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.