These Rough Waters

Once upon a time, a girl told a boy she loved him.

She didn't do this with any expectations or hidden motives. She simply felt he deserved to know the truth. She wanted him to remember, especially during life's toughest moments, that he was truly loved.

Now, don't get the wrong idea...

This story may have opened with "once upon a time," but it's no fairy tale. It's real life, which means it's messy. Confusing. Beautiful and broken. There's no "happily ever after;" instead, there are a series of lessons. Love is often a tapestry of heartache and relief; different threads weave through each other, creating a baffling (yet breathtaking) image.

I've heard, and read, and believed that women are not supposed to say "I love you" first.

One book went so far as to claim that women ought to "shut up & be mysterious." Let the man pursue you, the authors of this book urged. Let the man chase after you. Let him fall hopelessly in love with your evasiveness.

And, most importantly, never EVER let him know how you really feel about him. That is, apparently, the kiss of death. Love must be kept quiet, until it's guaranteed to be returned. If you express your feelings first, you give away all your secrets. There's nothing left to be desired.

I suppose that's one way of looking at it.

But there's a flipside to that coin, right? Maybe?
Life is short. Too short to bite your tongue, in my opinion. None of us are promised to live 'til tomorrow.

If we really believed today might be our last, would it change our course of action? I think it would. My friend lost her husband in 2013. One morning, she woke up with him beside her. The next morning, he was gone.

And that is real life, folks. That's how the cookie crumbles sometimes.

So, in my opinion, if something needs to be said, say it. Today. This very minute. In fact, pick up the phone right now...

Ok, let's get back to our original NON-fairytale:

This girl told the boy that he had opened her eyes to a world she'd never imagined. He had taught her how to care about someone without expecting anything in return.

The boy had shown her how liberating it can be to put someone else's needs above her own.

He'd helped her become brave.

Call me crazy, but I can't see a downside to that.

If women aren't supposed to express their feelings first, then I'm a disgrace to my entire gender. Frankly, I'm ok with that. My job isn't to follow some dusty old roadmap or adhere to someone else's rules. My job is to navigate these rough waters in the best way I can, with the tools I've been given.

So let's set sail, shall we?

Love,
Lisa

An Open Letter to the Daughter I Don't Have

Dear Grace,

You were in my dream last night, baby girl.

I'm not going to tell you that you don't exist. I'm not going to point out the very real possibility that you might never exist. I refuse to dismiss you as a figment of my subconscious, over-active imagination.

The world has already done enough of that. I promise.

Instead, I am going to tell you that you're beautiful.

If you ever glance in the mirror or smile for a quick photo, your grin will be so bright I'll have to wear sunglasses to shield my eyes. Just kidding, I never wear sunglasses. But I will make you wear them. Because that's what parents do: protect their little ones from the dangers of this world. Including UV rays.

Oh, Grace...

There were years I dreaded your arrival.

I wanted to be free and unattached; children seemed like a handicap to that unbridled freedom. Anything that required even a modicum of responsibility was a chore, in my opinion. Not a blessing.

Then, there were years I eagerly anticipated your arrival. I wanted it so badly that I'd wake up crying. Everyone else was married; everyone had moved on to the next stage of life. I felt like I was watching a parade from my bedroom window. Or, perhaps more accurately, watching my own funeral.

Smile, baby girl. The story gets better.

See, I realized there are different paths in life. Not everyone travels in the same straight line, and that's ok. You entered my life via the beaten path, the trail with a Weeping Willow on one side and a briar patch on the other. I wouldn't have it any other way. I always loved a good adventure.

When you're older, you will see how special you are. For now, just remember that there is nothing accidental about you. I had plenty of time to evaluate whether or not I was ready for you. Trust me, I did a lot of soul-searching. Three decades' worth (...and counting).

People have children for many different reasons. A friend once told me that her kids were her legacy. They were her proof she had done something meaningful with her life, and her way of solidifying a place in eternity.

Grace, you are not my legacy.

