Guest Post: Jessie Heninger
Please join me in welcoming the lovely, incomparable Jessie Heninger! This is her first guest blog. She is a thrifter extraordinaire! Enjoy this post! You can learn more about Jessie’s fancy musings at her blog Confessions of a Housewife.
Thrifting is a hug topic for me, one where I could go on and on. It covers so many different things and so many different parts of my life. Where do I even start?
I love old things. My Granny owned an antiques store all while I was growing up. I loved that place. My papa converted the barns into shops and they had this smell of potpourri and magic all mixed up. You walked into the shop and it was like walking through a portal to the olden days. Every turn, every corner had something else to look at. Old fashioned skates in the winter, tiny lanterns and great big wooden rope beds with feather ticks.
Guest Post: Amelia Rhodes
Today I’m welcoming Amelia Rhodes for her second guest post. Her first was vividly beautiful. You should read it!
As a writer, Amelia is very good at painting word pictures. This one has some great imagery.
One evening shortly after Easter, my five-year-old daughter lay in her bed with the covers tucked around her, and as I bent over to kiss her
head goodnight, she looked at me with very serious eyes and said, “I saw Jesus, hanging on the cross, with the nails in His hands. The lies
were covering Him, and the lies looked like worms with eyes. The worms were all over His body.”
I paused, slightly confused, and at the same time amazed by the incredible word picture she had just given me of sin. “Honey, where
did you see this picture?” She looked at me and said in her matter-of-fact voice as if I should already know, “In my imagination.
It was a real picture, just like I can see you, but it was in my imagination, as if my eyes were in the back of my brain, watching a
movie.”
What else can you say to that? I told her that was an amazing description of sin and how Jesus had bore our sins in His body to take
them away while He was on the cross. She soon fell asleep, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her
description. A week later, I nearly fell out of my chair when I came across the words of Psalm 22:6 “But I am a worm and not a man, scorned
by men, and despised by the people.” Many sections of Psalm 22 are an obvious prophecy of Jesus’ death. Jesus even quoted verse 1 while
hanging on the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Many believe that verse 6 is also prophecy, a description of the suffering
Jesus endured while taking all of our sins inside Himself and feeling the weight of our own guilt as if it were His own.
I couldn’t escape the worms, so I dug further to see if I could find more. Worms seemed to be such a perfect description for sin – slimy,
slinky, living a life hidden beneath the surface, feasting on decay. As I searched, I found in Mark 9:43-48 as Jesus is describing Hell, he
quoted the prophet Isaiah, ” Where their worm does not die, and the fire is not quenched.” Worms signify death and decay, an eternal
rotting of the soul.
Sad, but true, I often treat some of my sins as if they were a fine meal that I have earned the right to savor and enjoy. I pass them off
as “indulgences” or “guilty pleasures.” Pride is like my favorite appetizer – spinach-artichoke dip. I justify
that a little pride can’t hurt, it just gives my self-esteem a much-needed boost. Just like the spinach-artichoke dip I gorge on,
because how bad can it be after all, it contains vegetables, I over-consume until I’m stuffed full. There’s no room for anything
else. Yet I feel good and important. Bloated, yet satisfied.
Inappropriate media is my main course. I treat certain books and t.v. shows and mindless internet surfing as if it were salmon chalked full
of DHA, brain-healthy vitamins. I fork the flakiness savoring every bite. After all, I’m learning. I’m studying culture! I must know what
the teen obsession is with such literature. I must know what all the rage is about said t.v. show! Never mind the passions they ignite
within me that are less-than-God-worthy. It’s all in the name of enhancing my brain, like a wood-griled salmon seasoned just so and
cooked to flakiness perfection.
Jealousy is my side dish, like a savory, creamy risotto that can be customized a hundred different ways, my jealousy shows up in all
forms. Add a dash of book contract envy, half a cup of your-house-is-magazine-worthy, and a splash of celebrity, and I have a
delicious bowl of jealousy risotto. I linger over it, enjoying the taste in my mouth not caring about the lasting effects. I need to feel
good about myself now, and this dish is working.
Bitterness is my dessert, a rich indulgence that I savor with small bites as if it were a cheesecake that I’m trying to make last forever.
