YOLO
To the world:
To Jesus:
tumblr.com and quickmeme.com
Christianity
The 7:45 PM train to Paoli/Thorndale
G:
Remember that time the 7:45 PM train to Paoli/Thorndale was running late and I was running early? Cold, tired, my backpack sat heavy on my shoulders.
He approached me like he had approached the other ten people waiting on the elevated outdoor platform. He apologized for the interruption, curious to know if maybe, just maybe, I could spare a few dollars.
“How much do you need?”
My soul stirred with some sort of Christian obligation, the paraphrased verse “whatever you do for the least of these you do for Me,” flashing through my mind. He didn’t look dangerous or homeless—he just looked like he wanted to go home.
“Just four dollars.”
You remember what I did next. I sneakily fumbled through my wallet using the wall of my purse as camouflage. My fingers flipped through a five, a couple twenties, and two one dollar bills.
I paused as my thumb and index finger tugged the five dollar bill, hesitated, then pulled out the two one dollar bills.
He thanked me, hoped that You may bless me, and walked further down the platform.
I figured he could easily get the last two dollars he needed for the $6 train ticket. After all, you know I had my own uses for that five-dollar bill. I saw him get at least one more dollar from a young girl with a ponytail and a duffle bag.
As the awaiting mass gravitated towards the doors of the approaching train, I saw him out of the corner of my eye asking for one more dollar. I grabbed my purse ready to unzip to get my wallet, but the elbows of impatient passengers propelled me through the open door like cattle into a pen.
You remember what happened next.
The western suburbs of Philadelphia blurred outside the moving car as I took the longest twenty-five minute train ride of my life. Cold, tired, my wallet sat heavy in my lap, the vision of the man standing on the platform as the train pulled away heavy on my mind.
He made me think of you.
You’d think I would have learned by now. You’d think I would remember that everything I have is because of You. But no, I’m holding onto my wallet, attempting to hide what you know too well I have in there saying, “How about two dollars?” Nodding to the girl with the ponytail and the duffel bag “I bet you she has a great job. Go bug her for more.”
It’s silly, really. I trust you in every other area of my life: career, potential marriage, you name it, but when my direct deposit comes in with my paycheck suddenly that’s off limits. Please step away. Please do not touch. You see that there aren’t any extra zeros added onto my available balance so why would you ask me to give you 10 dollars let alone 10%? Let’s be realistic here, let’s be wise. You know that if I give you 10% I won’t have enough money to pay for my food, gas, my Chickfila 8 count nuggets. Heck, don’t even mention my savings account with 4 cents in it. You want me to wise, right? But you also want me to trust. Why can’t I seem to trust you with my money?
I keep thinking about Jacob after his dream in Bethel when on his journey to meet his future wives Leah and Rachel. You spoke to him and told him you were going to be with him wherever he went to fulfill the promise you gave to Abraham—that his descendants would be blessed and would be more numerous than the stars. When he woke up, he took the rock he used as a pillow and propped it up as a pillar vowing that if you took care of him, gave him food, gave him shelter, and brought him back to his dad’s house, that he would give you a tenth of all that you gave him (Genesis 28:10-22). Fast forward to Malachi, and you ask me to test you in this by bringing my whole tithe into your storehouse. “Test me in this… and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that there will not be room enough to store it” (Malachi 3:10). Have you not provided me with a place to sleep, food to eat, a job that pays the bills? Why then do I continue to hoard what I have instead of bringing it into your storehouse?
I know you promise that I am more special than the birds of the air and the flowers of the field (Matthew 6:25-34). Like birds, like flowers, like Jacob, you promise to take care of me.
Me of little faith.
Forgive me for not being faithful with the little you have given me. For how can I be trusted with more if I haven’t been faithful with little? Forgive me for not having faith that you will take care of me financially. Forgive me for giving you two dollars when I should be giving you my wallet.
Everything I am, everything I have, is from you, and is Yours.
Here’s to bringing my 10% into your storehouse.
(Stay tuned for the opening of the floodgates.)
Your child,
m
Runaway Bride
photo: smartrelationshipadvice.com
G:
I had my runaway bride dream last night. It’s been a while since I’ve had that dream. It used to be my reoccurring dream, along with the one where I’m driving down the highway and my brakes don’t work or the one where my teeth fall out and I’m screaming “but those weren’t baby teeth so I can’t even get a quarter for each!”
