hold that thought. I want to get you a napkin because you’re sweating.” And I’ll say, “Oh, am I? I feel fine…” Then I’ll rub my face and realize my face is just super greasy. “My face is just shiny from grease,” I’ll mumble. And he’ll laugh and say, “Oh, I’m just inappropriate. I like raunchy jokes.” I’ll force a chuckle, but I don’t care to laugh because nothing is funny. Plus, he used the term “raunchy” in the wrong context. And that’ll be the extent of our conversation.

So sometimes, just sometimes, I’ll think that nothing is awesome. I think this is okay, though. I don’t want to rely on blessology to get me to go anywhere. In ministry, there will be moments that don’t seem to add up to anything. You’re just there sweating in the kitchen and making awkward conversation about your greasy face. I think that’s okay.

when i take my glasses off everything’s blurry

My eyes are playing tricks on me.

Word: applause
Read: applesauce

Word: editorial
Read: orbital

Title: Inside of a Dog
Read: Inside of a Dead Dog

Feeling sleepy. Had a rousing conversation with Stan late last night. Only…he didn’t know it.

Stan: (muttering) I can’t believe Superman’s dog died.
Me: Superman’s dog died?
Stan: Mm, Superman’s dog died.
Me: Superman?
Stan: Superman.

Shoulda taken the conversation further. I’m not very chatty at 3 a.m. Gonna write down some questions for future sleep-talk sessions.

please stop

When Miley Cyrus made the lyrics for “We Can’t Stop,” I wonder if she was like, “Mm. Yeah. Yeah, this is good. What rhymes with party? La da di da di. Of course. What do I do at the club? Shake my butt like I’m at a strip club. Yes. Wait in line for the bathroom. Yes. If we run things…then things don’t run we. YES.”


Good: Letting me sleep in or gently kissing me on the forehead before you go.

Mediocre: Coming over to my side of the bed and whispering goodbye before you go.

Bad: Attempting to lift and turn my head using my hair bun when I’m laying on my stomach and turned away from you. And then sweetly saying goodbye.


I am grateful for the passages in Hosea because, well, I guess they resonate with me. Passages like:

And I will lay waste her vines and her fig trees, of which she said, ‘These are my wages, which my lovers have given me.’

Because whether from my past, present, or even the things I hope for in the future, I can imagine myself firmly planting my wages, my worth, that my lovers and idols have given me. I’ll tenderly display my rings and jewelry, beaming over my accomplishments and even failures, if they’ve taught me anything. Perhaps the most twisted is when I wonder why I don’t have more in wages.

And then passages like:

Therefore, behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her.

Passages like these make my chest feel tight. Because even in the fullness of lovers and satisfaction of idols, who doesn’t want to be spoken to tenderly in the wilderness where you have nothing, can bring nothing, can carry nothing. You have nothing to show for the tenderness lavished upon you, and yet there you are. Your crazy hair, dirty face, sweat-stained clothes, and someone speaking tenderly to you.



Bespectacled, silver

Laughing, looking, gibbering

Grandma, newspapers, apples, incense

Emptying, offering, creating

Last, spotless


better whole

Being a woman in a man’s world is tough. That’s an understatement. Most ideas of women — what they should be, who they are, what they like, what they look like, blah blah — all stem from a man’s world. And all reactions against a man’s world, well, is still just that — a reaction against a man’s world.

And here I am grappling not only with what it means to be a good wife, but simply a wife. A hot wife.

No, I am not going to shave my head and grow my armpit hair out. Because that’s exactly how you’d want it, huh? Or maybe I will. Or no…I won’t. Maybe I will. No…I wont. Maybe.


I’m afraid to share some stories. Like the one about the time when a long-haired, skinny stranger opened the car door, unbuckled his pants, and tried to ruin the innocence of my youth. My big sister saved me. Or when I stole… and I was young… and he said he loved me… I hated the way I looked… I got lost. My little sister was born. My mom was sad. The whole house was dark. Except for the ethereal glow from the pink sheets that hung over the windows in my mom’s room. The sheets blocked out the sunlight, but somehow made the room look like it was on fire.

Shadows from my past and in my future. I’m afraid to share some stories. Like how guilt hangs over me. Did I get married and run away? I didn’t run away… I should call home more. I should call the in-laws more. I should see how my little sister is doing. Am I doing enough? I should make more money to send home. I feel like I’m buying Stan’s birthday gift with his own money. Ha. Happy birthday, babe. Love you forever.

I’m afraid to share some stories. Like how I’m saved and I sin. I’m a believer and I doubt. I’ll say things I don’t mean. What’s worse is that I’ll mean things and can’t say them. I’ve been redeemed by an act of complete grace, but sometimes I don’t know what to do with that.

I’ll lay down the stories I’m afraid to share, over and over again. Lay down my rights, my fears. There is a remnant chosen by grace. I don’t want these remnants of disbelief. I believe in a God who is greater than fear. I believe in his promises, and I believe he’ll see them through till the end.

i should wake him up now

Stan’s taking his post-call nap. I asked, “When do you want me to wake you up?” “Three, please. Wake me up gently with kisses,” he smiled. “No. No, I’m going to shake you awake. Like this.” I grabbed his shoulders and started shaking him. He laughed and fell asleep.

We had everybody’s favorite meal of the day right after he got off work — brunch. With another awesome couple. That makes it sound like we’re awesome, too. With another couple — who is awesome. I got myself out of bed to pick the huz up at work. Thank goodness I changed out of me light pink long johns (that was a typo, but I’m not changing it due to St. Patty’s Day) and put on my underthings because we went straight to brunch instead of coming home first, like I thought we would. Dodged a bullet.

Sometimes I think people in our building think Stan doesn’t know how to drive because I’m always dropping him off and picking him up in me light pink long johns. We made this arrangement so I can have the car because we’re from Georgia and drive everywhere. And plus, I get bus sick. I hope they think that I’m like a boss wife. Or maybe they think I’ve let myself go because I’m always in me light pink long johns.