I'm working on a non-fiction project called Bohemian Forgiveness: Five Unconventional Paths to Forgiving What You'll Never Forget. There's not much to see on the Facebook page for now but it will come, and I'll be sure to keep you posted.
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I call myself a writer. Writers write. I call myself a reader. Readers read. Lately I've done neither. Last blog: Thanksgiving. Single motherhood is in full swing, sweet peas. Nothing earth shattering has befallen me. I really do love my life. I'm blessed. I am. It's just that . . . and you single gals will get this. Sometimes a girl could use a companion. Someone who will join you in complaining about the lawn company who killed the lawn you worked so hard to improve over the smoltering Texas summer. Someone who will stay on the phone for hours at a time with Frontier when internet access is mysteriously no longer accessible. Someone to walk with you as you walk the dog.
Someone to hold your hand. Kiss your cheek. Help carry the groceries inside.
I've been on my own going on four years now. I did have one small glitch when I dated--too naive to understand that chilvary does not equate care. It's mostly an attempt to get a girl in the sack. Not always, but in my case it was. I've learned a lot about God, myself, and how I relate to others. I make a lot of jokes to my girlfriends about how I've been reintstated as a virgin. I'm saving myself for re-marriage. (That should get me a TON of dates.) But truth is, these days less is beginning to mean more.
I miss conversations. Questions. That sort of thing.
I think it would be a blessing to curl up next to a man I'm married to and even be too tired to have sex. I miss things like, "Have you seen my wallet" "Did you call the cable company?" "How much is that going to cost us?" Us.
I miss the idea of an us. Not all the time. The majority of the time I do quite well on my own. But as I approach 50 I can see companionship is a true gift from God. I was married almost eighteen years and I cannot honestly say we were ever an "us."
I've learned that I am not a woman who can compromise my value for the sake of having a warm body next to mine. I want a man with a warm heart and a warm body and a brain, which is to say, compassionate, intelligent, and self-aware. A man who would value the same attributes in me. Sidney Pottier says the measure of a man is what he does when no one is looking. The same could be said for a woman.
I've thought to erase this weird blog at least three times since I started writing. But then I remembered that yesterday a client of mine told me of a friend of hers. A single mother dealing with a leak in her roof that's coming through the ceiling and light fixtures. How most of the time she's content but it's requiring of her more time and energy than just one person generally has to spare. I smiled. I prayed for her though I don't know her personally. But then again, I sort of do know her. I'm battling a leaky roof at the moment, myself. Something I could have discussed with my father except he passed away last February. We didn't always know what to say to one another but we could always talk about home improvement projects the way boys talk sports with their dads. I miss him.
So I'm posting this weird journal-y blog because somehow just knowing someone else is going through the exact same frustrating circumstances gives me hope. It validates me. And it reminds me that I am not alone. Something I say to you quite a lot.
You are not alone. I am not alone. She is not alone. As a survivor, sometimes just knowing God's compassionate eyes are ever upon me brings more healing than the days I don't feel a bit lonesome or overwhelmed. To know in my bones. God loves me. Well, that affords a warmth of its own. I would say this is the worst blog I've ever written. All over the place. Fragmented. But it's honest. Honesty is good. It stands for me when I need to sit and cry. God Almighty, how I miss my father today.
Published on Tuesday, December 27, 2016 @ 1:55 PM CDT