It’s always variations of the same dream—it’s the morning of my wedding and I don’t want to do it anymore. And I never know who the guy is. Never. Sometimes I get all the way to the front of the aisle, other times I don’t even get the dress on. And I’m filled with anxiety, a sense of dread that I’m not ready for this. It happened too fast, too soon. And who is this guy? Where is he? Why don’t I see him? The dream last night I remember looking at my phone wondering why I didn’t have a text from him saying he was excited to marry me that day. Jerk. So I told my parents who were sitting in the living room with me that I wasn’t doing it anymore and I apologized if the caterer wouldn’t be giving a refund but at least they could freeze everything and feast off it for the next 10 years.
I guess a Psychologist would say I have a latent (or blatant) fear of marrying the wrong person. I feel it is the biggest, most important decision I will ever make (aside from following You of course). We’re talking about spending the next 50-60 years with that person. Starting a whole new line of generations like you read in Genesis:
This is the account of M and [insert name of unidentified husband here] who themselves had sons and daughters four years after their travels around the world and attempting to pay off all their schools loans.
The sons and daughters of M:
Hayden, Alexandra, and Arden, Riley, and Jordan (triplets who were not planned but were “divine intervention”).
The sons and daughters of Hayden:
Nathan, Emerson, Caleb
The sons and daughters of Alexandra:
Robert, Roxanna, and Kayleigh
The one and only child of Arden who was spoiled rotten:
Edward
The sons of Riley:
Eric, Jonathan, and Brian
The sons and daughters of Jordan:
Madison and Matthew
The region in which they lived stretched out from the Upper West side of Manhattan to just left of a bison in Wyoming. These are the clans of M and [insert name of unidentified husband here], according to their lines of descent, and within their United States of America.
No offense, but you know I just begin to glaze over those genealogies after a while. They just go on and on. Just like the generations I could create. That’s a lot pressure.
But there is no right person out there for me. They are all going to be wrong.
They are all wrong because they are all imperfect. Just like me. Because we’re human.
And that’s where you come in. I do believe you have given me the chance to choose, and I can choose to follow You and let You lead me to your best (Proverbs 3: 5-6). Including a husband. Especially my husband. He won’t be perfect, but he’ll be your best for me.
So how will I know? How long will it take of dating said unidentified husband before I know? Hearing about people who met, date, and get married all within a year of meeting each other seriously makes me feel like I’m going to throw up from anxiety all over this letter.
How can I make sure I won’t be running away and leaving my parents with an industrial size freezer full of stuffed chicken?
I’m not sure. Because I haven’t been sure before. Because it hasn’t been your best for me before. I’ve always been running away. So I’ll just wait. And be patient. And have faith you’ll let me know when I’m following your best for me. When it’s time for two imperfect people to come together as one. Preferably with a proposal where the ring is snuggled amongst 8 count nuggets from Chickfila.
Your child,
m
Beautiful vandalism
G:
I think we saw it at the same time. The giant rock beside the park trail shrouded in spray-painted graffiti. The five-year-old boy in front of me stopped in his tracks and gasped.
“Look, mother! Somebody wrote on that rock!”
I could sense his mother’s hesitation at beginning to describe what exactly he was seeing. The wheels in her brain churning, trying to concoct a kid-friendly word for vandalism. Before she uttered a word, he uttered something surprising.
“It’s—it’s beautiful!”
There were words in neon paint that only Urban Dictionary could give a detailed account of. Numbers and names of people and activities you hear about at 10 PM on your local news. His mother gently patted him on the shoulder, attempting to appease his sense of awe at something awful. No, this wasn’t a good thing. This wasn’t a good thing at all. But he put his hands on his hips and proclaimed defiantly:
“Well I think it’s BEAUTIFUL!”
His comment stuck with me—like a movie or book that makes you think even long after you’ve read the last word or thrown out your popcorn. It stuck with me not only out of humor or surprise, but also out of truth.
I’m like that giant rock along the park trail. Living in a fallen world where unfortunate circumstances and difficult situations and poor decisions have left marks.
I’m a rock that’s been vandalized.
But yet You come to me, and you find me, colored by the troubles and trials of this world all of which are clearly visible to You.