The taste is out of this world and is definitely earned after those long days of suffering at the hands of others. I raise the fork
slowly, considering the individual ingredients with each slow bite. Nothing makes it taste better than continually remembering the
offenses and belittling the offender.
Gossip is my red wine. Paired with my meal, it’s the smooth completion to this fine dining experience. Disguised as fetching stories to
garner a laugh at someone else’s expense in order to make me look better, it runs down my throat in smooth sips, making the pleasure
last as long as possible. The ending result is a warm tingly feeling that is justice in my own eyes.
I began to confront the reality that I had been feasting on these dishes for too long, and yet claiming that I loved Jesus. How could I
continue to justify these offenses as fine dining, when in reality they were worm-filled dishes that had eaten Jesus’ spirit on the
cross?
The pride that I’ve stuffed myself with doesn’t sound so appetizing when I think of it as a bowl full of worms. Suddenly it doesn’t seem
healthy, satisfying or attractive. I think it makes me look good, giving me a rosy glow, but the only one who is fooled is me.
The inappropriate media doesn’t seem so enjoyable when I admit that it doesn’t make me more intelligent or in touch with culture. Instead it
turns my God-loving, God-desiring, intelligent gray matter into a pile of gray worms that have such simple brains, that should you remove
them, there’s not a noticeable change in the worm’s behavior. Jealousy looks more like a plate of leech worms, sucking the love from
my heart. For jealousy only leads to hostility and rivalry, sucking the life out of relationships.
Sweet bitterness seems rather, well…bitter, when I realize it’s nothing more than a child’s mudpie stuffed full of dirty earthworms.
It doesn’t heal the wounds or make the offender pay for his injustices. The only one it poisons is me.
Gossip, seems rather quite like a sludge worm which is often found near sewers, acting as an obvious sign of water pollution. When the
gossip pours out of my mouth it’s a clear indication of a polluted heart, one so consumed with myself only and never the concerns of
others.
Dirty, squirming, feasting on the decay of my soul, these allusions of delicacy are a sign of a fatal heart condition. It was time to go on a
diet. It was time to start eating real food. It was time to consume the Bread of Life and the Living Water that Jesus promised He would
be.
The process of detoxing my soul is painful. Like the times I decide to go cold-turkey and cut myself off from caffeine. Headaches ensue and a
few days of lethargy keep me walking around in a cloud. I can’t think straight, and it seems so much easier to just return to the old way of
living. After all, it felt so good at the time. Or like the times when I get serious about eating right and I cut sugar completely out of my
diet, and all I can think about it eating a cookie; my sins consume me in the same way.
It takes a conscious effort, and the admission that I can’t do it on my own. I need Jesus’ help. After all, He is the one who conquered the
worms. Relying on myself is how I ended up with this rotten diet in the first place.
There’s a story I wanted to tell my husband and a few friends. It was a conversation where a mutual friend had brought up a certain
situation. The conversation made me realize I was not alone in thinking a pattern of behavior in a friend was deceptive. I wanted so
badly to tell people. I wanted to replay the conversation and spin it with humor so everyone would realize, I am RIGHT! I am intelligent! I
have it all together, while these other people do not! Every time the urge surfaced on my worm-tongue. I bit it, imagining that I was biting
a juicy worm in half, and spitting the filth out. That’s how repulsive I wanted the urge to gossip to be. That’s how repulsive I NEED my sin
to be. I prayed for strength in the moment to overcome my tongue. I found it was a much-repeated prayer, but God met me there every time.
When I put myself at the foot of Jesus’ agony, shivering in the three hours of darkness while He suffered the desperate separation from the
Father He loves so dearly, I cannot treat my sins the same. I cannot indulge. I can only mourn. He bore them in His breast, as though they
were worms eating His soul, attempting to destroy Life itself. But He conquered them. He won. And as I identify with Him in that suffering –
I too have the victory. I can eat at His banquet table as an heir, a runaway child rescued from the mud pit, cleaned up, and presented the
finest food at His banquet table. I want to feast on His love for me, and never spit the worms in His face again.
Krow Photography Tuesday
It’s another lovely day to enjoy some photography! Check out Kedron’s Facebook Page for more of his photos!
Today we’ll be looking at shape and curve. Take a moment to appreciate the graceful movement in these photos.
What kind of beauty inspires you?
