tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88675026106207838792024-03-13T10:40:18.309-04:00The Fetal TheologianI am not your average girl; I am His.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-8536870553633690672013-03-20T13:03:00.002-04:002013-03-20T13:03:38.546-04:00For What It's WorthOne of my favorite legends of all time has been that of Robin Hood. What's not to love about a man who forgoes worldly comforts to take from the unjust excess of the rich to give to the poor? Throw in a love story and boom, I'm sold. Recently, the hubs and I watched the BBC's "Robin Hood" series on Netflix and, besides being very well-done, struck some unexpected chords with me. (Be forewarned of spoilers. So skip all the Robin Hood paragraphs if you care. But that would mean you'd pretty much have to skip my whole post. So, go watch the series first if you care about spoilers and then come back).<br />
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Over the past few months (few years) my faith has been shaken and stretched. My understanding of suffering and the militant nature of our journey on earth has been tested. I've doubted, I've cried, I've reconciled, I've fallen, I've been confused, and I've kept on believing. All of my issues seem to come from the same place: Is is all worth it?<br />
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In seasons 1-2 of "Robin Hood", Robin and Marian fight, steal, and save for the good of England. They uncover plots to cheat the people out of more money and livelihood and one to kill King Richard, who is away in the Holy Land. While their relationship goes through ups and downs, it is obvious to anyone who has ever heard the Robin Hood story before that they will end up together. Why? Because they are better together. Robin says as much when he proposes to Marian (quite possibly the best proposal I've ever heard. Yes, I know it's scripted but still. Dude. Check it out <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsZR9VHQHUk" target="_blank">here</a>. And men, take notes). At the end of the season, once they have saved the King, they do marry. With her final breaths, Marian recounts that she is proud because she has given her life entirely for God, country, and love.<br />
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In season 3, Robin Hood returns to England and basically has a crisis of self. Throughout the (not as good by a long shot) season, Robin struggles, implicitly, with the question "Is it all worth it?". He has given his entire life for the good of country and in the service of the King and God and has lost everything he has loved and cherished-- his lands, his life, his love. But what has he gained?<br />
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For Robin Hood, as for me, this question was not fully answered (though we see him die peacefully, with Marian meeting him to take him into heaven). Maybe this question isn't meant to be fully answered in this lifetime, maybe it's proving the point that our home isn't here on earth. Any good Christian will answer the question for you: "Of course it's worth it! Christ died for you. He clearly thought it was worth it, so you should, too." And while I know this is the Truth, I can't help but struggle with it. A priest friend and spiritual director of sorts once told me, "Not all of your questions have answers...yet."<br />
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As she was dying, Marian said to Robin Hood that they will have all the time they need in heaven because they certainly didn't get enough in this lifetime. How I long for her certainty! And that is the purity and certainty that she conducted her whole life with. If the situation had been reversed and it had been Robin dying, I am positive that Marian would still have continued on with the same certainty until her own life came to an end. I don't have that certainty, that grace. It is said that St. Francis of Assisi was so remorseful for his sins and so worried that he would not be granted heaven because of them that God gave him the grace of knowing that he would go to heaven, a grace usually reserved for those in purgatory. Certainty is a consolation I am not afforded.<br />
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"The route on which I am has no consolation for me, and nevertheless it brings me all consolations since Jesus is the one who chose it, and I want to console Him alone, alone!" - St. Therese of Lisieux<br />
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I'm often drawn to Mary, especially as Our Lady of Sorrows, in my questioning and in my fear and sorrow. But one aspect I have just not gotten over or made sense of was that she was without sin and only had to wait three days to be with her love, Jesus, again. I am far from sinless and have to wait much longer. I turn most often to my patroness, the Little Flower, as her simplicity always gives me comfort and direction: "Sanctity does not consist in saying beautiful things, it does not even consist in thinking them, feeling them! It consists in suffering and suffering everything." Sanctity is suffering. Gold tested in fire is not purified until it has come through the fire. This is the fire. This earthly life is the fire testing me, purifying me. But I will not be purified until I have passed through this life and I will not know the answer to my question until then, either.<br />
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Until that time when I am afforded the answers to my questions, I must merely walk on, must merely struggle and suffer. In the recess of my mind, in the farthest corner of my heart I know that it must all be worth it or it wouldn't be so elaborate. If it wasn't worth it, I would not find hope in the time spent with my husband, looking at my little girl, in receiving the Eucharist. The specifics, though, are still a mystery. "Without complaint, everything shall I suffer for, in the love of God, nothing have I to fear." -St. Teresa Margaret of the Sacred Heart. Before I really started questioning and doubting, before so much was taken from me, I lived by this exclamation, and I must live by it again. However, it says nothing of not doubting or not struggling or not questioning, but it says to live without fear. Though it doesn't quite seem to make sense, the answer to "Is it worth it?", on earth, is "Live without fear".<br />
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For what it's worth, live without fear.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-51718692924608642242013-02-26T13:36:00.000-05:002013-02-26T13:36:29.503-05:00Check Out My Store!Just a quick little post today to let you know that I have new items up in my jewelry and accessories shop <a href="http://rubyzoe.storenvy.com/">Ruby & Zoe</a>. Like this great piece to help celebrate St. Patrick's Day:<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PEBLj6W5AM4/USz_NbhCpoI/AAAAAAAAADk/4zk5ZEdrEls/s1600/Emerald+Isle+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PEBLj6W5AM4/USz_NbhCpoI/AAAAAAAAADk/4zk5ZEdrEls/s320/Emerald+Isle+2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Also, the hubs said that if I come up with enough money, we can take a family trip to Walt Disney World. I am in love with that place. It's definitely my happy place and nothing could make me happier than being able to share it with Ruby for the first time (even though she'll be like a year old. Whatever. The trip would definitely be more about me but there's nothing wrong with that! Indulge the mommy!). So buying my jewelry and scarves will help us get there. Or, if you don't want to posses any of my lovely items (I don't know why you wouldn't...) then you can just donate to help us get there at our <a href="http://www.gofundme.com/25cx5g">Go Fund Me</a> page.<br />
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Not that I'm trying to solicit you awesome readers for money, but remember that charity is a virtue!<br />
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In other news, there is nothing going on and I am a lazy blogger. Nothing has changed. I have a few ideas for some posts, so maybe I'll get around to making a real post later this week. Time will tell.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-40460704690049034252013-01-14T10:22:00.000-05:002013-01-14T10:22:31.985-05:00What I Wore Sunday: The Non-PostSo I was going to start participating in another link-up this week called "What I Wore Sunday" hosted by the lovely gals at <a href="http://finelinenandpurple.com/">Fine Linen and Purple</a>. It's all about posting pictures and descriptions of what you wore to mass on Sunday to encourage each other in dressing our best for the Lord. Unfortunately, we didn't make it to mass yesterday--hubs came down with a horrendous cold/fever after having been on extra overnight duty, Ruby wasn't feeling well, and I was tired from taking care of them (plus, I was a little under the weather, too). So what I wore Sunday was my oversized Dodgers t-shirt, a tan PA State Police hoodie, hot pink Disneyland sweatpants, and my black and white plaid Roxy slippers. Super comfy, but not mass attire. So, I will be participating in this link-up <i>next</i> Sunday. Happy Monday to you all and may you be happy, healthy, and blessed!Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-50444544698304671752013-01-11T14:22:00.000-05:002013-01-11T14:24:34.351-05:007 Quick Takes Friday 1/11/13<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://conversiondiary.com/"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rDnB3uT51FI/UPBlqY3VYwI/AAAAAAAAADQ/duKgnQd6MDo/s1600/7+quick+takes+graphic.jpg" style="cursor: move;" /></a></div>