And I see you stop. And I heard you gasp. And I hear you say, “It’s—it’s beautiful!”
I don’t understand it. What good is there to come from the bad? What awe from the awful? No, these aren’t good things. These aren’t good things at all.
Yet you say, in all things you work for the good of those who love You (Romans 8:28). You take all I’ve been through, in any circumstance or situation, and you bring good from it all.
You make beautiful things from the bad.
You make beautiful things from the broken.
You make beautiful things out of spray-painted rocks.
You look at all that was and is and will be, and with your hands on your hip, you proclaim defiantly: “well I think it’s BEAUTIFUL!”
Your child,
m
I am NOT cool
G:
Remember that phase I went through in elementary school where I would wear a blonde wig around with a black beret? I’m pretty sure I also tried to convince people I was Australian.
This would have been cool except that I have enough red curly hair on my head to make wigs for every man, woman, and child in Northern Ireland with enough leftover for replacement fur for Scottish Highland cattle. Also, apparently all of my attempted accents sound French. Which would have made more sense with the beret (alas, hindsight is always 20/20).
To everyone who was unfortunate enough to experience me at that time in life must have thought I looked ridiculous.
I was NOT cool.
At the tender age of twenty-seven, I’m still not cool. At least, in the world’s eyes.
Because I’m a Christian.
Movies, television, and songs all say I need to look like a model, love recreational and casual sex, and party like there’s no tomorrow.
Of course I’m not cool because as a Christian I’m called to do the exact opposite—stand firm in the promise God created me for a purpose, looks and all; sex, while awesome, is to be saved for marriage; and while we are to enjoy the life He has given us we aren’t supposed to be getting drunk and living recklessly. To the world, my life sounds awful. Void of all the things that are supposed to make you feel alive and happy. I’m swimming against the flow of today’s tide. I’m counter-cultural. Christianity is counter-cultural.
Christ was counter-cultural.
Christ wasn’t the cool kid on the block. He wasn’t the strong warrior everyone was expecting. He was a humble servant who said crazy stuff like “the first shall be last and the last shall be first.” He spoke in parables and answered your question with a question. He said if you want to follow him you have to deny yourself and pick up your own cross. He captured many, but lost many more. And he died the death of a criminal on a cross.
But he also did some really notable things. Like turning a few fishes and loaves into enough for five thousand people. Or casting out demons. Healing the sick. Raising people from the dead. Including himself. So that we could have eternal life.
Now that’s pretty cool.
Being a Christian may mean that my co-workers aren’t going to invite me to Happy Hour after work because they know I don’t want to indulge in gossip about everyone else at work. Being a Christian may mean I can’t have sex with my boyfriend until I’m married. Being a Christian may mean I’ll be playing board games instead of drinking games on a Friday night. Being a Christian may mean that people may make assumptions about me and my beliefs or judge me because of who I serve and who I believe in. Being a Christian may mean that a television show of my life wouldn’t make it to primetime—or even straight to DVD. Being a Christian may make me seem not cool.
But being a Christian also means I have a fulfillment from something, someone greater than myself, greater than anything this earth can afford. I was created and called for a purpose by a Heavenly Father who knows the exact number of hairs on my head. And who knows the plans He has for me even before I was created. While life isn’t perfect, and I am not perfect, God promises comfort, peace, and strength when I seek Him and seek Him with my whole heart because he sent His son to overcome it all. He forgives me when I screw up. Daily. His mercies are new every morning. Being a Christian means I make sacrifices for things of this world to pursue things that are of Him—love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Being a Christian means my time, money, and life are not my own—but belong to someone who holds me in His Hand. I can choose to pursue Him and let Him lead me to His best for me. And He has a best for me. Being a Christian means I have the choice to accept Christ as the Savior of my soul and Lord of my life. Being a Christian means Christ gave His life for me so that I can live forever with Him. All I have to do is say yes, and follow with my heart, mind, soul, in words and in actions, denying my earthly self to follow You—my heavenly Father.
Being a Christian means I’ll look ridiculous to anyone who experiences me at this time in life because of the love I have for You—like a blonde wig and a black beret on a redhead. Like David singing and dancing when the ark of your covenant finally came back to the temple.
I’ll become even more undignified than this when living my life for You.