Winnebago Man — From My Archives
The man in the Winnebago is staring wildly. A Cadillac is wedge precariously under the nose of his monstrous vehicle. Smoke is pouring out of both hoods, fluid leaking from underneath. The woman in the Caddy is sobbing, her nose streaming blood onto her cashmere sweater. A siren howls closer and closer.
I walk by this mess, no time to stop. I was due at work two hours ago, more or less. I suppose if I stop I’d at least have an excuse for my boss. If I just got a little blood on my jacket that would be enough to convince him. But it’s leather and I really don’t care if I get fired.
Two more blocks and I’ll be there, at the office. I’m almost taken aback by the enormity of steel and brick towering over me. The street is lined by these ancient buildings. Here no trees offer shade, no glass a soft path, only hard, cold materials. I hate this city.
I slap the button to make the handicapped accessible door slowly easy its way open.
“Hey, Chief.” The security guard says, “You got your badge?”
“It’s at home.” I tell him.
“What’s your name?”
“Uh, not Chief.”
“What’s your name?” With more force.
I tell him my name. He checks his list.
We do this everyday. It’s some sick kind of ritual. I have my badge in my pocket. I just like messing with the guy. Might as well work for his paycheck.
“Go on through the metal detector.”
“Really?” I whine. “We gotta do this today. I’m a little late.”
He cusses me out. I walk through the gateway of detection. It beeps frantically. This too is a ritual. I remove my keys, my lighter, my badge and place them in a basket. I walk through again. No beep.
The guard hands me my belongs and notices my pass. He lets out a grunt and tells me to do something that my mother warned me would make me blind. I laugh.
He goes back to reading his dirty magazine.
“Elevator’s busted, Chief.” He turns the page.
My feet slowly climb the stairs.
“No reason to rush.” I think aloud.
The woman five steps ahead of me turns to me, “Excuse me?”
“You’re excused.” I answer.
She takes the steps a little faster.
I walk through my office, past the receptionist and into my cubical. My square of doom. A note is taped to my computer screen.
“Could we please met when you get in?” Black Sharpie letters on pale yellow Post It.
I remove it and toss it in the trash. My computer is already on and Facebook is up. I “poke” a few friends. Check up on what happened in the last 15 minutes.
Leeza is eating cookies.
Brian is glad that the sun is shining.
Ramona is angry. (as always)
The phone on my desk buzzes.
“Jello?” I say into the receiver.
“Hi!” My boss.
“I’m sorry. Who is this?”
“Um, Thomas. Your boss.” His voice lowers to a whimper. “Could you please come to my office?”
“Yeah. Just let me update my status. Cool?”
“Sure.”
Everything about my boss’ office is small. Small door, small windows, small boss. He hates it. Complains about it everyday. I sit in one of the under-sized chairs in front of his tiny, doll house desk.
“Hey.” He’s trying to be reassuring. “What’s going on?”
“Well…Leeza’s eating cookies.”
“Right.” He didn’t listen to my answer. “So, I’m getting this strange idea that you aren’t loving your job.”
“Should I love my job?”
“Yes. I think you should.”
“Oh. Well, this is awkward.”
“I know.”
Sarcasm meant nothing to this wee man.
“Listen,” He climbed up on his desk, not without a great deal of umph. His eyes look directly into mine. He was concerned. “You might be surprised to know that you’re several hours late.”
“Nope. That doesn’t surprise me at all.” My voice was as bland as a rice cake.
“So, why is it that you’re so late?”
“Oh. That. Well I guess I just got busy with stuff at home.”
“Are things at home bad?” He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in worry. “Are you going through relationship troubles?”
“I guess you could call it that.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Sure.” I answered, inserting enthusiasm.
“Go ahead.”
“I think I changed my mind.” I scratched my head. “I think you should just fire me.”
“No. Please.” He begged, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.
“You see kids like me coming in here all the time. You had to have known this would never work out.”
“I know.” He weeps. “I just had such big dreams.”
“You know I’m not going to amount to anything in the business world with my lack of respect for authority.”
“It’s true.”
“I’ll just pack up my things and leave. I’ll turn in my badge to the security guard. Perhaps you should have someone escort me out of the building.”
The receptionist met me outside the boss’ office with a box. She’s about as old as my grandma and about as mean as a shark.
