I have an eerily weird relationship with the timing of books in my life. Scratch that, I have an eerily weird relationship with timing in my life. Period.

There was a very long season where I would only read Christian fiction because I knew how books made me feel. I didn’t want the garbage of lust or persuasion in my head on a daily basis. It was chick porn and I was very afraid of going down that road. I was also refusing to read anything that would stretch my boundaries or plant a seed to growth in my life. Touche.

During this Christian Fiction era I was dating Aaron and going through the Karen Kingsbury Baxter Family series. I loved those books and shared them with all kinds of people, but the subject matter of each book would mirror my own life in creepy ways.

Down to the one where a character named her child Jessie Renee (Jessica Ranae?). Yes. I got married, honeymooned … dealt with heartbreak and loss – all according to the timeline of those books.

I see metaphors in everything. Hi, have we met? I like to think. So I’ve been dragging my feet on finishing Bittersweet – a book I started months ago and devoured until one day I knew I had to put it down. I just had to stop for a while.

Even though Shauna and I have never met and she doesn’t know I exist – at times it was like she was inside the attic of my heart rummaging around in trunks and boxes finding the vintage nick-nacks of my past that just needed a little polish.

And I was chewing on her words and sneezing, allergic at times, to my reaction at what was being born again.

Today I picked it up again and, one chapter at a time, I’m dissolving. Afraid to put this book away, back on the shelf. Afraid to close it’s covers because of all the shelter it’s offered me this year. All the assurance. All the “me too’s“.


It’s sensational to read these words and others like them. To have other writers, websites, books, authors, people … just kind of show up in my today. In my right now.

Walking around as if I’m peeling from an emotional sunburn, I often feel like people are staring at my disheveled skin. That they can see inside the layers, to the real me, that I’m peeking out with no where to hide and I’m on display for anyone to see. And then it hit me (and in Aurora, I read it) that no one is thinking about me this much. I spend a lot of time worrying about you guys. Worrying about how I look, that my next move might be stupid, I might fail. I’ll look foolish or be made to feel like a fool and, ha!, it doesn’t even matter.


Someone once told me that when your ears itch? maybe your nose tickles? that you’re being thought of. Someone else once told me that if you’re thinking about a person, they’re thinking about you, too.

I tested this theory out many-a-times. Trying to prove it worked, because I wanted it to. I needed it to work (I still do). Without the ability to properly express myself in person, or in spoken words, I desperately needed the people close to me to be able to sense me, to read my mind.

Instead, I spent all that time proving that old-wives-tales are not rules for physics and humanity. Maybe it’s not even physics. Whatever it was supposed to be, it isn’t.

And any way, I don’t know what I wanted to say – other than, mostly, it’s fragile. Finishing this, right now, is fragile.

But for the first time in months, it’s not walking through another flame.

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