And I’m cool with that.
Your child,
m
IF G WERE LIKE “I DREAM OF JEANNIE”
photo: simply-showbiz.com
G:
My favorite show when I was younger was “I Dream of Jeannie.” She had a colorful Arabian outfit, with a bouncy blond ponytail, and not to mention an awesome abode in a purple bottle filled with a bazillion plush pillows. Oh yeah, and she was a genie. She just folded up her arms and nodded her head and BAM—mini pony. BAM—yacht with a hot tub. BAM— a million dollars.
Sometimes, I want you to be Jeannie (sans the outfit exposing your midriff). Sometimes I just want to ask you for something and I want you to fold up your arms, nod your head, and grant me whatever I wish whenever I want it to happen.
After all, you are so much more powerful than Jeannie and 1960s television attempts at special effects (it was fishing line that made her bottle move, I know).
I know I’ve been guilty of having this expectation that as a Christian, You are going to bless me with whatever I want. I’d hate to add up how many of my prayers have been asking you for something. More money. An apartment with a washer and dryer in it and a garbage disposal (what luxury!). A new car. For my student loans to magically disappear. For this annoying person I don’t like to suddenly get a job offer on the other side of the country so I don’t have to see them anymore (I really wasn’t kidding about that one).
Gimme, gimme, gimme.
I was reading through Matthew and the scene where Jesus is in the garden of Gethsemane the night he was betrayed. I’ve heard these words before of course, but they really stuck with me this time. His prayer was: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). In a nicer way than I’ve done before, he’s asking for something from you. He didn’t want to have to go through what was going to happen and honestly, can you blame him? But yet, he follows it with something I hardly ever do—he submits to your will. In the end, he wants nothing more than for your will to be done.
It got me thinking of the verse, “Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart” (Psalm 37:4). I think we try to use this verse to justify our “I Dream of Jeannie” attitude— surely if I’m delighting in the Lord he’s going to give me everything I want! But what does “delighting” mean? If we are truly “delighting,” truly spending enough time with you to know you, to know your promises for us, wouldn’t the desires you have for us become the ones we want for ourselves?
Knowing you, you can do much greater things than Jeannie ever could (don’t tell Barbara Eden that).
So I’ll ask for you to sit on your throne, and wave our almighty and outstretched hand, and have your will be done in my life.
Your child,
m
HELLO MY NAME IS M, AND I HAVE SLEEP TOURETTES
G:
Within the past year I have diagnosed myself with a disorder I call “sleep tourettes.” It is a rare and mysterious disorder that affects its victim within the first hour of sleep in which said victim is aroused from slumber by a spider falling on her face or a large centipede hovering over her bed. The victim jumps up, curses loudly, turns on the lights, and does a dance not unlike those found in dark, strobe lit clubs in European countries with the addition of bedroom duvet covers attempting the worm. In the end, the victim realizes that the bug was, indeed, a dream and her cursing was all for naught.
Fear manifests itself in pretty [#$%]ed up ways.
In my attempts to seek a cure for my disorder, I’ve realized that fear has also weaseled its way into other areas of my life aside from nighttime terrors with more legs than anything living should have. There’s the good fear—the fear that keeps me from walking to the park at dusk via the highway underpass where words written in neon spray paint advertise activities I’d rather not take part in. And then there’s the other fear—the fear that keeps me from speaking truth to a struggling coworker because I’m afraid of how she’ll respond. The fear that keeps me from taking on a certain project or leadership role because I don’t want to fail and let people down. The fear that keeps me from using my gifts because I’m not sure they are that great to begin with. The fear that keeps me from following a nudging from You because I don’t know what the end result will be. The fear that keeps me from stepping from comfortable and content to stretched and challenged.
Fear that ultimately makes me miss out on potential blessings from You.
I guess you really knew what You were doing when you put “Do not afraid” in your Word more than any other phrase. You knew we’d be a people so scared to take a leap of faith we remain still.
The worst way fear can manifest itself is through inaction.
Just as you said to Joshua, you say the same to me: “This is my command—be strong and courageous! Do not be afraid or discouraged. For the Lord your God is with you wherever you go” (Joshua 1:9).