You are my treasure, and you are loved more than you can imagine. But you were not born because I needed a guarantee that someone would take care of me when I got old. You were not born to ensure that my life would extend past the day I took my final breath.

You were born for so much more than my wants or my needs. Thank God.

Speaking of God, I promised Him that I would name you "Grace." Because you were an act of mercy; I never could've done anything to earn you. You were a gift.

I'm glad I saw you last night. It was a dream, so the background was fuzzy...but you were clear & sharp. Bright red cheeks, and a big Italian nose. Just like your mama.

If you ever read this, it will be proof of God's love.

Conversely, if you never read this, it will also prove God's love. The timing and outcome not for me to decide. We'll see, little one. We will see whether you exist someday or not.

Either way, it was great to meet you. Even just for a moment.

Love,

Lisa

Crossing the Line

Happy 2014! I initially dubbed this "the year of making good decisions," but I decided to rename it.

2014 is now officially The Year of Being Brave.

At church several weeks ago, someone mentioned a "chicken line" and the importance of crossing that line. If you stand by your beliefs, some people will get upset. Some people will be uncomfortable with the things you support, and some may even treat you differently because of your views.

But that's ok.

You see, 30 is on the horizon, folks. I've spent the past 29 years tip-toeing around issues that are even remotely controversial, because I was afraid to offend anyone.

But today I'm going to cross the chicken line.

Let's see...where to begin?

I did not grow up in the church. During my junior year of high school, a friend invited me to youth group and I reluctantly agreed. It was my first time hearing people talk about Jesus as though they knew him personally...and it rocked my world. I'm talking, turned my entire life upside-down. I started reading the Bible, to see what all the commotion was about.

Within a year, I became a Christian.

Since then, I've attended a few churches where homosexuality was blatantly condemned. Bible verses were used to explain why this behavior is inherently evil. Leviticus 18:22 is a popular one (fun fact: type 'Leviticus' into your search engine and see which verse pops up first). I accepted these interpretations as truth because it didn't really affect me...or so I thought. Being gay was unbiblical, and that was all I needed to know.

The funny thing about swallowing a pill is that its effects don't always hit you right away.

It took several years for me to investigate the matter more deeply. I began to realize that interpretations vary from one person to the next. Focusing on a verse in Leviticus might lead a person to one conclusion, while another person might find a different answer in Luke 6:37 ("Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned...").

I'm TIRED of this being such a big issue. Shouldn't we, whether Christians or not, start focusing on more important topics? Like treating other people with love, or standing up for those who have been bullied? I'm not saying a person should agree with things just to make others happy.

I am saying that maybe it's time to stop dwelling on little details and start paying attention to the bigger picture. Which probably definitely involves loving our neighbors.

That's all.

Below is a link to an article that really resonated with me. This woman says what I'm trying to express, and she does it with clarity & compassion.

http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/literalist-gluttony

Thanks, Ms. Evans, for crossing the chicken line...and helping me do so, as well.


Love,
Lisa

Don't Go Breaking My Heart

There I was, at the church, in my beautiful white dress. I'd planned everything, from the elaborate, vegan wedding cake to the honeymoon. In Fiji.

Things had fallen into place exactly as I'd dreamed they would. Except that my fiancé was nowhere to be found.

I'd been left at the altar.

Ok, not really.

I've never been engaged. (No, a proposal by a complete stranger on a flight doesn't count). I've never been abandoned on my wedding day. But I have experienced a similar disappointment. Kind of.

See, I had a publishing deal. I received a contract, a graphic artist to design my cover artwork, and a promise that my book would soon be available in bookstores across the country.

Until it all fell through.

Financial issues struck the publishing house, and my book was the first to go. It had been slated for publication in spring of 2013. Clearly, that never happened.

My heart was broken. Completely shattered. I swore off the entire concept of publication.

But something shifted recently. I decided that life is far too short to wallow in self-pity. Or procrastinate.

So I'm editing "The Sleep Leaper" one final time. Then I'm shipping it off to publishers. Like, a million of 'em. Every publishing house in the country is going to get my manuscript. I'll even deliver it personally. With a giant smile and a package of airline pretzels, perhaps.

