The Challenge of the Dash

The pile of the future might contain a worn-out Bozo doll,
Handwritten notes,
Vintage Fisher-Price Little People buildings and cars and people,
handprint paintings from years ago,
And a quilt made by a family member.

This pile of the future will be made by my sons when I leave this earth.
The Bozo doll will end up in the trash, I am sure.  He is worn and torn and only precious to me.
The quilt might end up being donated or given to someone who wants a warm blanket, but the owner will never know my grandmother’s hands who made it.

Each of us accumulates during the dash found on a tombstone, the dash between birth and death.
We accumulate lots of little trinkets that have special significance for us.
We accumulate clothing, shoes, kitchen appliances, toiletries, furniture, decor, tools, paperwork, technological devices, photos, and family heirlooms.
We accumulate junk we are too lazy or too sentimental or too feeble to throw out.

Some of us do a lot more accumulating than others.

And when our dash is over, someone will have to go through the old photos with perhaps one familiar face among strangers.
When our dash is over, our childhood bear and the ticket from our first concert and the favorite scruffy pair of slippers will not mean much.
When our dash is over, all the accumulation will end up in a Goodwill pile, a trash bin, or in a box our heirs plan to go through when it is not so hard to look at.

When our dash is over, what appears to be the detritus of an entire life seems trivial in comparison to the life lived.
The Goodwill pile cannot possibly hold the person—
The laughs,
The smiles,
The funny turns of phrase,
That Goodwill pile cannot also hold the dash—the life lived,
The passion,
The hopes and dreams,
The kind encouragement,
The moments when they changed someone's life.
None of these are present in that pile of accumulated material items.

Decluttering a house is hard enough.
Decluttering our minds is harder yet.
It is a process that must be undertaken continuously throughout our lives.

When we look at a soul—at a life—whether that person is alive or dead–
When we think of the people whose lives intersect with ours,
it is so easy to get cluttered with all of the trivial things.
There is no Goodwill pile or trash bin for our memories or our recollections.
It is so easy for our mind to focus on
the times that person failed us,
the times that person made a snide comment that hurt,
the moments when that person was not there when we needed them,
the false promises,
the unsaid words,
the mess,
the less-than-perfect qualities that irritate us.

When we look at a soul—at a life—it is so easy to get cluttered and bogged down with actions that displease us:
the time he made a huge life decision that did not include me,
the time that boss failed to appreciate all my hard work,
the time my child made a decision that broke my heart,
the time that friend betrayed me and spread lies,
the time a spouse kept secrets that eventually came out,
the road rage, the lies,
the leaving-the-dirty-dishes-in-the-sink,
the never-taking-the-garbage-out,
the closed ears and closed eyes,
and more.


The older I get, the more I think that life–that living-–is more than just the years we live and the things we do.
The dash between birth and death is more than just dates and accomplishments and actions.

Perhaps the real challenge in life and in relationships is to see the dash as a subtraction sign.  
Not as a punctuation mark to show from this point to another point.
Instead, the dash on a tombstone asks us to subtract, declutter, get down to the nitty gritty.

What is a human life?  

When we think of any one of us, the truth is
This human was flawed,
This human lied, showed rage, ignored those she shouldn't have, paid attention to things he shouldn't have,
This human betrayed, left dirty dishes in the sink, made false promises, failed to say the right things,
This human had addictions, failed others, and was not always there for others.

But this human life was also larger than all the flaws.
The dash may ask us to consider who the person was if we subtract all the clutter.

If we remove all the things that were not the true essence of the person,
If we remove all the extra adjectives and all the lists of negatives,
If we remove the high points and the lowest points of a life,
If we remove their greatest achievements and their worst, most embarrassing actions,
If we remove all the exceptions and all the less-than-perfect moments,
If we remove the mistakes and the self-absorption,

What is left if all that is removed and decluttered?
If the dash represents our lives' work, what is left when the clutter is removed?
                                                                                             
Did the person love?
Did the person make this world a better place for others?
Did the person make others smile?
Did the person bring joy?
Did the person help others?
Did the person make others feel more loved and more accepted?

The challenge of the dash asks us to subtract the rest.                                                       
The rest belongs in the Goodwill pile.  
The clutter of the person's flaws belongs in the trash bin.  
The dash asks us to focus on the person's core.