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This is my first ever 7 Quick Takes and the first time ever I am participating in a blog link-up! So exciting! I like this because it is giving me a solid reason and subject to blog about so that I can start blogging more regularly. Blogging more regularly was my "resolution" (I don't really make New Years resolutions) last year and I kinda bombed. Not so this year! </div>
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One of my first thoughts this morning was, "Is it time to potty train yet?" I found a onesie in a shopping bag that she had pooped through a few days ago which I had forgotten about. Crap. Literally. Nothing worse than dried baby poop. I'm starting to get really tired of cleaning baby poop off of clothes...and Ruby is only 3 months old! Sigh. Thank goodness she's cute.</div>
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Speaking of cute...</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kgGs8JjlWkY/UPBD_JUwjAI/AAAAAAAAADA/65CcnjlmjSc/s1600/Ruby+smiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kgGs8JjlWkY/UPBD_JUwjAI/AAAAAAAAADA/65CcnjlmjSc/s320/Ruby+smiling.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I finally caught her smiling! Even though the picture is blurry. Also of note, she is stinkin' standing! 3 months old and standing unassisted. Can you spell trouble? I can...R-U-B-Y</div>
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This week I've been applying for jobs that I can do from home so that I can continue to stay at home with Ruby. I actually love being a homemaker. So we'll see. I've applied to be an online tutor and to a number of freelance writing gigs. Here's hoping!</div>
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In case you didn't know, I own a crafting business and mainly make jewelry and scarves (I also make baby blankets, beer coozies, and hats). If you'd like to check it out and maybe help me out, you can do so <a href="http://rubyzoe.storenvy.com/">here</a>. Ruby & Zoe-- where every handcrafted piece tells a unique story! You can also become a fan on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/rubyandzoe">facebook</a>.</div>
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We still have our Christmas decorations up. Partially because we didn't put them up (well, we had the Nativity scene up) until we came back from PA/OH on Dec. 26th but mostly because we like them, the Christmas season isn't over yet, and we like them :) Ruby loves looking at the Christmas tree; I swear she could stare at it for hours</div>
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I joined a moms' group at my parish this week. I'm not sure exactly if I love it or not yet, but I think I'll keep going for a while. I sometimes have a hard time feeling like I fit in places, but this one more so because I'm the youngest in the group and I also have the youngest child. I feel like maybe I am in just a different place than the other moms. We shall see. I am going to go to their "Moms' Night Out" at the end of the month and that should be a great way to get to know everyone better.</div>
Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-26510966839606786682013-01-04T14:10:00.001-05:002013-01-04T14:11:24.575-05:00Be Ye Not DiscouragedOh masturbation, will you ever leave me alone?<br />
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Probably not. Because I am a sexual person made for sexual interaction and relations (of course I'm not, nor are you, exclusively this). Since I am thus, I will probably always be tempted by masturbation, at least a little bit.<br />
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There's a notion that marriage cures masturbation. This is true only to a small extent. It is true in that marriage satisfies what masturbation itself cannot, making it irrelevant. But marriage is not salvation, marriage is not a fix-all cure. It is the answer. But what about the times when he's too tired or you've had an extremely stressful day, or you've had a fight, or he's away? Lots of things come up in marriage and it's not always a smooth, I-can-always-see-the-rainbow-and-want-to-eat-chocolates-and-cuddle-with-my-love-all-day-long ride. It's bumpy. Those moments are when the temptation sneak in. When I'm lonely, when I'm sad, when I'm frustrated, when I'm overly excited (not <i>that</i> way, just the normal way) are when I am tempted.<br />
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I understand what St. Paul meant now by begging the Lord to remove the thorn from his side. The thorn isn't masturbation, it was the temptation. The Lord doesn't remove our temptations, He helps us deal with and overcome them but He doesn't just take them away. It's not that He wants us to sin, it's that we need Him to not. St. Paul was begging for the temptation to be taken away because it is the temptations that can often weigh us down and drag us into depression. Sinning on top of that just feels like an anchor tied to the chains. But God gave the answer to letting temptation weigh us down: "My power is made perfect in weakness". Being tempted means we are weak, means I need a savior. That means that God desires to be my Savior and pull me out of the temptations when I find myself surrounded. Once again, He pulls me out of the lion's den.<br />
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I used to get very discouraged when I'd be tempted to masturbation or even masturbate after I became engaged and especially after I was married. People had always said, "Love is the answer! Marriage is the cure!" They are the answer to masturbation, not to temptation, and the only cure for temptation is a God willing to face the lion and drag me out of its den.<br />
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A great thanks to <a href="http://distractedcatholic.com/">Distracted Catholic</a> for reminding me that I am doing a worthwhile thing by engaging in this conversation!<br />
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A little note: starting next week I will begin involvement in some blog link-ups. Very exciting. I think it's a good way to help me make sure to blog more often. The link-ups will occur on Fridays and Sundays. Why am I not starting this week? Because this week is the end of me "getting my shit together" and next week begins me "putting my shit to work". Can't wait!<br />
<br />Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-73838003412092047902012-11-21T01:14:00.004-05:002012-11-21T01:14:55.432-05:00Not the Road to Calvary I Was Expecting: Ruby's Birth Story<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">While pregnant, I tried not to think about labor and delivery. It scared me. All I knew is that it was going to hurt A LOT and somehow I was supposed to work through the pain to get to the "goods" of delivering my baby girl. I thought of birth as a medical procedure and that I needed modern medicine to take care of me so that I wouldn't have to suffer or to feel as little pain as possible. It was about a week prior to birthing Ruby that I had an attitude 180. I learned so much about the birthing process and what medical interventions can do to help and how they really can be too intrusive. I found that labor wasn't going to be one long, agonizing contraction and then a lot of pushing--there would be breaks in between contractions, I could get up and move around, I could even listen to my favorite music! Something beautiful happened within me and I began to be joyful about labor, not just about finally having my little girl in my arms. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">woke up at 2am on Thursday, Sept. 27 with some contractions. I moved to my rocking chair in the nursery at about 3am and stayed there until 730am. My ritual for dealing with the contractions was to rock in the chair and, when one came on, sniff a scented stuffed lamb that we received as a gift for Ruby (it smells like lavender), start the contraction timer on my cousin's phone, and go to my meditative happy place. I was able to sleep soundly in between contractions...you know, all 7 mins at a time </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><img alt=";)" src="http://loveofthelamb.com/forum/images/smilies/trans8.gif" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" title="Wink (1)" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> The remarkable part of this phase of early labor was that I finally was able to find my happy place after having spent months trying to find it to no avail. What did my happy place end up being? My parents' living room with Jess and I on the couch and my mom in her recliner. My dad was also in his office down the hall and would periodically pop in and my sister was upstairs and came down once. But all sorts of people came to visit us there as we all awaited the arrival of Ruby. It was great because it is a place that I know vividly and am so comfortable in. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">All three of us (me, Jess, and my cousin Paula who was my doula) got us for the day at 830 and got ready to go to my non-stress test, which was totally stressing me out. By the time we got to the appointment, my contractions were 6mins apart but I thought I would be sent home--I didn't think that this was the real deal at all (neither did Jess or Paula, I later came to find out, because I was coping so well). Well, as it turns out, I was 4-just-about-5cm at my appointment and my provider determined I was in active labor. I also won the battle about my due date--it was put on all of my sheets that I was 40w5d at the time I went into labor (another story...this one's already going to be long). Anyway, I was sent to lunch and to walk around and I was to report back at 3p. So we went out for pizza. At one point while in the restaurant, I scared most of the wait staff because every time I had a contraction I would close my eyes, hold my rice sock (literally a sock filled with rice and scented oil to be used as heat or scent therapy) to my nose, close my eyes, and go to my happy place. In the end, they treated us to a dessert with a birthday candle and we all sang happy birthday to Ruby!</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">When I reported back at 3p, I had progressed to 6cm so I was admitted. The next part traumatized me and was the only part of labor that brought me to tears. My hospital's policy is that every woman admitted for labor has to have a hep lock in the event that she needs an IV. I was GBS positive so I definitely needed an IV so I had been preparing myself to deal with the needle...but to no avail. The first nurse tried sticking my left wrist, but the vein blew, at which point I thought to myself, "I just told you I'm scared of needles, why would you say this aloud?", so she tried sticking my right hand. That vein also blew and so she called over another nurse. At this point I just started bawling. I absolutely could not stop crying but somehow kept still enough for that nurse to successfully stick my left hand. It took 30mins to get the hep lock in place and 10 more for me to recover. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Having finished that, I was sent off to my labor room with all the support and praises of the nurses for wanting to use all other methods of coping before having an epidural. Let it be known that I am not against epidurals nor having one (at any stage of labor) but I knew that there were other methods of coping that would be better for me, especially since once you have an epidural, you have to stay in bed and I knew that laying down/reclining was not the most comfortable way for me to deal with contractions, hence my initial basis for not wanting an epidural. Anyway, so once in the delivery room, we set up shop--got out the birthing ball, set up my laptop and started playing music (my specially made "labor and delivery" playlist of all of my favorite songs), had my focal points on hand, and put my rice sock on the bed. I was able to sit on the birthing ball for all of the fetal monitoring and other questions and answer sessions they put me through. It was kind of funny, different people would be talking with me and then I'd have to cut them off as I had my contraction and then would pick up right where we left off when the contraction was over. It felt so good to be so incredibly lucid. I was coping so well no one could really tell when I was actually having a contraction. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">At 7:30, my attending doctor decided that they couldn't get a good enough read on the fetal monitor and that I would have to lay down in the bed so they could. Another of my hospital's policies is that every woman must have continuous monitoring unless recommended for intermittent monitoring, which happens basically never. Well, side-lying hurt like nobody's business because my hips are out of line, which is how the doctor wanted me to remain for the rest of my labor. This clearly was not an option for me. So my nurse and I negotiated that since I was completely healthy and had a non-complicated pregnancy and was going without an epidural that if we gave them 20mins of continuous monitoring that I would then only need to be monitored intermittently. I came to find out that I was only the 2nd woman in the history of that hospital to successfully negotiate intermittent monitoring. So, those 20mins were very hard for me, but they were so good. Jess and Paula were each on one side of me and my nurse would put her hand on my hip for some opposing pressure every time I had a contraction. I got through it because of those three and my ridiculously awesome playlist. At one point, "Tiny Dancer" came on (which is probably my most favorite song) and I started singing along and I sang the entire thing, even through my contractions. It was just such a happy, joyous environment and it made it all the better for me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">At 10:45 I was 7cm, 100% effaced, and +1. After a few more contractions, though, I decided that I was too tired to do the rest of this labor unaided, so at 11p I decided to get an IV of the narcotic fentinal and an anti-nausae med as I was having some pretty bad acid reflux. I got "beer goggle eyes" with the first dose of fentinal and so I had to close my eyes. Well, the big joke in my house has been the Packers/Seahawks game (we're Packers fans) and had seen one meme of Stevie Wonder with the caption "Roses are black, Violets are black, Everything is black, Touchdown Seahawks!" and I impersonated that while I had my eyes closed. At a later dose, Paula was tying my bandana onto my head and it ended up looking like a babushka. I was fairly incoherent at this time, so while Paula was comparing me to Little Red Riding Hood, I was babbling about babushkas and porch-sitting Pittsburgh grandmas and started singing "Matchmaker Matchmaker" ala Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire. Good times were had by all! And there are some pretty hilarious pictures from all of this. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">At midnight, I was still 8cm and my doctor was getting antsy to get me going. She started demanding that I be put on pitocin because not only was I not progressing but Ruby was in Right Oxciptal Postterrior position meaning the crown of her head was facing to the right which is not a good position for coming out. My nurse went to bat for me and got us an hour to try other positions to help Ruby </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">move. I had to move into another side-lying position which seemed to help her move quite a bit, but left me in a lot of pain. I had my last dose of fentinal at this time. Just before 1a, without my knowledge (although this was for the better and Jess and Paula knew), I was put on pitocin...just as the fentinal wore off! These were the worst contractions ever--having ridiculous pitocin contractions with no medication is no fun! However, it was also a really productive time. My whole body was shaking all of the time and it was very hard to get to my happy place. At this point, I gave up actually making it to my happy place and just imagined my mom and saying to her, "Don't go yet, I'm bringing Ruby to you. I'm bringing her as fast as I can." I started bearing down without knowing or trying and the nurse was very concerned because they didn't think I was fully dialated yet. As it turns out, I was which was at 2:22a. At some point before I moved into a comfortable sitting position for pushing or after, I'm not quite sure, I remember saying that I just didn't have anymore to give, that I couldn't do anymore. I was assured that I could do more and would have to--I hear most women go through this sort of thing, a moment when thy just want to give up, when it all is too much to bare. I call this the "God moment", when you meet your Maker and just turn everything over to Him. Reflecting on my labor, I thought this moment was so profound, that at my moment of surrender I said I didn't have anything else to give, that I had spent myself for the sake of another. And that is when God took over. I couldn't give anymore but He can give endlessly and it was with His strength, His perseverance, His love, His joy that I continued.