So why should I be afraid to tell someone Your truth? Why should I be afraid to follow Your will for me? Why should I be afraid of something with more limbs that a living creature should naturally have? You promise to be with me. You promise not to leave me. If I let fear take over and paralyze me, I could lose out on some amazing things You want for me.
And that’s pretty [#$%]ed up.
Your child,
m
I THINK THE TRAVEL BUG IS A COUSIN OF THE MUSTARD SEED
G:
I think the travel bug is a cousin of the mustard seed. Third generation, twice removed.
A friend of mine posted a picture from a place I’ve never been, halfway on the other side of the world, the ocean the color of a blue raspberry lollipop. And that’s when I felt it. The itch on my skin, seeping into my blood stream, swimming the butterfly through my veins, full force. I stopped, sighed, clicked through another picture of scenery unknown, breathtakingly haunting. I want to go somewhere new. I don’t want to be stuck in one place forever, turning into a fossilized version of myself until I erode away into nothing. But I can leave. I’m the Little Mermaid after she got legs. I can go somewhere new. I’m not scared. I want the jaw-dropping thrill of discovering and uncracking the unknown, taking me to heights only astronauts can reach. A star, the moon, poor demoted Pluto. A place that is not comfortable. That is not known. Incomparable. I want to check out from the familiar as if from a bed bug infested motel— fast. I want to be anything, anywhere else. The grass is always greener in a foreign place. I want the travel bug to take me somewhere new, again, again, again. A thrill I cannot get at home. I never want to stop this itch on my skin, in my blood, this sugar ecstasy— leave my jaw unhinged.
It reminds me of my stay in a hostel in Nova Scotia, where I learned there’s something magical about sharing the kitchen sink with complete strangers and washing an Englishman’s dishes. And eating breakfast with a family from Paris and discussing our undying affection for Nutella. Makes me want Nutella, but I digress. And there’s the campfire, sharing s’mores and stories, meeting people I would never have a chance to meet in my everyday life. People who left whatever it was they were doing with a hundred dollars in their pocket and traveled the world, this being a one night stop on their grand, soul-seeking, mundane-life-retreating, journey. I listened to their voices, their excited eyes illuminated by the warm fire’s glow, the words “Let me tell you about the time I sailed the seas with my trombone…” Made me want to write a poem about it all. No rhyme. Free verse. Possibly epic. Made me want to pack up with a hundred dollars in my pocket and travel the world. Broke by the end, but rich with stories. Wanting more, always wanting more.
But yet, here I sit. In Pennsylvania. My jaw closed.
Yet the blue raspberry ocean reminds me of you. And the mustard seed. You made our jaws with hinges for a reason. Sure, we can and should be in awe of your creation, but you want us to be more in awe of our Creator.
I want the mustard seed of faith to grow from an itch on my skin to seeping into my blood stream, swimming the butterfly through my veins, full force. I want to go somewhere new, learn something new, about You, with You. I don’t want to be stuck in one place forever, resigning to apathy. I want to be the Little Mermaid after she got legs twirling the Bible around singing “Look at this verse, isn’t it neat?!” I want the jaw-dropping thrill of discovering and uncracking your truths, taking me to heights only astronauts can reach. A star, the moon, poor demoted Pluto. A place that is not comfortable. That is not known. Incomparable. I want to check out from the familiar as if from a bed bug infested motel— fast. I want to be restless for You. I want to sit around a campfire, my excited eyes illuminated by the warm fire’s glow, the words “Let me tell you about the one time I put my faith in our almighty God…” Makes me want to write a blog about it all. No rhyme. Free verse. Possibly epic. Broke by the end, but rich with a deeper understanding of You. Jaw constantly unhinged. Wanting more, always wanting more.
Your child,
m
RESPONSES I RECEIVE AFTER TELLING SOMEONE I HAVE MY MFA IN CREATIVE WRITING AND WORK AT A COLLEGE ADMISSIONS OFFICE
- Enjoy it now, the world awaits.
- My grandson is currently holding auditions for a trophy wife.
- If you work at a non-profit organization for over 10 years, the gargantuan debt you unwisely and unnecessarily burdened yourself with will be forgiven.
- Awwwwwww.
- If you take your MFA off your resume, employers will actually call you back for an interview.
- You’re tall. Have you thought about modeling? Someone has to wear those shoes in Payless commercials.