The dash is more than an expanse of days and years.
The dash is our challenge as humans to love others---the whole person, not just the clutter that can get in the way.

My plan right now is to go to the nearest hardware store and buy the biggest trash can I can find.
My plan is to throw away all the junk---all the clutter---all the judgments–
--and just live my life as fully and openly as I can.
With my arms spread out for all.

And all I can do is hope that when my dash is permanent,
someone else will subtract all my flaws, all my imperfections, all my addictions, all my failures, the moments I did not see or hear others,
the moments I am ashamed of and the moments I revealed my weaker side.

All I can do is hope that instead they can subtract all that
and see instead the core of Kim George—
her true heart, her true spirit, and her true soul—
without all the clutter.
 

For Those Who Don't Plan to Die Today----but have Loved Ones You Care About

 

Things to do TODAY: 

• Get life insurance if at all possible.

•  Have a will written regardless of your age or health issues.  This would include power of attorney and medical power of attorney.  This will save all sorts of fights and legal money and hours.

• Write down all account numbers, businesses, user names, passwords in a SAFE location.  Give your spouse/partner the information AND provide the location of this information to your heirs.  This may mean locking them in a personal safe, bank safety deposit box, or putting them in a software program that holds all passwords.  Wherever you store them, make sure heirs know the combination, key, etc.  My mom left Kelly and me detailed notes about everything—and what a difference this made!

• Be honest about your finances.  Secrets will come back to bite you.  They will be discovered at some point.  Leave no regrets.  When Mom died, her biggest regret for us after her death was that Kelly and I would have to clean her refrigerator.  This is the goal!
  

• For all of you who use bill pay and paperless billing, consider printing out one page from each account with the account number and contact information for it.  When my dad died, my mom had all the paper files and all the returned checks.  Now, it is often the case where there are no files at all.  (For me, we had just changed pest control companies.  I had no idea what company did our pest control.  Imagine how much fun it was to call around to ask.)

• Use the same computer for most of your billing.  Make sure applicable people can access this computer.  This will prevent companies not recognizing the computer the first time for log-in.

• Think through the 2-tier authentication process.  Perhaps think of using a cell phone of one person and an email of another.  (For me, Anthony had his computer and his phone with him for the weeks he was missing.  I could not authenticate anything.)

• Avoid the temptation to use  PayPal or ApplePay for all your bills.  Yes, there are many reasons to use these.   However, on the bank statements, they will just show up as PayPal with no explanation of what the bill is really paying for.  This will leave confusion for those who follow you.

• Have all your major utilities in both names.  Utility companies are awful about talking to you if you are not on the account, and trying to change a utility to another company can be more difficult than almost anything else.  For me, this meant me crying in the Spectrum office because the mortgage information I had was not the original mortgage paperwork, so they would not believe I lived at the address despite the tax bills in my name, my driver’s license, house insurance paperwork, etc.

• Joint bank accounts are important, or make arrangements so there is a beneficiary if you have a single account.  If you have significant debt, talk to your attorney how this will affect those who are left behind.  Just because one dies, his/her personal debt may or may not die with him.

• Make sure life insurance policies are easily accessible—-and known to all applicable people.  The same is true for retirement and investments.  It is vital to consider your beneficiaries and actually name them.

• De-clutter on a regular basis.  Cleaning a house after a death is one of the most awful things I have had to do TWICE.
  

• Discuss basic wishes for plans after death.  If you don’t, your heirs will be bombarded with others who will try to impose their desires on them.
  

• Since we all know death can bring out the worst in people, think of ways to diminish the conflict.  If you know one piece of personal property means a lot to several people, don’t make them fight it out after you go. 

• Let others know how you feel about them–in notes you leave in a safe/safety deposit box, or in your daily words.  Your heirs will cherish these.

To My Cowboy

 

 "Home by Sunset" by B. Herd, artist

 

Before we married in 2009, Anthony and I explored the studio of B. Herd, an artist in Salado, Texas.  Anthony admired his work. As an early gift either right before we married or perhaps right after we married, I gave him a signed print of "Home by Sunset" and wrote a poem to him to go along with this, a poem of a cowboy who had finally found himself "home," finally safe and sound.

On our 10-year anniversary in 2019, I wrote a 2nd version of this poem to reflect the changes in our lives and in our marriage.

