Sisterhood of the Traveling (insert article of clothing which inspires, flatters, and cheers)

We were relatively new to the neighborhood, but several of the little girls were meeting on the porch across the street. Adorable with their ruffly clothes and pony-tailed curls, they brushed their dolls’ hair lovingly as they chatted. Bella had just arrived with her puppy backpack. I don’t think her own hair had been brushed since the day before. I heard one of the little friends greet her and ask if she had “an American Girl doll.” I did not hear Bella’s reply, but watched her enthusiastically drop to the ground, unzip her backpack, and triumphantly produce “Snakey”–the articulated wooden snake she’d chosen from Chinatown. Bless them, the girls went with it. Friends do that.

I have found my “movie friends”–the one or two who get into crazy predicaments and throw out fabulous one liners, who stick by you when times are stupid or hard, who make you laugh till you pee when you really just want to throw yourself out a window, who make you feel like the best version of yourself, and who can sit with you and be ok with your weird inner world.

I’m an introvert. I do Alone well. I enjoy Alone.
So this is the furthest from The Shire I’ve ever been. I’m going to miss some people. Three people. So much.
Let’s be real, I miss my friends who are far away. But somehow this is different.
Maybe it’s because I’m the one not going anywhere and the three of them are leaving. A Diaspora of Awesome, if you will.
There are three women I’ve laughed with here whom I will miss in a bone-deep way. Three women to whom I’ve actually bonded the way I imagine people bond with friends in high school or college. Three women whom I would totally watch a movie about.

I was in a Bible study for a few months that turned out to be my jam. I can’t even really explain why–on the page it looked very clearly laid out and logical but when I read the assignment each week I felt like it was completely formless and required flying by the seat of one’s pants. Essentially, it was precisely how my students must have felt when I gave them assignments in Freshman Composition classes. Made both no sense and all the sense to me.
I’ve been able to process and write in a way I haven’t felt able to in a while. And I’ve had a wonderful sort of anticipation with each assignment. Like God was going to really show me something each time.
So with the last week of class I was pretty pumped. I told God that I would like to read something about friends and saying goodbye and having peace and not being sad and getting brave. Annnnnnnnd go!
Nothing.
For three days.
Not gonna lie, was pretty disappointed. Thanks a lot, God.
The next morning I resorted to sullenly flipping through my Bible. My eye dropped to the bottom edge of a page and saw “But even if he does not…” There’s a song I love of late and that phrase is the main chorus, so I stopped to see what was happening here.
It was about Daniel.
And his three friends–Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.

In a nutshell, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were thrown in a fiery furnace which had been heated to seven times its normal heat (cuz a regular people-burning-furnace wasn’t enough…) when they would not serve false gods. They speak as a unit; there are no individual lines from each of them. They don’t know that God WILL save them, only that He CAN. And that’s enough for them.

Now. There are plenty of individual lines from my friends and me. And they are brilliant. None of us has known what will happen next,

which is great

and we’ve had plenty to say about how jacked up a few things have been. But as a unit, and as part of an even greater unit, we’ve been able to wait. To not act too rashly. To remind each other that God can do this thing, but even if He does not, we will not give up our hope in Him.
Wednesday has been my other Sunday. It’s been how I pace and center and recharge and motivate. But with a lot more communion. And a tiny bit of cussing.

We’ve all been here less than a year. We’ve really only been getting together for a few months but the fire has been heated to seven times its normal heat. Bad stuff has gone down while we’ve been here. Broken spines and major surgeries, reoccurring illnesses, peeing blood, shingles, disturbing revelations–and that’s just my house. My three friends have had even more intense issues thrown at them. But, for me, knowing I will see them Wednesday, have a glass or nine of something festive, listen to their stories, and tell them mine, anchors my week.

I don’t know how the silver refining process works. I looked up a few things on the internet and I still don’t really have anything. I thought it would be a great metaphor of transformation from bits of metal and ore or whatever to this beautiful valuable silver after going through the fires. Dude. There are alloys, coppers, sulfides, light measurements, assaying techniques–forget it. I’m not skilled enough to make any of that mean my friends are beautiful and precious and strong.

So let me just tell you: My friends are Beautiful and Precious and Strong.

Jesus is absolutely my anchor, but these people have been the links connecting me more securely to Him. As much as I will miss their presence, these friends leave me with powerful outlines on my heart’s wall. Being blasted in a furnace leaves marks and I hope I never stop trying to walk like they do–with courageous and quiet strength, enduring and focused intensity, and an all encompassing joy and energy to not only do battle with this life like Boudica on speed but also to love the journey and infuse every person encountered with encouragement and hope and proof that the fire can always get hotter and the seas can always get rougher, but the Anchor will take the heat. The Anchor will hold.

Now,

and a box of Kleenex.