So here's the very beginning of the novel. Hopefully it's getting better with every single edit.

Love,

Lisa




THE SLEEP LEAPER

CHAPTER 1: FRIDAY

Where are you? I need your superpowers NOW, the text says.

I shake my head, trying to remember when Helen started that joke. She found it hilarious, but I was the one who saw the real humor behind it. Because things are always a little bit funnier when they’re true.

Always.

I’m on my way, best friend, I type in response.

With one hand propped against the door, I slide into sky-high black boots. They’ve got a four-inch heel. Which makes me tall enough to avoid eye contact…with everyone. Perfect.

“Julie, be home by ten-thirty,” Mom calls from the living room couch.  She leans into the cushions, flipping through channels.

             “Really?” I groan. “You do this every time…”

“That’s because I care about you,” she says, concern emanating from each word.

I grab a jacket from the coat closet and head for the door. But then it dawns on me that, unless I take action, Mom will never treat me like an adult.

In one swift motion, I turn around and march toward the couch. My heels click along the wood floor as I approach my mother.

“Look, I’m not a kid anymore,” I say, placing a hand on my hip defiantly. “Last week was my birthday, remember? Seventeen, Mom. People my age stay out later than ten-thirty.”

“You’re my little girl,” she argues. “I’m supposed to worry about you.”

I sigh.  “Please don’t. I’m just going to Tony’s house. You’ve known Tony Viena for ten years and met his parents about 5000 times. You have to start trusting me!”

She stares blankly at the television, refusing to meet my eyes. Because she knows what I will do. We’ve never discussed it, never uttered a word, but my mother knows I have this…thing.

“Mom? Can I go out for one night without a ridiculous curfew?” I press.

She sighs, finally turning her face toward mine.

I don’t want to do this either, I reflect, sucking in a huge breath before diving into my mother’s anxious mind. But we both need to be honest here. Let me in, Mom.

The instant our eyes meet, I capture thousands of scenarios. My mother’s worries seep into my brain, playing like a slideshow. 

She envisions my Honda crashing into a huge truck. Shards of glass fly through the air like confetti. There’s blood everywhere.

“Ok, Mom, let’s be realistic. I’m not going to get into a car crash tonight and I’m not going to wind up splattered on the side of the road,” I tell her. “You’ve got to let me live my life. Please. I’m not Jess. I’m not going to leave you.”

My mother is quiet, staring at the television set again. I wonder –briefly- if I should have kept my mouth shut about Jess.

“Honey, I just want you to be safe,” my mother says, her voice shaky.

“And I will be,” I say. “You know I don’t drink, don’t smoke, don’t get into trouble. Give me a little credit, please.”

She nods. “Alright. Be careful, Julie. And come home at a decent hour. Midnight, ok?”

I smile as I walk to the door, because I’ve finally gotten through to my mom. It’s a miracle. Dad’s easier to convince, but Mom is a tough shell to crack.

“Bye, Daddy,” I shout, my fingers wrapped around the handle of the front door.

“Bye, Julie!  Have fun,” he calls from his office downstairs.

I burst outside, thankful for my thick Northface jacket. Even though it’s April, Chicago’s freezing. Which is pretty standard.

I crank up the heat in my red Honda. The streets are quiet tonight. As soon as I turn on the radio, a Kickstars song fills the air. It’s their new one, and it’s really catchy.

I sing along with the radio as I cruise toward Sheridan Road.

Rugged Heart

While planning a trip to San Francisco next week, I slipped into the abyss that I so easily slip into these days.

Let's call it "San FraNostalgia."

Ugh! It's impossible NOT to miss that city! I never really stood a chance, to be honest. SF is basically the epicenter of excitement. It taught me so much about myself, others, friendships and the importance of community.

So, in honor of my one true home, I'm posting this short story about life in the city.

San Francisco, you led me to lots of personal growth. I'm definitely coming back, baby...it just might take me a little while...