What lies below is the third version of this poem that I wrote him this summer after his father died.  We had both been through so much individually and as a family.  

Little did I know that this would be the last one I would write, but on the 1-month anniversary of the day I firmly believe Anthony really died, I decided I would share this to reflect just what he did for me as a person and the way he made me have strength to move forward day by day without him beside me.  I hope he forgives me for sharing this honest of a letter with others.

 

 

 

Years ago you found me.
I was beside the path, searching for a home myself.
Broken, bruised, afraid,
Wanting to be cared for, but scared to hope,
Scared to be hurt again, scared to be let down again.

I had been hollowed out and scooped out, 

All my strengths made to appear to be weaknesses,

Scared of my own reflection for fear of others' ridicule and rejection,

Confident only in my ability to love my children and teach.

Believing lies for years and then doubting myself to trust the truth.

I was scared to love again.

Scared to believe again.

You lifted me up to sit beside you.
You taught me to be courageous,
to trust,
to believe I was safe.

What mountains we have climbed, what trails we have explored,
What empty beaches have we walked, what vistas captured in the camera lens,
We have seen our young ones spread their wings and leave us behind, growing up before our eyes.
We have enjoyed meals under the tent, dog cuddles, and shared meals.
We have multiplied the people we call family.
We have laughed and cried and laughed some more.

We have also passed through many valleys.
We have walked in black among the tombstones at least 3 times,
We have experienced multiple emotional deaths of friendships that dried up and crumbled,
Many moments of broken hearts from the departure of our passion-filled boy,
Sudden shocks of jobs lost, shaking our worlds,
Physical challenges that have made traveling this path difficult.

Oh, how we have changed.
The pants sizes, the shirt sizes, the wrinkles, the curves.
The heart scares, the cancer scares,
The house repairs,
The job changes,
The religious beliefs once a solid foundation shaken to the core,
The world we knew no longer the one we thought always existed,
The masks and COVID lines,
Midlife questions, midlife hormones, empty nest syndrome,
Anxiety, depression, uncertainty.

We are . . .
Not the same as the original cowboy with the girl by his side.
Not the same as the cowboy and wife of 2009 or 2019.
Both of us changed forever.

We are different, our bodies and minds and emotions different.
But we can still face it together.
You and me.
Me and you.
Taking turns.
Joining forces.
Fighting enemies.

“Husband in battle, I am shield and blade to you. As I breathe, your enemies will know no sanctuary. While I live, your cause is mine.”  (paraphrased from Wonder Woman:  Warbringer)


I love you.



July 29, 2022

 

 

 

Tinsel Wars

“There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle 

or the mirror that reflects it.” – Edith Wharton

The Tinsel Wars of Lakeland, Florida, began approximately in 1975.  After wrapping the tree with lights and placing ornaments and the angel topper, Dad took the old box of silver tinsel that was put in a sandwich baggie from the previous year and hung the tinsel strand by strand, placing each intentionally and purposefully.  As children, Kelly and I had no patience with this.  How boring and slow!  We plopped 5 or 6 strands on one branch.  Dad, of course, noticed, gently separating them onto numerous branches.

The War progressed as we grew older.  Throughout the month of December, we would take a bunch of tinsel strands and purposely clump them in one place, waiting to see how long it would be before Dad would notice.  Of course, he did.  Of course, he separated them.  As we grew older, it became a tradition to continue this game.  Each year, as the Christmas season came to an end, each strand was purposefully and intentionally removed and placed back in the old box and back in the sandwich baggie.   As busy as my mom and dad were, being this intentional with something as cheap and trivial as tinsel almost seems silly.  (P.S. that 49-cent box of tinsel lasted my entire childhood).

Just as tinsel was created to reflect the glow of warm candlelight, it is my goal to soak in the warmth of the glow of friends, of family, of special moments, and of small details and then reflect this warmth to others.

How I love the “glow” of my husband’s desire to help others.  Anthony passes on his passion for others in his work on YouTube as HomeGuyWaco.  Even as the real estate market shifts and he finds himself busier than ever, he still finds time and joy in helping other agents with technology and questions, and he is always welcoming to anyone and everyone who wanders near our tailgate tent–whether they wear our colors or not.

