burned rubber scones

Somewhere around the time my mom collapsed, frustration seeped into our house.


Hard to see at the beginning, flares sprouted this week. I sat in my car as the dogs roamed the backyard. They yipped a greeting when I first pulled in. As I continued to just sit there, they paced back and forth between the fence where they could see me and the backdoor to tell my mom I was home.


I didn't think about it. They played, chasing each other, birds from the yard. They're dogs. They did dog things. I sat, not anywhere I had to be. In-between and free.


Mom came out to check on me. Like I'm a kid or got lost from the car to the garage door. I handed her the Starbucks scone I'd bought her. She asked me what was wrong. I said I'd be in later.


Clocks tick again. I should move, to-do things wait with tapping, impatient fingers. Check the dogs, talk about house responsibilities. Somewhere between the garage door and my room, the burned smell of ruptured frustration wafted subtly in space.


If I go to bed, hurt and confusion will make friends. They'll hang out in the living room, and bad things come of their time.


I asked my mom to talk with me. Somewhere in the conversation, my bad mood, strung next to hers, paled and faded.


Her eyes blazed, saying she didn't expect to be here. In a rent house falling down around her. Living paycheck to paycheck. No one will come when I ask.  I can't make it to the corner of the street without help.


Her nose flared, her gestures sharp and angry. You want to talk about a bad mood, about disappointment? she asked. (No, not really. Not like this, I thought.) 


I've had 63 years of it.


Silence hung as time plodded. She left not too long after, making her way slowly to her room.


The house creaked as I swallowed and tried to remember how to blink.


I turned over, my eyelids falling no matter how I fought. And the smell of burned rubber grew stronger.

pushy passion

A friend and I were discussing passion this week. He asked me to consider my underlying passion of writing. He asked me to wrestle with what drives me to write, and what, if I had the choice, I’d be known for writing.

I didn’t have an answer for him. I still don’t know that I do.

Easy answers slip through my brain, sounding pat and hollow: I want to write challenging, honest pieces; poems describing pain and trying, essays presenting a different way to see something previously known.

When I first started writing, I just wrote. No thought given to what I might be putting out there, words flowed. Now I wonder if what I want to say is appropriate or family-friendly. Questions about worthiness plague me.

I’m not funny like Jon Acuff or cool like Anne Lamott. They’re different people, with different experiences; they write what they know.

What I know is dark and weird. And I wonder if I fixate on it, if I’m just an emo chick in denial.

See, my dad was messed up. He heard voices that were angry and violent. But he’d forget to pay bills or take my brother or me to the doctor. So I know what it’s like to be poor, eating tuna with ketchup or mustard. But it was better than being hungry.

I know, too, how to be angry; how to cling to things that are malevolent at their core. Pain festers, but if it’s all that remains, can survive beatings and time, it starts to look like a trustworthy friend. And after a few years, the cost of a soul doesn’t seem so significant when you have something you can depend on.

Being normal when I never have been before is new. Trusting joy and good things to not disappear feels like ziplining towards a tree.

Christians love a good redemption story, but they’re not always keen about being involved in one. Sin’s messy, and hurt can cling.

I don’t know why I have to write or what I might end up exploring. But the known doesn’t require faith. But faith, by definition, requires courage. And courage drives passion.

Here's to day three and passion that pushes.

dear jordan

Dear Jordan,


I can't wait to meet you! 


When I received the e-mail asking that I be your mentor, I was surprised.. and a little scared. I still am, 'cause you're a whole kid! The most I've ever dealt with before was a dog. (A big dog, but still.) Kids are like the ultimate bright shiny objects. No one can not smile when they see them. And your mom trusts me to let you hang out for a while. That's kind of cool and crazy.


The lady at Exodus said you like to research and that you like art. Maybe we could go to the Nasher Sculpture Garden. I've never been but I've heard it's really pretty. Also, I love the DMA. There are these shell-like forms of glass they hung near the windows. Sunlight streams through the colors and pool on the floor. It's like we could step into color like most people splash into puddles of water. And there are galleries in Oak Cliff, too. (I really like art, too, if you couldn't tell.)


Another part of the message said you've had a hard life so far. I really wish I could do something to make that different. I hate that you've hurt. And I'd like to listen, if you want to talk about it. I'll keep all the secrets I can, but since I don't want you to hurt any more, either, any secrets that might end up with you hurt again, I'll have to tell. I won't apologize for that.


But I do have a secret to share with you, if you'd like. Here goes. I already kind of love you.


I know you're only going to be my mentee for a while. But still. You have a whole life of tough things you've learned I want to hear about, and things that made you giggle. You haven't had people who understood what it's like to not trust people you haven't even met, but I do. And the things you say when you're mad or scared I'll run away? It's ok. I won't take them personally. 'Cause I understand.


I have cool dog that would like to meet you, too, and books! I have lots of books to share with you, to help you research nifty things like gravity and Cubism and chocolate.


Meeting you can't come soon enough, even though I'm nervous. It's a good nervous. Really. Not as bad as speaking in front of people, but more this-really-matters-and-I-don't-want-to-screw-it-up nervous.


I hope you like me. 


Maybe we can have burgers at McDonalds. I've heard that's like the kids' version of meeting for coffee.


Soon, I get to meet you.


By the way, my name's Amber.


Hi.

catalyst & pots full of crock

I went to a great leadership conference this week. And I have tons of ideas and words and thoughts swishing all over my brain.


One of the major chords that resonated with me was something John Maxwell said Thursday (paraphrased as I've actually slept since then): "Don't look for shortcuts. Microwaves give us pop tarts. The world doesn't need any more pop-tarts. What it is needs are more crock-pots."


Since I happen to know my pot's full of crock, this freed me.


I've a new goal: to blog every day. Y'all that read know this... yeah, will only be through grace, as I have a serious case of OSS: Ooooo Shiny Syndrome.


But I have faith. And this matters.


This post'll be short. It's about the amount of time I usually fill with a game of Solitaire on FB.


And what I have to say is, well, short, too.


Don't buy the lie that you're not loved. You are.


Right now, right here. However you are, wherever.


Crackpot. Crazy. Imperfect and blind like me.


You. Are. Loved.
You. Will. Be. Loved.


Please let that marinate.


And blast me if I don't post again tomorrow. 'Cause that's just you lovin' on me.