I imagine the people I grew up around down here in the Buckle of the Bible belt worry about their child calling to say they are gay or that they got a tattoo of Satan on the right side of their neck where there is no way to cover it, even for the best of job interview opportunities. I worry about those things too, but not because I think my children will end up burning in hell, but because I think they will experience a judgment hell here on earth by those who think they know what is good and wholesome and what is bad and worthy of an eternity in the pits of fire.
I have been in therapy for over 20 years, most have been here at the Estuary. I’m still coming and I now get to write for this place. It is a blessing and a curse. The blessing is that I get to write, something my soul has been longing to do since I was a young child. The curse is that I have to write and now I’m being held accountable.
In January, as many of us do, I began a new exercise regime. I made a plan to meet my middle daughter at a 7:30am yoga class. Unaware of the time it would take to travel across the city on the first day of school after the holiday break, I was surprised I arrived to find the class door still open and time to spare.
It’s 4:30 in the morning. Actually it’s 4:33, but who’s counting?
Obviously, I am.
I’d love to be able to tell you that I’m up because I’m committed to my yoga, or that I just finished my hour-long meditation practice, but if you’ve read this post here, or if you have known me for more than a week, you know that anything that requires “practice” is not going to happen.
We woke up this morning to a large red ring around my daughter’s belly button. Thankfully this episode was on a regular weekday instead of a Sunday. It was like God listened when I prayed for some weekend medical relief, or rather wrote all about it here. He must of forgotten, however, that we were just at the doctor yesterday for her 7 year check-up.