In January, Andy, our oldest, moved to Reno, Nevada to intern with Tesla as New Product Manager.  He now is a full-time employee.  He and I got to spend a delightful few days together this summer, soaking up the cool weather and beauty of Tahoe, and fixing up his backyard with a patio table and solar patio lights.  He loves what he does, and all of his hard work has paid off.  It is such a joy to see him find his purpose.

Jonathan emanates passion and joy, speaking energetically about the Earth, the oceans, and his concern for the environment.  He and I have gotten to spend more time together this year, time eating and talking at restaurants, shopping at the grocery store, and trimming an oak tree.  Little brings more joy than to see how selfless and loving he is.  I dream of big things for him.  

The Tinsel Wars continue, even if I have no tinsel on my tree.  There are moments throughout the year, especially in December, when I face the decision between intentionality OR a desire to rush past and do things in a hurry.  The clock, the obligations, and the Outlook reminders all seem to want me to clump the “tinsel” and move on.  Sometimes, though, I make the decision to slow down, focus on each “tinsel strand,” and place it right where it needs to be.  Sometimes this means deciding to leave grading behind and sitting in the stillness of my back yard, or acting on the recognition of the hurt and grief in the voice of someone I care about.  It might be an email to students who are struggling, an inflatable unicorn gift, a driveway chat with dear neighbors, a listening ear provided, or a hug offered when the need is felt.  

My wish for 2023 is that someone shows you the intentional care you deserve, reminding you that as insignificant as you may sometimes feel you are, the truth is that you matter—you are loved.  Likewise, my hope is that you are able to reflect this love and warmth in small, deliberate ways to those around you. 

 

The picture above, by the way, was found in a box with my dad's train in it just a few days ago. The box had largely been unopened since my dad's death in 1993. Inside the box were 3 containers of tinsel, including this one with an Eckerd Drug sticker on it inside of a Service Merchandise bag :) 

Gilligan, the Skipper, and I

 

It is true that those of us who grew up in the ‘70s never worried about attacks with guns in school.  Our desks back then provided perfect shelter for nuclear fallout, and we knew that those cracked eggs taught us to say “no” to drugs.

However, it is surprising that anyone growing up in the ‘70s ever left the house out of fear of falling into a quicksand pit in the backyard.  Quicksand pits seemed to appear everywhere from Indiana Jones movies, Lost in Space, Batman episodes, and Gilligan’s Island.

Gilligan, the Skipper, and I have one thing in common:  we have all had our bouts with quicksand.

The common beliefs about quicksand pits in the 1970s were:
1. Quicksand pits were common.  Everyone needed to be prepared.

2. Quicksand pits were hidden or camouflaged, and you could not know you had entered one until it was too late.

3. The harder you struggled to get out, the deeper you sank (This reminds me of Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby).

4. If you looked, a stick or person was always nearby to pull you out just about the time you went under.

Who knew that all these were true in my experience—even if I have never seen a literal quicksand pit?!

Belief #1:  In life, there are many types of quicksand pits, of sloughs of despond, of places where the icky mud sucks at our boots and makes running impossible. FYI:  John Bunyan in Pilgrim’s Progress wrote about the Sloughs of Despond.  He was centuries ahead of Gilligan.  We all need to realize that these pits are just as deadly as any literal quicksand pit.

Belief #2: These quicksand pits are often unexpected and hidden. Few of us prepare ahead of time to deal with our first bout with these sloughs of despond:  long-lasting depression, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, or overwhelming grief.   Life events spring up on us so quickly with an unexpected phone call, divorce, job losses, abuse, and disasters.   (And P.S. Even if we get out of the sandpit one time, we often never plan for repeat swims in the sloughs when life gets to be too much, and yet it is so easy to find ourselves back in the pit with no fault of our own.)

Belief #3:  The more we struggle, the deeper we sink. I have no idea if it is really true with quicksand, but it is in figurative sloughs of despond. The more we pray, berate ourselves for our lack of strength or faith or resilience, the more we shame ourselves for our failure to remove ourselves from the thick mud surrounding us, the worse it gets. The more we pretend to ignore its reality, the deeper we sink.

Belief #4: Look for the rescue branch.  While it is true that often rescue branches and friends are nearby to pull us from the pit, unless we yell for help, friends have no idea to come help. Ironically, we would immediately ask for help if we were sinking in a literal pit, but asking for help in the midst of sinking in a figurative quicksand pit seems so hard, and we keep silent.  Whether it is out of shame or fear that the rescue person will bring cliches, shame, quick advice, or judgment, we often sink deeper and deeper in the pit.  
 