“You really messed up, you know.” She barks at me and walks away.
If she had been my boss I would have worked harder, been on time.
I place the box on the desk. I have nothing personal here; no pictures of friends or pets to take home. I place my badge on the rolling chair and walk myself down the stairs.
The guard has his nose in that magazine still.
“You get canned?” He asks without looking up.
“No. The company’s paying an all expense trip to New Zealand to romp with the Hobits.”
“Punk.” He puts the magazine face down on his desk. “I gotta get your badge.”
“It’s at home. I’ll mail it to you.”
He calls me a few unsavory names.
“I’m going to miss your ever sweet disposition.” I say, walking backwards, slapping the handicapped button again.
The air outside is fresh. The sun is, indeed, making me glad. My walk feels like a glide across the pavement.
The Winnebago is jacked onto a tow truck. The Cadillac is already gone. The man is getting into a taxi, the wild look still in his eyes.
Guest Post: Megan Sayer
It’s time for another story from 2,000 some miles away. Megan Sayer is from Tasmania (the little island off the bottom of Australia). She graced us with a powerful story last week. Read it here. I’m very grateful that she’s sharing with us again today.
Tom
By Megan Sayer © 2011
I got the idea on Saturday when I was mucking about in the old shed with Dad, watching as he oiled up his cutters and clippers ready for harvest. Behind the ladder on the way up to the hayloft was these big old planks, just like I could strap them together and make me an old boat and then I could do it, really do it, like in the stories.
Monday after school I tried to sneak back up to the shed but Mum needed me to help her chop the wood, and after that I was too stuffed.
Wednesday I tried, but Dad saw me go and asked me what I was doing so I had to make up something different and then go and do it so I wouldn’t be lying.
Thursday and Friday and Saturday it rained fit to bust.
Sunday was church and best clothes day.
Monday I got up there. I made a kind of curtain thing over the ladder so nobody could see where I was. The tractor was in front anyway, and I had to lay those old planks down to make my boat, so I was pretty well hid all right. The plum tree was outside and all the rain had got caught in Dad’s buckets so I figured I was all set for a few afternoons of hard work.
I didn’t know much about boats. I’d seen them in the pictures in the books that Mum read me, and I knew they had a floor and sides and all, and a stick with a curtain on it, but I didn’t need to go too far in mine, so I figured it didn’t matter if that curtain was there or not. Out in the middle, that was all I needed to go to.
And then what with one thing and then another thing and then another and Mum and that wood chopping and Dad wanting to know what I was up to and school and all it took me weeks to get my boat the way I wanted it. When I did, though, I was so chuffed. It was just like the pictures, curtain and everything. One of the kids at school said boats had a name, which is a bit dumb because they can’t talk, but I decided to call it after me. Tom.
Tom was a great boat. He had a good big floor for me to sit on with not too many gaps. The big ones I filled up with old newspapers. He had good sides and a cushion and a pole thing for me to push off the edge with. He was all ready for me to take up to the top dam and do it, like in the story.
Saturday was perfect. Dad was out in town at the market and Mum was inside making pies. I told her I was going out to play, which wasn’t a lie, and then I pushed that old Tom boat all the way up to the gate that got me into the top paddock. He was heavy, that Tom, and when I got him all the way to the dam I remembered that I’d left the gate open for the cows to get out but I was too stuffed to go back. I wouldn’t be all that long anyway. Get into the boat. Push out into the middle. Step out. Walk on water like that bloke in the bible did. I was going to show God how much faith I had, and that’s why I needed my boat.
But before I could get to the middle I felt Tom going down, and I was going down, and then I got scared and couldn’t find my faith any more, and Dad was going to teach me to swim next Summer except that’s why I had to keep out of the top paddock and now I remember and the water is green like Mum’s peas and going over my eyes…
I saw him there in the water. Dad said after that he was an angel, that man in the water that held my head up even when I couldn’t swim. He held my head up until those cows came to Mum in the kitchen and she followed my boat track up there and fished me out.
Dad gave me a hiding, and a quick swimming lesson. And now I know where God lives. He lives in our top paddock.
Guest Post by Marianne Badongen
Remember Marianne? She wrote a guest post last week. You should read it! It’s hilarious (and very meaningful). Check it out here. Well, she’s back with a moving story. If you’ve ever had to start a brand new life in a brand new place…well, let’s just say that this story will be familiar. Enjoy!