Love,
Lisa


Rugged Heart

She lifts her bags, one in each hand, and ascends the stairs. Although her arms shake with the weight of the over-sized suitcases, she hardly notices. She's done this before. It's completely normal by now. As natural as the smile she will unveil once she arrives at the airport, in fact.

Coins jingle while sliding into the meter. "Money box," she has come to call it. When friends visit from other cities, she warns them that the money box on the bus is temperamental. "Be careful with the money box," she always says. "It works about half the time. Put in each quarter slowly." She rarely takes her own advice, though.

She's good at giving it, but not so good at obeying it.

With a sigh, she grabs a seat in the middle of the bus. Then she adjusts her bags so they don't block the aisle. A man with black hair and wire-rimmed glasses glances at her. She finds herself thinking that he should've been at the party on Friday. After all, she looked much more better that night; the flight attendant uniform currently sticking to her rain-soaked skin isn't flattering. And she didn't straighten her hair this morning.

Doesn't matter, she muses as the bus enters the Mission. I'm turning over a new leaf, anyway. Those days are over.

Friday night is nothing but a memory. It's indicative of the person she was, but not the person she will be. Of that, she is certain.

Her headphones echo the lyrics of her current favorite song, which is subject to change in a week or so. You're my headstart, you're my rugged heart, you're the pulse that I've always needed...

A flood of people enter through the double doors. Suddenly, everyone is crammed inside the vehicle. Elbows brush against elbows, and someone's leg presses into her side. She moves an inch, but it's a futile effort; contact can't be avoided. She is fine with this. Once upon a time, she was bothered by a stranger's touch. Now she craves it.

The bus stops on the corner of Mission and 16th, with the BART station on the right and the best Mexican food in California directly ahead. She hauls her suitcases down the stairs, noting that she was just in this spot a week ago. The breaks are beginning to feel shorter and shorter. However much time she spends at home, it's never enough. She's never quite ready to return to the vagabond life.

The doors fly open. She maneuvers toward the exit, reaching it just in time.

Boots click against pavement as she hurries toward the BART station. Mental calculations put her at SFO at nine o'clock sharp. She will be at the gate shortly thereafter, giving her ten extra minutes to stroll through the terminal and look at all the travelers.

It's her favorite part of the job. Always has been. She's a daydreamer at heart, which explains most of the horrible mistakes she has made lately. Idealism led to the belief that she could change reality with a single glance. She'd hoped to defy gravity with simply a grin.

She didn't even come close.

"Thank God for second chances," she thinks as she waits for the SFO/Milbrae train.

Be There Soon

Florida life is growing on me. Slowly. I'm a fan of the warm weather, beaches, and amazing flight attendants in this little cozy corner of the country.

Yet I must admit that SF still feels like home. It's been a big adjustment, leaving California and returning to the East Coast.

Because of that, I've decided to write a string of (EXTREMELY) short stories reminiscent of my San Francisco days. I'm still editing my 6th book, in an attempt to submit it to publishers within the next month or so. But, between edits, I plan to compose tons of bite-sized stories that take place in my favorite city on Earth.

Happy Friday, folks! Enjoy.

Love,
Lisa

Be There Soon

I stare at Justin, who stares right back at me.

We’ve already said everything we needed to say. Now we’re stuck playing the waiting game, which has happened a lot lately. It’s become almost routine for us: we fold our hands, unfold them, and smile absently while praying that our guest of honor will actually show up.

A pretty brunette takes the stage. She strums comfortably on her guitar, as though she were born with the instrument in her hand. Clearing her throat, she leans into the mic. Sweet, slow notes flow from her mouth. The melody fills every corner and crevice in this small café.

“Best open mic in town,” Justin comments, sipping his latte.

I nod, even though I prefer the open mic at Hotel Utah. “Yeah, it’s decent.”

Last week, Kevin took the stage here. His voice was shaky, but his lyrics were amazing. I was blown away, as was Justin.  In fact, everyone in the café seemed impressed. It was one of those moments I wished I could capture in a jar, so I could re-live it every now and then. Whenever Kevin’s light seems to be fading.