 

For those who have never stepped foot in a deep figurative sandpit, it is hard to understand those in the pit.  Years ago, prior to my divorce and my subsequent dips in the pit of depression and anxiety, I naively told a woman struggling with serious depression that if she could just get out of bed and be around people that things would be better.  I made it sound like this was no big deal.  How horrified I am today because I know how naive—and dangerous—this statement was.
 

Years ago, I ran across a quote from Island by Aldous Huxley (the Brave New World author).  It was one of those quotes that made me tear up instantly, soak it in, come back to it, come back to it again, and then come back to it again. I am still trying to soak in its meaning as it pertains to me. As someone who feels life deeply, as someone who feels joy so much that I feel like my heart will explode, and as someone who feels sadness deep enough to almost cloud the sun, and as someone who feels all those things for everyone around her, soaking it up and up and up, this quote spoke to me about how to get out of the pit:

“It’s dark because you are trying too hard.  Lightly, child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. . . .

So throw away your baggage and go forward.  There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.

That’s why you must walk so lightly.  Lightly, my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.”

If you feel the “quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair,” just realize you are not alone.  Gilligan, the Skipper, and I, plus hundreds of thousands (or millions) of others, have all been there before.

Look for the branch.  Look for the person who is there who can help you escape the quicksands sucking at your feet.  If nothing else, I am here.  Always.  
 

Rain-Making Lesson 101

    

The radio meteorologist just announced what I felt in my bones---this has been the hottest July in history for Waco---an average of 103.7 for the month.  This is also the driest January to July for this area in history.  

When I say things are dry, it is dry like it has never been dry.

When I say this Florida girl misses rain and big puffy clouds to hide the sun, I miss it like I have never missed it before.

When I say that my yard is yellow, the cracks wide enough to serve as a koozie for my Diet Dr. Pepper can, it is more yellow and more cracked than ever.

There has been a sense of almost-desperation for me this summer---for hope, for drops of liquid, for green, for a new day.  I seem to empathize with my trees wearing leaves showing yellow heat shock, the plants with wilted leaves, and with the crunchy St. Augustine grass in front of my house.

Sometimes life feels just like a Texas summer---arid, dry, dusty, and brown.  All that is green and full of hope is withering.  This summer marked the death of my father-in-law.  It also held moments of grief when I received news about a friend’s diagnosis, and moments of held breath as another friend awaited test results, worry over a younger family member, and more.    

As a result, there were moments of questioning about life, about relationships, and about myself.  I have had to reconsider what feeds and waters my soul because, without rediscovering several sources of refreshment, depression and anxiety can take hold in mighty ways, weighing me down in a flood of tears.  

Each of us needs a source of water.

Thankfully, there have been moments of emotional refreshment, of spiritual rain, of figurative renewal.  

Most were not accidental.  It seems that figurative rain rarely happens by chance.

I believe we have to make rain happen.  Rain-making involves deliberate, manufactured, conscious decisions to make joy happen in my life.  

My figurative rain-making dances this summer have included:

• an inflatable rainbow unicorn worn by my bonus brother 
• Jonathan’s excitement about making Sloppy Joes for himself and time eating and cutting tree branches with him (I have spent more time with him this summer than in the past 4 years)
• a shot glass toast with Gatorade Protein water for brighter tomorrows
• a drive to Tahoe with Andy and my favorite Horse Dog and a drive the next day to pick up patio chairs from an online auction with him---(he, like his mother, loves a deal)
• a gentle teary hug from a friend’s daughter at Poppa Rollo’s
• moments with friends in their kitchens, in restaurants, on the phone, and even in the pool as we laughed at a Ted Cruz look-alike
• my visits to museums and the Alley Theater in Houston
• my golden retriever swimming around me in the stocktank pool
• driveway conversations over glasses of wine with my dear neighbor friends
• irreverent laughter with my bonus dad
• “Not Today” T-shirts that reminded us to make us find humor in sadness
• my Labrador with a look of pure joy on her face as we drive down the road in 90-degree morning weather with the windows down

Just as real rain will soak the hardened ground and revive life in my brown yard one of these days, this figurative rain is reviving me as well.