This is the third guest post from Marianne Badongen. You can read the other ones here and here.
I think you’ll enjoy this story from the mission field. And perhaps desire a midnight snack when you’re done reading.
Creep Crawlies
Some evenings when my family lies deep in sleep, I must force myself to read, research, and write for my furthering education. Peanut butter and jelly on toast is my frequent energizer. One such night, I put my bread in the toaster and watched it toast. Imagine my surprise as the toast began moving. Trying to think logically, I decided that since toasting removes moisture from bread, the movement was the bread shrinking.
Then I smelled it. The smell of death. A smell worse than burning hair or feathers.
I did not have time to react before the toast popped up.
Clinging to one piece of toast was a crispy dead gecko.
All at once I realized the bread was moving due to a creature crawling inside my appliance.
So, I did what any missionary would do when faced with similar situations. I removed the gecko, put peanut butter and jelly on the toast, and enjoyed my snack.
Right about now, you are probably hoping this was a one-time incident. It was; I have never had another gecko in my toaster. However, it was not the last creature in my appliances.
One day I was cleaning the kitchen (as any wife would do). I removed the coffee filter basket to clean the coffee maker and under the basket was a dead cockroach. My stomach began churning. The two cups of coffee I drank that morning poured through the small opening under its body (after pouring over the insect). Only two possible explanations existed. The cockroach possibly died in the coffee maker and I made my coffee over it. The other possibility is that my hot coffee killed the disgusting creature while it was brewing. Neither thought was comforting.
Ants in my sugar, spiders the size of my hand in the bathroom, cockroaches in my underwear, snails in my living room, slugs in my kitchen, parasites in my intestines, and other lovely invasions are part of my life as a missionary. Some days I laugh. Other days I scream, “Who lives like this?”
The answer to that question is: ALL OF US!
We all live our lives with unwanted things creeping into our homes, families, thoughts, and souls. These unwelcome invasions can be in the form of addictions, sins, hatred, bitterness, disappointments, fears, and more.
As with controlling pests in a house, these infestations must be handled immediately or the problem will grow. Unfortunately, you cannot smack sin with a shoe to smash it. You cannot spray insecticide on addictions to kill the entire pile at once.
You must face these infestations the same way Christ faced temptation. He used the Word of God to defeat Satan’s attack. When we accept Christ into our lives, He gives us the gift of the Holy Spirit. By reading the Word of God and listening to the gentle leadings of the Holy Spirit, we can exterminate the things creeping into our lives trying to destroy the joy we find in God’s love.
There is only one more thing for me to say:
Would you like to come to my house for some coffee and toast?
Guest Post By Marianne Badongen
Marianne wrote a guest post the other day. She’ll have another tomorrow, too!
The Choice
God did it. There is no other explanation. The time from when God called me to teach at the Philippine College of Ministry (PCM) until my continual and start-up support was raised was only six months. Some missionaries spend years raising the support they need. God called me to the Philippines and provided all I needed to go.
My last semester of college was a whirlwind of activities. I was raising support, studying hard, building relationships with supporters, graduating, and spending as much time with family and friends as I could. Was I excited? Yes. Was I physically ready? Yes. Was I spiritually ready? Yes! Was I emotionally ready? NO! In all honesty, how can you be emotionally ready to leave all your family, friends, culture, comforts, and Taco Bell? (Yes, I was addicted to Taco Bell.)
It was 17 days after graduation. Departure day had come quickly. As my parents drove me to the Detroit airport my mind wandered around the world and back (literally). What are the Filipino people like? Did I pack the right clothes? What kind of furniture will I be able to find? Do they sell deodorant there? If they do not, are the 20 bottles I packed enough to last until my first visit home? Did I remember my passport and plane ticket? (I checked again for the 8th time.)
I was so glad to see my closest friends gathered at the airport. As my parents, my friends and I sat at the gate waiting for my plane (This was pre-9/11.), the airlines announced that my plane would be delayed three hours. Arg! Talk about prolonging the agony of farewells.
Finally, I was called to board the plane. We stood there hugging, refusing to cry, and pretending to be strong for one another. As I boarded the plane, the tears began to flow. (I later found out that they flowed freely from my family and friends as well.)