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> At 2:45 they could see Ruby's head, just a tiny bit. Around 3:05 they could see about 3cm of her head and thought that I would deliver her head on the next contraction. Now, in each contraction I would push about 2 or 3 times. On this contraction, I went for the third push which should have delivered her head. Instead I delivered Ruby in entirety! Literally we went from seeing some hair to having a baby in the doctor's arms. So, at 3:07a on Friday Sept. 28th, after exactly 45mins of pushing, Ruby Mae Anastasia was born. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I also noticed that there were about 15 people in the room besides Jess, Paula, and I at this time. We joke that they just shouted down the hallway for anyone who wasn't doing something, but in reality they had a bunch of the med students in there as part of their observations and training--I did deliver in a training hospital, after all. The looks on everyone's faces were priceless! I'm so glad I saw them LOL. It very much looked like everyone was thinking, "Holy shit! This is not how the video depicted it!". </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">So then for the repair. It was officially recorded as a 2nd degree repair but it was just about the worst 2nd degree tear you can have before it is a 3rd degree. I tore in an unusual way, too, so the doctors had to call in a specialist to teach them how to do the types of stitches they needed to to repair me. I continually had to remind the doctors that I was unmedicated and could feel everything they did so I needed more lidocain. A great distraction was holding Ruby in my arms while it was happening.The two doctors and their sidekick would talk with me and ask me questions totally unrelated to what was going on, so that was nice. The sidekick and I were even able to joke a bit! In all, it took them an hour and a half to repair me.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #333333; font-family: 'Lucida Grande', 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This was absolutely the coolest experience of my life. I loved labor! Sounds kind of odd, I'm sure, but I never felt like it was an ugly process that I had to get through to get the awesome gift of Ruby. Instead, I felt like labor was such a joyous event and that Ruby was the cherry on top. Not at all like the road to Calvary that I thought it would feel like. Of course, Our Lady of Sorrows is Ruby's patroness and I could feel her presence. I totally feel like the most accomplished woman in the world. Also, this has done loads for my confidence. Absolutely every nurse and doctor that saw me in recovery (and everyone that had been in the delivery room) not just complimented me but made sure I knew how remarkable I was and what an incredible job I did. Honestly, I never thought much about all of it. I just did it because I had to and I wanted to. And honestly, I have a skewed sense of pain and have a high pain tolerance, so when I say 4 on the 1-10 scale, normal people would say 6, so I really never did think much of it. So anyway, I've never thought much about my capabilities until giving birth to Ruby. I realized that I am much more capable than I give myself credit for and that if everyone else can see it, I should too. So I've started to and it was made life with Jess and with Ruby that much better. I feel awesome! I feel awesome not just because my confidence has been boosted but because I have come closer to my God. For the first time in my life, in my meditation of the Passion I did not unite myself to the sufferings of Christ--I united myself to Christ's self-gift and in that there is true joy and pain doesn't matter. I did walk the road to Calvary, but not as one suffering, rather as one living. </span>Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-52502409693311904552012-08-06T11:36:00.001-04:002012-08-06T11:37:43.656-04:00The In BetweenWhen trying to beat my addiction to masturbation, I had to find the root cause of why I was masturbating and dig it all out from the root up. And I did-- I did not feel like I was lovable. So I feigned intimacy through the fantasy of masturbation, simultaneously cutting myself off from that which I really wanted-- to be loved and know I was lovable and intimacy. Thankfully, I was able to dig up that root and gain healing from the wound it left. But sometimes I still feel the way I did when I was addicted.<br />
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There is a lot of stuff between the root of something and what it is protruding as (feeling unlovable to masturbation, for instance) and sometimes that stuff can be overlooked. I overlooked it definitely. All I saw was: Root. Root! Root! Dig it up now!!!! Gone! NO MORE MASTURBATION! YAY!!! VICTORY! But really, the wound leaves scar tissue related to the injury. Hence, I still deal with some of that "middle stuff" that was always lodged in between the root of my problem and the addiction itself.<br />
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Sometimes I still feel like I'm on the outside looking in, that I can never have something that I want, and this is in all areas of my life, not just relationships (friendship and romance and familial all alike). A dissatisfaction with the here and now because I worry I will not have the other things I want and, even more so, cannot have the things that I want. That has led to a rebellious heart and a lot of issues with God. I just want some proof that the things I desire are good things and that I am not just deserving but <i>loved enough to be given</i> good things.<br />
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So, I have to deal with the scar tissue of the in between. It's a work in progress. Some days I feel really good and other days are so so. But progress isn't linear, it's convoluted. There are steps to go through, in some fashion and sometimes more than once, and a lot of the issues probably have multiple layers. That's ok. I have multiple layers. I'm not one-dimensional. And in the hard times, I cling to the only things I know to be absolutely true: that God is good and He loves me.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-2101127514204424412012-07-28T14:35:00.000-04:002012-07-28T14:35:12.699-04:00No LimitsWhen I was addicted to masturbation and when I first began to realize that I was so, I used to go around bluntly telling people, in semi-appropriate settings, that is. I had no problem telling a relative stranger, when a friend asked me to, and I had no problem discussing it. I did not want to be The Masturbator, but that's who I was, at least self-defined, and so I thought there was no more reason to keep it in the dark.<br />
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When I found healing from the addiction, I started going around talking about my freedom from the addiction and how I was no longer The Masturbator. Instead, I became No Longer The Masturbator. And that defined a hole I then needed to have filled: if I was no longer The Masturbator, who was I?<br />
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We are not defined by our sins. That was the remedy to my addiction. But neither are we defined solely by our moments of healing or conversion. These are part of who we are, but not who we are in whole. These moments propel us on to be who we are and to define ourselves by what we no longer are in light of healing or conversion is limiting. I am not The Masturbator and I am not No Longer The Masturbator.<br />
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I am Theresa who once was addicted and is now set free. I am Theresa who entrusts her entire being to the Precious Blood. I am so much more. I am most assuredly without limits. It is good to recognize our limits-- it reminds us we are human and in need of Someone more than ourselves, it is humbling-- and it is only through recognizing our limits that we might rise beyond them.<br />
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Yes, I am Theresa who entrusts her entire being to the Precious Blood-- blood that pours out without limits.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-92145845326730325522012-05-18T00:07:00.001-04:002012-05-18T00:08:30.266-04:00The Weariness of Self-ImprovementI'm tired. I have become so tired with life. Always trying to do something, always having to do something, always room for improvement; there's always something. In fact, I'm already tired of writing this post.<br />
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I just started going to counseling to maybe hopefully work through some of these issues that are making me so tired. It's just begun and already it's helping. Slowly. Little by little. My "homework": stop negative self-talk, including all of those pesky shoulda, coulda, wouldas. <i>But wait!</i>, I thought. <i>Don't I need to ask myself those questions so I can improve?</i> But how do they really help me improve?<br />