In Which Christina Tries to Find the Poetry in “Breaking One’s Ass at the Bowling Alley”

Spoilers: There is no poetry in breaking one’s ass at the bowling alley.

And even sadder, this was not even my most epic fail.

So, picture it– the Ft. Leavenworth Strike Zone, moments after leaving a child home with her father, in a fit of rage and tears and possibly blood because the toy she’d ordered with her piggy bank money and which was scheduled to arrive that day did not in fact materialize with her sibling’s order. (This is an entirely different story of pain, anger, and ultimate redemption.) “I’ll just take Auggie and Mal,” I said. “It will be fun,” I said.

My lovely friends had set up the bumper lanes and there was an adorable little alligator slide for Auggie to push his ball down. We donned our stylish shoes and set up our screens. Then I proceeded to burn 4,000 calories whilst deflecting my youngest son’s attempts to bowl everyone’s turn, lift 10 pound toe-crushing balls, eat various snacks that did not belong to him, and essentially run betwixt and between every other human’s legs while they tried to send heavy orbs spinning down the intensely waxed lanes. All while trying to remember to cheer for my oldest son’s valiant efforts to hurl a ball only slightly heavier than his own person down a narrow lane using arms the length of a bald eagle’s wingspan and the width of a walky talky antenna.
Remember that “intensely waxed lane” part. I’m sure you can see where this is going.

So, all went All-American-Family well for about 8 minutes. And then Auggie decided he must and WILL follow the pink ball to its destination. The child may be shaped like an overstuffed Peep but he’s surprisingly fast. I honestly don’t remember anything but trying to grab his shoulder and taking 2 or 3 rapid steps when suddenly all was silent, I was closing my eyes, and the briefest of thoughts scrolled across my brain like a banner flying behind a retro bi-plane that I remember soaring across the cloudless sky when we would go to the beach as children: “ooooh maaaaaan, this is going to huuuuurrrrttt…”
I was not wrong.

I’ve fallen on my tailbone three times. Each marked by significant humiliation. The first time I had to pay my brother a dollar to go across the street and tell my mother that I was hurt and couldn’t stand up. (It may or may not have been payback for that time I broke his collarbone.) ((Bygones.))
The second time was in an English farmhouse at the lovely party of a dear friend. I had just reached my post-baby body goal and was wearing a darling vintage-inspired tea dress with my favorite seamed stockings and platform shoes. I remember every detail. I was carrying a beautifully delicate heirloom china plate to the kitchen, relishing the sound of my awesome shoes clopping across the old wooden floorboards, thinking how amazing I must look when–Lo there did I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they did call me, they bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live forever.
For I knew: I was going to die.
My friend’s two bulldogs. At a dead run. Where are they going? And why with such swiftness? I thought briefly as I continued walking toward them, as one continues toward impending doom. ‘Tis inevitable. ‘Tis fated.
Later, I would replay it countless times. I do to this day, 7 years later. There was nothing I could have done, save dive out of their path and into a curio cabinet or innocent bystander. My main concern at that moment was to preserve the plate. I don’t know why. In the same way I don’t know why singing Ole’ McDonald Had a Farm during labor helps me focus.
With each step, my shin met a solid, speeding animal. Two legs, two animals weaving betwixt and between them. Allow me to break it down for you: in the course of 2 strides, my legs made contact with a dog at least 4 times so that my body had no choice but to both pitch forward and then rear backward. And the whole time, my eyes were focused on that china plate. I watched it reach forward, rise up, and then float above me, ever connected to my hand, ever safe, ever preserved.
Not so my dignity.
Moments later, seated and swatting mortified tears from my eyes as stealthily as I could while assuring people–all the people–that I was fine, Sam showed up. Conspiringly, he leaned in, “Did you hear about the poor girl who fell? Legs up in the air and everything, poor thing.”

The coccyx. Apparently a vital part of our anatomy. Having an injured one inhibits many activities, such as rising from a seated position at any speed other than glacial, bending down, picking up, laying down, lifting, etc. Standing is fine. Walking is fine. So essentially, I’m like the bus in Speed. I just can’t ever, ya know, stop. No problem.

I’ve tried blaming Amazon for this. Why couldn’t you put BOTH Dinotrux in the same effing box? And the United States Postal Service. Why couldn’t you put BOTH boxes on the same truck? Then we could have all gone bowling together and maybe Auggie’s impulse to run down a waxed-to-hell bowling lane would have been thwarted. But then…what if Sam had been the one to try and catch him? What if he’d been the one to fall and had reinjured his spine?
So let’s say this: I’m glad it was me.
Let’s also say this: We’re not taking Auggie bowling again for quite some time.

Dorian’s Palette

Made of failure,
constructed of disappointment,
she is set down before Beautiful
with her empty bowl
and her crushed being.

Twisted and untruthful,
plank-eyed and a great arm for stone throwing,
she is brought to Beautiful
and placed on her mat,
given her bowl.