As the plane began to move, I realized I was past the point of no return (without seriously frustrating more than 300 people on a plane).
My best friend gave me a package to open on the plane. I decided to open it soon after take-off. Among some much appreciated money, there was a Walkman (Yes, I am that old.) and a tape. I decided to listen to the tape. Huge emotional mistake! She made a tape of our favourite songs to sing together and songs of friendship. If I was not enough of an emotional mess before, I certainly was then. I think I scared the flight attendant.
As we neared Japan (the one stopover on the way to Manila), I began to get nervous. I was meeting two missionaries in Japan who flew the same day from California. Our travel agent arranged it so we would meet in Japan and finish the flight to Manila together. They would also be my transportation up to Baguio City where PCM was located. He was the academic dean and his wife the registrar/business manager. I was nervous to meet them but comforted to know I would not be alone upon arriving in the Philippines.
Then it happened, one of the scariest realizations in my life. Since our plane left three hours late, we were not allowed to exit the aircraft in Japan if we were continuing to Manila. To save time, they wanted to refuel and board the passengers joining us while we stayed on the plane. My brain went into panic mode. If I did not get off the plane, how would I find the missionaries? I found the flight attendant who worried about me and explained the situation. She assured me there was nothing to worry about. They would board and we would meet on the plane.
I had never met these people. I only saw one picture of them in an e-mail. After take-off when the pilot finally removed the “fasten seat-belt” sign, I roamed the plane looking for them. Imagine my surprise to find they were not there! As I sat down, I tried to control my breathing.
My mind began spinning. Who would get me at the airport? Did anyone other than those missionaries know that I was arriving? Why didn’t I get any phone numbers of other missionaries (Hind-sight is 20/20.)?
I realized I had a choice. I could panic or I could trust God who brought me safely this far in the journey. I decided to trust God. I had been to Mexico twice, so I was fairly certain I could manage myself in customs and immigration. The only real issue was how long I would sit on the sidewalk outside the airport waiting for someone to come claim me. I decided to put on my brave face.
Upon arriving, I smiled meekly at the man across the aisle and he helped my get my heavy carry-on. I straightened my shoulders and walked as if I knew exactly what I was doing.
I impressed myself that immigration went so smoothly; it gave me the confidence to keep going forward. I was looking ahead to the baggage claim area. It was full of people. As I was walking that direction, I noticed an older (like my mom’s age) woman stopping every white woman from my plane. I wondered what she wanted and why it only concerned white women. When she approached me, she asked if I was Marianne Ellert. (This was before I was married.) I was so relieved I could not even speak. My eyes became teary; all I could do was nod my head.
They found me. I was not lost. The funny (because it’s over) aspect of this adventure is that we were never supposed to meet in Japan. The travel agent did not realize California flights go to one airport in Japan but Detroit flights stop at another.
I am glad I chose to trust God.
Krow Photography Tuesday!
Krow Photography is my friend Kedron Rhodes. You should check out (and “like”) his Facebook Page and his blog.
Kedron has been kind enough to let me display some of his photography here! Some of these could really inspire a short story (or two). Hey, if you write a story from one of these pictures, let me know! I’d love to use it as a Guest Post!
- Hung Here
So, tell me, how does photography inspire you? Are you a shutterbug?
In My Dreams — From My Archives
In my dreams I wear fabulous shoes. Impossibly tall, ridiculously spiked stilettos. Sparkling, shining, red, green, purple shoes. Somehow, in this “La-La Land of Shoe-tastic Living” I know exactly which shoes go with which outfit. And those clothes, sister, I tell you they are gorgeous.
In my dreams my hair is long and blonde and smooth. It flows like a cape behind me as I run…yes, in my dreams I’m a runner. I don’t choke to pay a hundred dollars for a trim. That much money isn’t an issue for me. But that, of course, is only in my dreams.
In my dreams I live in Paris or Venice or Rome. And I speak the language beautifully. I have friends dying to spend time with me, men desiring to hold me. I paint or write or am the subject of paintings or odes. All my former classmates hate me out of envy. They regret all those awful names they called me.
In my dreams I’m happy. In my dreams I’m free and easy; no worries, no troubles. In my dreams life is exactly perfect.
But.
Oh, but. But that is not true life.