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"I should have done things this way" just leads me to think, "I suck, I did it wrong. If only I did it this other, better way, things would be great right now." Nope. No improvement there. If only I would have pretty much works in that same way.<br />
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"I could have handled that situation this way" just leads me to think, "If I know how I ought to be [another sneaky, negative trap], then why aren't I that way? What's wrong with me that I'm not that way right now?" Nope. Still no improvement there.<br />
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Up until now, I had used those shoulda, coulda, wouldas for so long that I didn't know how to process things in any other way. I've worn myself out over all of these years thinking about how I could have been better, should have been better, ought to learn from my mistakes and be better. It's like a never-ending game of dog chasing tale. I'm never gonna catch my tale if I keep going around in circles-- it will always remain elusive. And I'll always be going in circles, never changing my path, never growing, never improving; always the same. It allows me to not have to change, just talk a big game and simultaneously beat the crap out of myself for being so awful (even though I'm really not).<br />
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So how am I supposed to improve if I'm not beating myself up over how I could have been or should have been or whatever? Well, we haven't quite gotten to that in counseling yet, but I know that it has to do with forgiving myself. I have to forgive myself for not being perfect every time out of the gate. Show myself some mercy. Because if I can allow that I make mistakes and that I'm not perfect, then I can also allow that I can be better no matter how many times I stumble. "Theresa, I forgive you for (insert weakness here-- but be specific. None of this "being stupid", "not handling that like you should have." Say, "for jumping to conclusions", "for taking your anger out on someone else", "for being too weak to stop doing whatever it is."). So tonight I say, Theresa, I forgive you for beating yourself up all these years and being too tired to want to desire to change anything or do anything.<br />
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Steve Gershom wrote a great post today (read it <a href="http://www.stevegershom.com/2012/05/moving-out-pt-iv/">here</a>, really, go read it) and he ended it with the following: "Screw self-improvement. Forget facing terror and misery, except when I have to. Sometimes there's a good reason to be miserable: that's how it feels when you're not where you're supposed to be." Amen.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-22749867957289707572012-04-06T11:51:00.000-04:002012-04-06T11:51:50.118-04:00Fade to WhiteThe first Lent that ever really meant something to me, the first that truly impacted my life was 10 years ago. I describe that Lent as starting something new in me. I can describe this Lent similarly.<br />
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This Lent has been entirely different from any other experience I've had. A complete re-model, a re-do, a building up and starting over. The difference between this Lent as starting something new in me and the first Lent that started something new in me was that 10 years ago, I went after the change and decided to be someone different. This Lent, the change was not my idea, at least not to the extent and in the way that I am receiving it.<br />
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Maybe that is the real difference, most Lents I go after, I give and sacrifice, but this Lent I am receiving. Isn't that truly what Good Friday is about anyway? Receiving the Body and Blood of the Lord as He gives Himself up for and to us. I've started receiving Him in a new way. And it wasn't my idea or my doing. I thought I was going on the good way already-- my prayer life was vibrant, my faith flowed over into every other aspect of my life, I've consistently put love of the Lord above everything else in my life and not capriciously, but sincerely and truly.<br />
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Yet I find all of this melting away around me.<br />
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Something new really is begun in me and really it started before Lent. It began with this someone new growing inside of me and as this child grows so am I. And it is not just the change of becoming a mother, it is a breaking down of everything I have ever know spiritually and building it all back up into something deeper and truer. My desires, for life and faith and God, are melting away, my reasonings for those things are melting away, my habits in those things are melting away. Life and God as I knew them are melting away. And I am happy.<br />
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I do not know where this change is taking me, I do not know where it leads. Sometimes it feels dark, disturbing, and never-ending. But mostly it just feels like a washing away to white. "They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb" (Revelation 7:14).<br />
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Today nothing spectacular is going on in my life and I don't expect that anything will. I have no big sacrifice to offer today, have no most excellent way of prayer, nothing. So I just stand at the foot of the cross and allow the Blood of my Lord to wash over me. It's what He wants. It's why He gave His Blood. He wants this for all of us.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-29207798663010120822012-02-28T12:17:00.002-05:002012-02-28T12:17:23.777-05:00Lenten Schizophrenia: My Lent as a 16 Year OldToday I offer this recollection as a hopeful reminder that life gets better and that even when powerless in addiction, even when no one understands, God truly has the power to heal.<br />
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Sixteen, what a year-- Mommabear had cancer for the third time, I fell in love for the first time, I earned my coveted driver's license, I was confused about who I was and what that meant for my life, I received the Sacrament of Confirmation, I was completely addicted to masturbation and I found out that it is a mortal sin. There were many life-altering events that year, but nothing was more shattering than already struggling in the undercurrent of addiction and then being crushed by a tidal wave saying I was going to hell for something I no longer had any control over. I could not let that happen. I would not go to hell. So without any resources or support or know-how, I did the only thing I could think of: I gave up masturbation for Lent.<br />
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Previously my Lenten sacrifices consisted of giving up different candies or cracking my knuckles or other such things appropriate to younger ages, sacrifices that made 8 year old Theresa understand a little bit of Christ's sacrifice, that He willingly gave Himself up just as I was willingly giving up something I loved. But this Lent was different, this Lent I was not giving up something I loved but something I knew was holding me back from Love (and, coincidentally, love). This Lent I was scared, unsure, but determined. I also decided to begin reading the Bible from start to finish (and this has sparked my now typical Lenten routine-- give something up and replace it with something good).<br />
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This was all well and good until my parish priest said from the pulpit that we should be in Lent together as families, that all family members should share what they are giving up or doing for Lent to keep accountable or to choose something we could all do as a family. I almost broke out into a cold sweat in my pew. My parents knew of my addiction to masturbation as "my problem" or "the habit" and I was not in the habit of telling them about the depth of my problem. I wanted to keep this Lent under wraps. But while eating (wolfing down) my omelet and cheese danish with <i>Meet the Press</i> interrogating in the background, my mom looked at me and asked what I was doing for Lent. I scrambled and came up with giving up cracking my knuckles, swearing, and snacking between meals, to my mom's disappointed but consenting "okay". I was off the hook.<br />
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Until I went for a cookie a few hours later. Until I cracked my knuckles while helping prepare dinner. Until I cursed when I found more homework due the next day that I had forgotten about. Then I realized that this Lent was truly going to be different than any other Lent.<br />