- My condolences to your parents. Do you have any siblings that show promise? I’d hate to picture your parents crying themselves to sleep at night, trying to convince themselves that you are actually adopted.
- I’ve heard that exercise helps with depression.
- I have some extra food in my fridge that expired on Sunday— I’ll bring it in tomorrow.
G:
Sometimes I wonder if I should have been a landscape architect.
That’s what my career aptitude test kept telling me in elementary school. Even after I retook it. Eleven times.
Except that I have no desire to plant shrubbery and also I hate bees. Bees are outside. And they fraternize with shrubbery.
I remember telling a teacher in the third grade that I wanted to be a writer. She responded, “No, really. I’m serious, M. What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Today, people ask me what I do for a living. I tell them I have a master’s in writing and also work in Admissions at a college. I see them sniff and waft the air, as there must be something in my scent that gives off the fact that my kitchen cupboards are naked and inevitably I’m asked over for dinner.
But there are probably worse degrees, right? Like Philosophy. Am I even really here? Is this blog even real? If someone writes a blog but no one reads it, does it even really exist? Or, history. Wars. And dictators. With moustaches. Writing at least has transferrable skills like… the ability to write. With a pen. Or on a computer. (Versatility!)
You remember what that one guy said in response to my job and degree, right? “Enjoy it, the world awaits.” Gee thanks. Pretty sure I’m already living in this world. With a lot of debt and nothing but a gallon of milk in my fridge.
But he’s right. By the world’s standards. To the world, I got a fun degree and am in a fun job where there are petting zoos on campus during reading day (it’s true). I’m not “there” yet—I haven’t embarked on the path to success yet. I’m in a holding pattern, I’m waiting on the runway, not yet taken off to reach the heights of the status quo.
I know I’m guilty of it. I’m guilty of wanting that job in a glamorous place, with a glamorous title, and a paycheck with multiple zeros before the decimal point and not after. I’m guilty of tying my worth into my degrees, into my job title, into the world’s standards of who I should be. Heck, I’ve never even put on Facebook that I have a master’s and where I work.
I’m guilty of thinking I’ve failed.
I know you heard me crying on the phone when I called my mom complaining about the four pennies I have stored up in my savings account.
She reminded me of your truth.
You don’t ask me to be successful. You ask me to be faithful.
My worth is not tied up in what degree I have or don’t have. My worth is not tied up in the title I have or don’t have at work. My worth is not wrapped up in the place I live, the car I drive, the numbers that show up on my direct deposit into my bank account. My worth is found in You—in who you made me, as your child that you created with certain gifts for a certain purpose (Jeremiah 29:11).
To you, worldly success means nothing. To you, my faithfulness is everything.
Your child,
m
MY LIFE IS LIKE GOING TO A SMORGASBORD
G:
I find my life is like going to a smorgasbord. I pile too much on my plate and then I’m weighed down by it all and before the end of day I’m halfway comatose and wearing sweatpants. Like dessert, there are just some things I can’t say no to, like a full-time job. Or dinner with a friend. Or becoming a leader in a bible study. Or taking graduate classes. My eyes are always bigger than my stomach—I always think I can juggle it all. Except quiet time. For some reason quiet time is like that questionable pudding, or any kind of vegetable, that you’re fine with passing on. I always seem to choose something else, choose doing something else, over stopping everything and quieting my soul before You.
You were pretty smart when you created the Sabbath—a day set aside specifically for rest. To recuperate, to recharge. I think the only person who observes it today is Chickfila. Which is great except when I want a small cookies and cream milkshake on a Sunday afternoon.
But I know I need more than just the Sabbath, I need quiet and rejuvenating rest with You daily.
If I don’t have that quiet time where I remember to focus my heart on you, to rely on you, I can’t handle the tiny roll on my plate let alone the main course and other side dishes. Quiet time is necessary to be able to restore my soul, by focusing on the Restorer of my soul.
So before I fill up my plate, I want to focus on you. Seek your guidance. If there are things I need to say no to, help me say no. While they are on my plate, I want to focus on you throughout work, class, dinners with friends.
At the end of the day, I don’t want to be half comatose with stress, the weight of my world on my intestines. I want to be able to say I relied on you to help me through it all by relying on quiet time with you. But I’d like to still be in my sweatpants, however.
Your child,
m
meghanmellinger.com 