In my real life I wear ugly shoes. A size too small. I bought them at the Goodwill for $4.29. They were the only ones on the display that weren’t falling apart. They hurt my feet, but that’s better than frozen toes hitting the hard pavement. In real life my hair is mousy, stringy, smelly. It’s difficult to find time to wash my hair let alone pay someone who can cut it nicely. In real life I live in a basement level apartment in the bad part of town. It isn’t lovely or exotic or even safe. I work at the Wal-Mart just to get formula to feed my baby. There’s no man here to take care of us, let alone hold me or desire me.
In my real life I’m sad. In my real life I’m stuck and depressed; nothing but worries and troubles. In my real life I have no idea what perfection even is.
My real life is cold.
I get up early, so very early. Oh, it hurts to awake in this under heated apartment. Frost forms on the inside of the windows. The chilled floor shocks me into being alert. I put on the uniform I’ve worn for the past three days, my too small shoes and my jean jacket. I walk to the bus stop and smoke while I wait.
Nothing fabulous here.
The 20 minute bus ride bumps me along to Savings Mart. I’ll stand behind that courtesy desk for twelve hours. I’ll take the complaints. I’ll take the insults. I’ll take the yelling of customers who are upset about rejected returns of tshirts with yellow armpit stains. I’ll take it all. And I’ll smile at them because I know something that they don’t. I know about my dream life.
“Whadya mean I gotta have a receipt?” Screams a little, angry woman.
She doesn’t know about the fabulous shoes.
“I ain’t goin’ nowheres till you get your manager. Stupid.” An extra large, angry woman.
She doesn’t see the long locks of blonde beneath the stringy mop of hair.
“You’re gonna have to work an extra hour.” The manager with the clipboard. “It’s off the clock.”
He has no idea the friends that await me.
The shoes, the hair, the friends I realize aren’t real. But pretending gets me through the day. I pretend that I’m undercover to reveal how “the other half” live.
After an exhaustingly long day I punch out, ride the bus back to my neighborhood, let myself into my apartment and sit on the floor. Is it colder in here than outside? It sure feels like it. I tighten the rolled up towels around the windows. There’s frost on the inside of the glass. I trace my name on the ice with a fingertip.
“Bobbi Sue” it reads. I wipe it off and write another name.
“Scarlet.”
Scarlet of the shoes and hair and friends. Scarlet the one I long to be. Scarlet the brave, lovely, desired.
I leave the name on the glass and walk to my bedroom. There on the wall are taped pictures of the fabulous shoes, beautiful clothes, smiling models that I wish were my friends. On the dresser is a box of blonde hair-dye. The cheapest I could buy. I rub the dust off the top with my shirt. I’ve had this box for months, but never the courage to use the dye.
I sit on the edge of my bed, looking at the blonde model on the box. She smiles with her perfectly red lips, showing off perfectly white teeth. Her eyes say to me “I have no problems! I’m beautiful! What could be wrong?”
“You lie.” The words formed from my lips before I understood them. “You are flawed and broken and sad too. Everyone is. You feel it all. And you’re cold too. Just like me.”
I realize that all the fabulous things won’t make my life better. I tear down the magazine clippings from the wall. I take the box of hair-dye. I walk to the bathroom.
Looking back at me in the mirror is a woman. Bobbi Sue written on her name tag reflected backwards.
Bobbi Sue the Savings Mart service desk girl. Bobbi Sue the lonely. Bobbi Sue the frightened and cold and empty.
Bobbi Sue with the hazel eyes. Bobbi Sue with the scar above her eyebrow. Bobbi Sue the human with possibilities and abilities.
Bobbi Sue not Scarlet. Me not someone who isn’t real. Me with issues, yes. But they are mine. Me, realizing that all the Scarlets of the world have it just as hard as me. And I have it just as good as them.
I feel a bud of warmth take place in my heart.
Susie Photography Saturdays
As the niece and cousin of some pretty amazing photographers, I’ve learned a thing or two about taking a picture. By no means am I a photag. I’m more of a “quick, snap that cool thing before the 3 year olds pull me out of range” shutter-bug. By the way, sometimes the blur that comes from a picture shot one handed with the other being tugged by said 3 year olds comes out okay.
Anyhow, here are some fun photos.
susiefinkbeiner.com 