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I quit my addiction cold turkey and was keeping it a secret and then, as a show for my mom, I was breaking the habit of cracking my knuckles, watching my mouth (which admittedly was a very good thing), and was skipping snacks while at home (what happened at school stayed at school). Truth be told, I remember next to nothing about those 40 days. All I remember is feeling stressed, pressured, and generally out of my mind. But whatever happened that Lent, I did not break, I did not fall, and I did not give up. I did not realize until that Lent that I could be strong. <br />
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I fell back into my addiction after that Lent but what I did gain was a thirst for truth, understanding, and healing. A thirst I have not lost today. A thirst that drives me closer to God every day. And I'm not afraid of my own weaknesses and limitations anymore because I am in love with a God who has none. When I was 16, I found that I was made for more than what I had been allowing myself to live in and I wanted more life. Holiness is pure, true life. That's what I wanted when I was 16 and that's what I want now that I'm 26. May this Lent purge us of whatever death we have been living in and open us to true life.Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-39504045433629182252012-01-18T12:30:00.000-05:002012-01-18T12:30:42.922-05:00The Excellence of Being LazyI am having one of those days. It's one of those days when I'm incredibly lazy and I incredibly don't care. I just returned from California last night and it was one of those trips where I slept little, stressed a lot, wanted to be drunk 80% of the time but never was, and had an amazing time (seeing Mickey Mouse and taking my picture with a Stormtrooper definitely added to this excellence).<br />
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But today, I am being purposefully lazy. It's one of those days where I haven't brushed my teeth or changed my underwear and have decided to stay in my pajamas all day. I was even too lazy to pour myself milk and cereal so I drank juice out of the carton. I have been parousing the Internet ever since. I've found some good stuff. Now it's lunch time and you know what I'm having? A margarita out of a sippy cup and tortilla chips. I could take a nap at anytime...and I might! This day is just full of endless lazy possibilities and I intend to explore as many of them as I possibly can.<br />
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Do you know why this is not just marginally acceptable but actually an act of excellence? Because I will not always have the chance to take these kinds of days. You know, I'm married now and eventually that will mean lots of things and lots of rushing and busyness and generally not being lazy. And when those days start coming, they won't stop coming until all my children are in school, I look around and deduce that everyone has enough clothes to last them another day, and that all other housework can be moot for the day and then, after lunches are packed, I can pretend like I'm going to get out of my robe and do something but then just lay on the couch and watch whatever crappy show is on television until I hear the bus coming and then rush to put on pants (because pants are obviously a sign of productivity). Someday when I'm old and no one expects me to do anything anymore, probably because they think I can't remember how to, I'll pretend to be senile and just not wear pants at all and blame it on the senility. No one will argue with me unless they want to be granny-slapped (I have a mean right-hook...don't mess with grandma). And so today I am productive by doing nothing, reveling in this state of life the Lord has brought to me for the time being, rejuvenating from a long yesterday, and refreshing for a beautiful tomorrow.<br />
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<br />Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-39865540394898577342012-01-09T12:37:00.001-05:002012-01-09T12:37:32.586-05:00Nobody Likes You When You're 23....But 25 Gets BetterIt was a great day to be four years old. The summer sun was shining, my best friend was playing at my house, we had wild imaginations, and a bunk bed without a ladder. It was the perfect combination of crazy and glorious and my imagination imploded.<br />
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The adventure was somehow getting from the floor to the top bunk. In lieu of a ladder, we found boxes stacked precariously between the headboard and the wall, which served as a staircase-mountain-ladder right to the top bunk. So BriAnne and I climbed. And then we played victoriously on the top bunk. We had defied all odds--parents, rules, and laws of gravity and possibility and 4 year old abilities. We were queens.<br />
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And then we got bored. We didn't have any toys up there, we weren't supposed to be there! So we decided to climb back down. Enter problem. The boxes were not very stable and I was frightened to climb down them for fear of tumbling to my death. BriAnne was not so frightened and successfully climbed down and then left me stranded on the top bunk. I had two choices: die alone on the top bunk or find a way down.<br />
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With He-Man (forget She-Ra) as my example, I grabbed the afghan on the bed and flung myself over the side, parachuting to the floor and safety. Except the afghan was tucked in and I merely hung in the balance between the floor and the bunk. Now my 4 year old depth perception was not at the peak of its game (I still don't believe it is) and I thought I was very close to the floor, so I let go. At this exact moment, BriAnne walked into the kitchen to our parents and told them I was stranded on the top bunk. A loud THUMP! instantly followed her proclamation and the moms went scrambling to my rescue. My mom always came to my rescue. This turned into an awesome story at preschool and for two whole days, everyone wanted to be me.<br />
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Fast-forward to age 23. I had proverbially flung myself off of many bunk beds in those ensuing 19 years and without fail, Mommabear was always there to rescue me, or at least soothe me in the aftermath. Except now I was flinging myself off of many top bunks wanting desperately to be rescued but Mommabear wasn't coming anymore. A year after her death I was still throwing hissy fits trying to get her attention, but it just doesn't work like that anymore. I decided that truly nobody likes you when you're 23, not even God.<br />
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So I moved to California.<br />
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Once there I Vada Sultenfussed around trying to put pieces of Mommabear (from long before she was Mommabear) together, fill in my little void, rip apart the chains of my past and be my own Theresa. I succeeded at all of my objectives all the while flailing around like an attention starved toddler in a tiara. Well, maybe an attention starved 12 year old in a tiara (NOTE: I did not wear tiaras when I was 12. I changed my name every half hour). And instead of finding freedom in all of this discovery about Mommabear and myself, I became clingy and even more desperate. Except on the outside I would appear to the normal human eye to be stable, well-adjusted, and adventurous.<br />
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In the throes of 25, I became engaged and suddenly my self-serving plea for attention stopped. I just tired of it in my preparation for life as one with another person. I allowed the chaos I bombarded myself with to stop (which was good because the Army has presented me with enough chaos, it doesn't need my help. Better to save my energy) and I became peaceful and calm and stopped crying all the time. And I prayed more. And God blessed me. And I found Mommabear comforting me again. And I am happy.<br />
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No more flinging myself off of top bunks for me, but I do jump on the bed, laugh and snort a lot, and partake of crazy, life-affirming adventures. And almost set my dress on fire on my wedding day :)Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-51001988646932873912012-01-08T22:08:00.000-05:002012-01-08T22:08:10.037-05:00How Addiction GoesThis blog post I've linked to below describes exactly what it was like to be in the throes of addiction and desperately wanting a way out. And it also is spot on for how it felt when I began to struggle again after I had broken the addiction-- praise the Lord, truly, for giving me the grace to not fall under addiction again.<br />
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Steve, <a href="http://www.stevegershom.com/2012/01/quine/">this is such an excellent post</a>. Thank you, thank you, thank you.<br />