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text. It rattles the whole table, causing an unnecessary amount of commotion. But I’m thrilled. A text means that he remembered us, after all.

He hasn’t given up, I think happily.

“Is that Kevin? What did he say?” Justin asks, and I can sense the excitement in his voice.

“Be there soon,” I read. My fingers shake as I place the phone back on the table. “Thank goodness. He’s coming, Justin. He’s on his way.”

“Amen,” Justin says.

It’s a small victory, of course. But, these days, we’ll take whatever we can get.

Kelli & the Past

Working at the airline, I've met too many amazing people to count. Truly, I'm blessed to have such awesome co-workers; I've learned a ton from them. And I continue to learn every day.

This is a tribute to one of the most resilient women I know.

Love,
Lisa



Kelli & the Past

“At times, I don’t like this job,” Kelli-Lynn swears, her blue eyes icier than ever. “Some people are so lazy. The galley’s left in disarray. Flight attendants play on their phones and don’t even pay attention to passengers. It can get depressing.”

I glance at the phone in my hand. It’s illuminated like a Christmas tree, with lights flashing every few seconds. Intermittent buzzing indicates that I’ve received a text message or two. 

                “Yeah, um…” I stammer. It's no secret that Kelli-Lynn is referring to me.              

“Look at this! What a mess,” Kelli mutters. She bends over, lifting a paper towel from the floor. There’s a damp spot in one corner; she steps into the puddle and slides a few inches. "Ugh. Water everywhere.”

                I bite my lip. When teachers yelled at me during high school, which didn’t happen very often, I never argued. My chin quivered, my eyes clouded over, and I searched for the nearest escape path; that was my coping mechanism.

                Kelli shakes her head, sending blond hair in every direction. “C'mon, you're better than this. Have some pride in your work, Lisa.”

                “I’m sorry,” I tell her, my voice a whisper. Without hesitation, I turn off my cell phone and jam it into the pocket of my blue airline dress. “I’ve been slacking these past couple days.”

                She inhales sharply. Then, with her jaw locked firmly in place, she folds her arms across her chest.

                “Usually I’m more helpful,” I swear, avoiding her gaze. “Lately, it’s been hard to stay motivated.”

                Kelli taps her foot against the floor. The airplane swerves to the left, indicating that we’re next in line for takeoff. “Pull yourself together, girl. We all have our issues.”

I swallow. “You’re right.”

             Two dings erupt from the cockpit, indicating that we are about to take off. Hurriedly, Kelli-Lynn and I scramble to our jumpseats. We strap in, barely breathing.

                “I’ll do better,” I promise her as the plane picks up speed. Engines roar, drowning out my voice.

                Kelli nods. The plane soars into the air, another flight taking off for another city on this average, run-of-the-mill July afternoon.

                Four months later, Kelli-Lynn and I will see each other again. This time, we’ll rub shoulders in Milwaukee. She will smile at me and actually mean it. I will laugh with her, and my laugh will have the crystalline ring of authenticity.

                We will sum up the last four months of our lives into four sentences. Then we’ll go our separate ways.

                I won’t mention that I learned about her past.

At all costs, I’ll avoid the topic that’s plagued her since she was a child.  

Instead, I will wheel my suitcases down the terminal, glancing back one time. Kelli’s back will fade into the distance, until I can hardly make out her navy blue uniform among the sea of merging colors. I will breathe deeply, wondering where the justice is in this crazy world. A man makes an evil decision, and someone has to carry the weight of that indiscretion for the next thirty years.

                It will strike me as odd and unfair.

                It will gnaw at my insides, the way my old sickness used to plague me.

                I’ll gasp for air, close my eyes, and remind myself that life isn’t about the tragedies that strike us at the most inopportune times. It’s about rising from the ashes. Kelli’s done that; there are vestiges of her abusive past, and scars that will never fully heal. But there is something else engraved on her bruised skin: there is, above all, hope.  

 

                I'll fly to another city, and sleep in another hotel room, and eat another free continental breakfast. But I won't forget Kelli's lesson, nor will I forget her strength.