Her portrait is a glossy masterpiece
in Vermillion
in Prussian Blue.
The brushstrokes are masterful–
a rich blending of evil
of intention
of all the good colors.

She holds out her bowl
to take up the collection,
the things she needs from others
to cover up her own contributions.

All her betrayals
and every dead thing
she’s made or believed
go into this bowl
as she sits on her mat.

At night she brings out her mortar and pestle.
She brings out the linseed oil.
She grinds the contents of her bowl into
lovely pigments
to correct her portrait.

But each morning she must
be carried out again.
Unable to stand,
she is set down.
She holds out her bowl.

Until she hears,
Look at me.

And she does.
Then.
Beautiful looks at her.
Beautiful takes her hand and
pulls her up.
Beautiful is where she’s always been.

Standing up,
her knife is no longer flat and dull,
no longer for mixing facade.
With the new blade
she can destroy her portrait.

When they ask her what has happened,
she will say,
I looked up. It is Beautiful.

Watch Repair

I get tired.
I sleep on the job.
I look around
but I do not watch.
I love the trees–
how they dwell in their grassy silent chambers.
And I hate wandering
on the edge of those gardens of knowing
the terror is only just ahead–
but not yet.
I would feel safer in a tower,
walled off and lifted high above the danger.
But I want to be like the trees,
brave and standing and rooted
yet reaching.
I want to be
not far.
A tree is tall.
A tower is tall.
But even if I climb to such papery or stony heights
I do not watch.
Instead,
I kiss you.
I kill you.
I fall asleep in the cool breeze
and in my heavy worries.
I offer you my small things
but I know you don’t really need them.
I’ve seen many towers standing alone.
They offer good vantage points.
They encourage pause.
I think a tree must not like to be alone.
However tall and standing and rooted,
a tree must grow taller with a fellow.
You want to be with me,
want to bring me to where you are
and to see me awake.
Because while I was sleeping,
You were saving me.

Sword

From under the stones-
in a flurry of sticks-
the weapon bursts outward.
The weapon is singing a song.
The mission has a soundtrack.
Lists, signposts, a return address:
they mark the map I follow.
I want to hold the weapon–
for protection
for promise
for prosperity.
It seems to have new batteries though.
The weapon goes out into the fray.
I follow at a distance
out of respect
and safety.
But the song it sings is catchy.
I need to hold the weapon–
because of danger
because of defeat
because of death.
I feel disgrace when I lose sight of its shadow
and am left only humming the tune I’ve learned.
My hands want to hold the weapon.
But then I look around the field
where I’ve been in the fray
and realize the weapon has been holding me.

How To Be Christina Fishburne On Monday

Find yourself planted for three years in a place people typically stay for only one.
Congratulate yourself on all that personal growth you did in Hawaii.
Think about all the people you know who might have cancer.
Plan a productive day.
Damn the constantly dirty floor to Hell.
Think about writing.
Go to the gym.
Preemptively grieve all the friends who are leaving this summer.
Start crying because people you love might have cancer.
Want another baby.
Vacuum.
Forget to buy more bagels.
Think about writing.
Think about painting.
Think about cancer.
Think about being pregnant.
Damn elliptical machines to Hell.
Vacuum.
Decide not to have another baby.
Wish you cared more about politics.
Wish you cared more about history.
Wish you cared more about Power Rangers.
Damn cancer to Hell.
Vacuum.
Think about writing.
Think about babies.
Think about wine.
Think about the people you know who have survived cancer.
Wish you were Diana Gabaldon.
Wish you were Claire Fraser.
Wish you were taller.
Wish you were better at conversation.
Wish you had a plan for dinner.
Pick up crumbs with a wet napkin.
Hold Malcolm’s hand when he offers it.
Thank Sam for doing the dishes.
Listen to Bella’s detailed plan for her birthday party half a year away.
Laugh at how Auggie says new words wrong.
Think about not wishing for more.

This is not about the election.

They have to leave us.

They try to do it strongly.

We have to let them go. We try to do it gracefully.

They have to go far away. We have to stay put. But it doesn’t always happen fast. Sometimes it drags out over days. Days of waiting to leave. Days of knowing they are technically still here. But we can’t see them. Then they are gone. And they have to do hard things. They have to live in hard places. They miss us and we miss them. We try to be brave like them.  Things happen to all of us. But they miss our things. And we miss their things. It’s hard for each of us to understand the other’s things.

And then one day they’re back. And there’s more waiting. Agonizing minutes and hours of waiting. We can see them. We can almost touch them. We are about to lose what’s left of our minds. And then

Welcome home. And welcome back. And whatever the world is like, it will always be changing–but the reason we send you and the reason we wait for you is the same as the reason you go and the reason you go again, and again: we love our country and what it was built for and we love each other because we have this in common.