Each rain-making moment represents a drop of life.  

Each rain-making moment promises the start of new life in me.

Just as the rain will eventually hit my roof and water my thirsty plants and trees, I am trying to soak in the relationships and small moments of time that bring joy that can refresh and revive my soul.

If you see me in my yard dancing for real rain, just realize that I have been dancing for figurative rain this summer-----and it has come.  

Feel free in joining me.  Put on some dancing shoes.  The rain-making is available to all.

Matryoshka Dolls and Me

 

I can still picture my tiny hands opening  a Matryoshka doll and being fascinated at the smaller doll inside and the smaller doll inside of that as well.

The most amazing part is to realize that each of the true dolls is a piece of art, the object of an artist’s time and effort.  

Equally amazing is that, by themselves, each doll is beautiful.  However, it is only when they are in a set, when they are placed in relationship with the others, that I can truly appreciate the artistry. 

When I think of myself, I think of how the Kim of 2022 is really a compilation of all the younger “dolls” inside of me—the young child, the teenager, the young person, the new mother, and the middle-aged woman.  The Kim of 2022 cannot exist without each of those other people within me.

Unlike Matryoshkas, my current outer shell doesn’t look as sweet and innocent as the little baby version of myself.  Were others to look carefully, they would notice wrinkles, circles beneath my eyes, my calloused hands, and the cellulite.  

LIkewise, if others were to look carefully within, they would notice that my worldview is very different than that of the young girl sitting beside her father on a porch swing, looking out at the Blue Ridge Mountains.  No longer am I fully convinced of the truth of cliches, of the platitudes that are meant to comfort, or of simple beliefs like the one that hard work always results in positive results.   Today, I am often embarrassed by some of the things I used to say, do, or believe. 

The younger and smaller versions of me were largely influenced by her parents, their worldview, the evangelical church, and the context of the 70s and 80s.  As with all young Matryoshkas, it was only as I got exposed to the world that I realized not all of those beliefs worked for my reality.  

(A personal sidenote: How wonderful it was to see my mother in her 60s and 70s change some of those same views the older she got as well.  It takes great courage at that age to break out of the previous Matryoshka version and create a new one!)

Negative experiences shaped me, but likewise, people walking beside me in life changed the shape and the look and the worldview of the future Kim Matryoshka.    Their words and influence painted new strokes on the person I am today.  Some of my artists included:

• a pastor who believed in me when it seemed no one else did.  

• non-religious co-workers who lifted me up each day when many of my Christian acquaintances at the same time were shooting me down.  

• strangers like a bank employee on Bosque Blvd. who provided me with the words I needed to get through the day.  

• a retired Catholic leader who forced me to ask questions about my faith that I would have been too scared to ask before.  I could actually question things?  What an eye-opener.

• the convenience store employees down the road from my skunk house who brightened my mornings.  

• a Methodist minister whose spirit and words were balm in my broken heart. 

• my wonderful colleagues who have become my family, the ones I rely on daily.   

• soul sisters who made me realize I could make friends who loved me because of who I was. 

• a husband who reminded me I was a butterfly who was just coming out of the chrysalis.

While my current Matryoshka version of Kim may not be as shapely as the younger ones, and the hands typing this are wrinkled and calloused, this Matryoshka Kim is beautiful.  Perhaps its beauty is not seen immediately.  

However, in relation to all the other versions of me within, when you see what I have seen, when you feel what I have felt, when you have experienced what I have experienced, the result is THIS VERSION of me, and this version is pretty darn awesome, pretty badass, pretty wonderful.

This version of me is working on loving myself more.  Who knew that always putting others first (as I was taught) would lead to some very negative results?

This version is also focused on loving others more as well—rather than believing “love the sinner but hate the sin,” I am just going with “love them all.”  Who am I to determine sinners?  Or rate sins based on my personal views?  All those people who are supposed “sinners” are just people hurting and wanting to be seen and heard just like me.

This version of me is hesitant to quote Romans 8:28 or Jeremiah 29:11  as a quick way of telling others to move past pain.  

This version of me is just here.  Moving through life.  Trying to offer encouragement and love.

I am so thankful for the original artists that shaped me, but even more important, I am grateful for the artists that shaped the newer Matryoshka versions of me.