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<a href="http://www.stevegershom.com/2012/01/quine/">http://www.stevegershom.com/2012/01/quine/</a>Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-20621430626272984082011-12-26T14:09:00.000-05:002011-12-26T14:09:36.723-05:00Fruit of the Vine, Work of My HandsI have done a lot of damage to myself through the use of my hands. And somehow, through the mysterious grace of God, through those instruments of destruction, I will also find redemption. I always thought that meant through my writing. I have been a storyteller since I could talk and writer since before I could really write. I dreamed of growing up and joining the ranks of the great authors, in fact, I told my high school English teacher I wanted to be a combination of Mark Twain and Emily Dickinson.<br />
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While I find much good coming from writing, I find that much more is coming in other ways. Through making and packing my husband's lunch for him, cleaning our apartment, washing dishing, holding my husband's hand or giving him a massage after a long day-- things that some would consider extremely mundane and ordinary. But these are the things that have provided me with the most healing. Why? Because I am no longer serving myself, as masturbation led me to do, but I am serving others and most importantly the one who I am one with. Service and healing start at home and then overflow from there to flood the world.<br />
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While addiction and masturbation were horrible, it provided me with two necessary things: strength and trust to carry on through the dark times and a deeper understanding and gratefulness for mercy. Time to go clean the kitchen from our Italian Seven Fishes meal last night :) Merry Christmas!<br />
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<br />Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-64790432348491365782011-12-19T12:43:00.008-05:002011-12-19T14:10:28.912-05:00Free At Last, I Am Free At Last<blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote>I was told love is the cure, that all I must do to find freedom from my bonds, my chains to "the habit" was to fall in love. To direct oneself outward, the easiest path is to fall in love with another person, be in relationship. I heard this from a friend who heard it from a priest. But we hear it all the time from the world-- love (in the shadow of lust and infatuation) is the cure to any problem you might have and it only has to be love a little bit. I'm sure the priest was well-intentioned and now I can see the higher wisdom in his words, but falling in love was not the cure to my addiction.<div><br /></div><div>Love was the problem. Not because I could not "fall in love" (some friends described me as boy-crazy), not because I did not desire that, and not because I was not in love with the Lord. Contrarily, it was love of the Lord that brought me to this place of desiring to destroy this addiction and sin in my life. No, the problem of love was that I did not believe I was lovable. I did not believe I was beautiful or could be loved. And that fueled the infinite, fiery pit of addiction in my soul. </div><div><br /></div><div>Only someone infinite could extinguish that hell and fill me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Love was the answer. Not love for or from the Lord or another person, but self-love. I could list every minute problem, weakness, and failing I had, I could come up with every reason possible why I was not lovable or beautiful. It took Infinite Love for me to realize that it was not He who did not love me, but me who did not love me. I gazed upon the Crucifix like Mary Magdalen gazed upon Christ when caught in adultery and felt how she felt-- Love was standing before me, forgiving me, inviting me deeper, and I had one choice left, whether or not to forgive myself. The Magdalen followed Christ the rest of her days, even following Him to the Cross because she found she could not remain unforgiving to herself when so infinite a mercy was being poured out upon her. In a moment that can only be described as the Divine rushing wind in the small whisper of the Holy Spirit, I said, "Theresa, I forgive you for being too weak to stop masturbating." </div><div><br /></div><div>Love is still the answer. Even though I have fallen in love and married a wonderfully godly man, my struggles have not magically left me. Those envious, parasitic temptations still vie for a place in my soul to dwell, but I recognize them now. I see them as they are now and I see me as I am-- Theresa, fallen yet good. </div><div><br /></div><div>The chorus of "Martyrs and Thieves" (by Jennifer Knapp) begins: <blockquote></blockquote></div><div></div><blockquote><div>So turn on the light and reveal all the glory</div><div>I am not afraid</div><div>To bear all my weakness, knowing in meekness</div><div>I have a kingdom to gain</div></blockquote><div>I am a slave to sin nor to my own mercilessness anymore. I am free. And I am running and fighting, inching however slowly towards that Kingdom. I have left my chains and old ways behind. </div>Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-80226616815678158962011-12-16T12:48:00.002-05:002011-12-16T12:54:25.930-05:00Allow Me to Explain<div><blockquote></blockquote>...why I call myself the "Fetal Theologian". You see, fetuses are teeny, tiny human beings and in the realm of theologians, well, I'm about as far from a Doctor of the Church as a fetus is developmentally to a very old lady, maybe even further. But yet even the tiniest voices should be heard and so I give you mine. But perhaps St. Therese better explains my title when she writes:</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></div><div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><blockquote>"O Jesus, I know that for You the saints have done foolish things as well as wonderful ones, for they were eagles. I, however, am too little to do great things, and my foolishness lies in hoping that Your love accepts me as a victim; it lies in counting on the angels and saints to help me, my beloved Eagle, to fly to You on Your own wings."</blockquote> </span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><br /></span></blockquote></div>Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-47403658882864186782011-12-16T10:30:00.006-05:002011-12-16T11:44:07.618-05:00For the First Time, In TechnicolorThe day I found freedom from my addiction haunts me. It haunts me like a beautiful mysterious lady haunts you after a simple hello. And I desperately want to have a conversation. I had given up on conversation right before this. I had tried talking and conversing for so long and still I was saddled with this ugly, hidden "habit"; this thing that made me less woman in so many ways and made me certainly not worthy of God, and it seemed there was nothing He was doing about it. <div><br /></div><div>I self identified not as Theresa but as Masturbator. It had been with me for so long-- 20 years of "the habit" itself and approximately 10 of those 20 in actual addiction-- that it seemed like who I was. I could no longer see Theresa as separate and innately different from Masturbator. I didn't think God could either. </div><div><br /></div><div>But, as is often the case, I was wrong.<br /><div><br /></div><div>The day I found freedom from the addiction to masturbation hit me like I imagine dying and going to heaven to be like. The old self not just melts but is violently ripped away and you are submerged into so much glory there is no possible way for you to take it all in, except in eternity. The veil had been lifted. As though I were the in the nitty underground of a black and white picture, I saw color for the first time.</div></div>Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-88825200211295450562011-12-15T10:58:00.003-05:002011-12-15T11:01:44.720-05:00I Got Married!!Just a little note to say...I GOT MARRIED!! Yay! It happened back on Thanksgiving weekend and I have been busy settling into my new life for the past few weeks now and loving every minute of it! Thank you, Lord, for the gift of my husband who is my best friend and for the gift of imaging You through marriage. May You bless us and help us be evermore a light of Your love and glory. All for the greater glory of God! All for the Sacred and Eucharistic Heart of Jesus, all through the Sorrowful and Immaculate Heart of Mary, in union with St. Joseph. Amen!Theresa Zoe Williamshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04282776405096155319noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-76807642870949832352011-10-29T09:54:00.003-04:002012-04-04T17:42:47.310-04:00The Biggness of My Littleness<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Sometimes I get so wrapped up in being a part of something bigger than myself that I forget to be just me. It is good to buy <a href="http://www.toms.com/">TOMS shoes</a> (I own three pairs) and donate to and start charities. We are part of something bigger than our own here and now, but big, meaningful endeavors are not started by people who lose sight of who they are. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My tendency is to so impersonally be a part of an endeavor or charity that in my personal life I feel lost and without mission or purpose. This is not how I was created to feel! Every moment of my life is meant to be jam-packed with purpose, whether I'm writing a book, starting something big, writing an email to a friend who is struggling, or spending time with my friends and family. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Life is about the small, everyday things we do creating ripples that get bigger and bigger. Don't get lost in the impact of a tidal wave that makes the world better. Be the unique pebble you are and create your own ripples. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-24515677236794098362011-10-10T13:03:00.002-04:002011-10-10T13:04:50.320-04:00Civil Rights Movement vs Gay Rights Movement<a href="http://littlecatholicbubble.blogspot.com/2011/10/why-gay-marriage-cant-be-hitched-to.html">Here</a> is a link to an awesome blog post about the civil rights and gay rights movements. Enjoy!<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-67955475158145342562011-10-01T11:33:00.009-04:002011-10-01T12:41:42.897-04:00On the Feast of St. Therese of Lisieux and the 40th Anniversary of Walt Disney WorldToday is the feast of St. Therese of Lisieux, the Little Flower, co-patron of France, co-patron of the missions, Doctor of the Church, my patroness and heroine. Today also happens to be the 40th Anniversary of Walt Disney World in Orlando, FL; the expansion of Walt's dream. Both of these celebrations should reverberate with us--they are extremely important for childhood. <img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K5O1nBc-2UE/TodAa2Ik8XI/AAAAAAAAABg/iORdHpqbfTs/s320/image_wdwlogo1971_1.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658562286766584178" style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 87px; " /><div><br /></div><div>St. Therese was born into a well-off French family where she never wanted for material necessities but was given the simple faith of a child yearning for more. She knew she was not made exclusively for this life; a fact that was abruptly pounded into her with the death of her mother when Theresewas only 4 and a half. But, for all the suffering she encountered in her life, she never lost her zeal or her faith or her imagination, and she had a big imagination! She used all of her faculties to propel her towards the reality that this world is passing and that we are made for another.</div><div><br /></div><div>Walt was a man of a simple, unorganized religious faith. What mostly encompassed him was patriotism, love of family, and imagination. He saw a picture bigger than himself and bigger than the reality he was living in, and let nothing stand in his way. Walt created and innovated until the day he died, never losing his grounding and affection for his family, and never losing sight of the bigger reality--that there is more to this world than what we see, more than the here and now.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we think of Walt Disney, we think of this man who created Mickey Mouse and otherbeloved characters, along with theme parks and experiences to allow us to be a part of the magic. What we sometimes overlook is his dedication to humanity, to making the now as good as it can be and to making the future an even better place. It is easy to say Walt loved childhood and imagination, but really, Walt was obsessed with childhood and knew that in order to be a good adult, a person needs to have the virtue of childlikeness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Childlikeness was thevirtue that paved the way for St. Therese's ascent to holiness. She knew that in order to be big, one must be very small. Who is smaller than a child? Even God chose to come into the world first and a tiny, vulnerable baby, a child. Upon entering the convent, Therese took the name Sr. There of the Child Jesus; she is sometimes still known by this today, although she is much more widely known as Therese of Lisiuex or The Little Flower. Her devotion to the Child Jesus is of no surprise, nor is it a surprise that we know her as the Little Flower--tiny, delicate, often overlooked, hidden. St. Therese truly took to heart and embodied Christ's words, "Let the children come to me" (Matthew 19:14) and she ran to Him!</div><div><br /></div><div>Walt wanted the children to come, also. He envisioned a place where children could live out all of their fantasies and use their imagination and a place where their parents could come and spend time with them, once again opening their minds and imaginations to their younger days. He said, "Every child is blessed with a vivid imagination" and meant that we should never outgrow our imaginations, that imagination is what pushes us forward and makes us great.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_qY4Q1RFBNs/TodAbT8hfNI/AAAAAAAAABw/bMJnKaVRyyo/s1600/waltdisney.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_qY4Q1RFBNs/TodAbT8hfNI/AAAAAAAAABw/bMJnKaVRyyo/s320/waltdisney.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658562294769089746" style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px; " /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>It may be argued that Walt was a greater imagination than St. Therese as he made and produced 73 animated and live-action movies from 1937 through 1966 and also worked on "The Jungle Book" (released in 1967 after his death) which was the last movie and animated feature he worked on, opened one theme park and planned another, along with producing television shows, and many other ventures. But in three years, St. Therese wrote, directed, and starred in eight plays that she performed for the convent, wrote countless poems over her five years in the convent, and also wrote her autobiography at the request of her sisters. If you're into a little math, if you divide the number of plays St. Therese wrote in her three years as compared to the number of movies Walt made in 29 years, it comes out to almost the same number. But this isn't a numbers game, we're talking impact.</div><div><br /></div><div>St. Therese was not seen as someone great really until her death, while Walt was known as someone great early on. St. Therese did nothing outward to gain affection or glory for herself and Walt leant his name to these great things that he dreamed up to let people know they were of good quality and wholesome--in different ways, both achieved becoming something greater than themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>While Walt Disney has made a much more outward impact on us, calling us on to childhood and imagination and innovation, St. Therese has had just as much of an impact calling us on to childlikeness, dependence on God, and holiness. Both show us that littleness, childlikeness is superior to bigness and pride, and that, perhaps, the way of childlikeness and littleness is the most pure and quickest way to our dreams and to holiness.</div><div><br /></div><div>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:Times;font-size:medium;">You know well enough that Our Lord does not look so much at the greatness of our actions, nor even at their difficulty, but at the love at which we do them." ~St. Therese of Lisieux</span><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fPCJYcAt0vs/TodAbOiX1TI/AAAAAAAAABo/F-K0GnlyV3U/s320/st%2Btherese.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5658562293317227826" style="cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 300px; " /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">St. Therese of Lisieux and Walt Disney loved without borders and performed every action, executed every idea with the greatest of love. Today is a celebration of the human spirit, imagination, and greatne</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Times; font-size: medium; ">ss through childlikeness and littleness. Happy Birthday Walt Disney World! St. Therese of Lisieux, pray for us!</span></div><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-89314812795890253352011-09-30T10:52:00.004-04:002011-09-30T11:13:05.245-04:00I Want to Be Little AgainI want to be little again. I long for the times when going to my friend's house meant that she and I would run around the house and play games downstairs while our parents would talk upstairs. When there were no worries except if I would like what we were having for dinner or falling asleep during Mass. When all I wanted was to see the newest Disney movie and live adventures. When Mommabear was alive and I had no doubts that she would always be there to help me and care for me. <div><br /></div><div>Things were simpler when I was 7. In fact, things didn't start to get complicated until I turned 12. Oh puberty. I can pinpoint all of the ages where I have felt a significant leap or development in maturity (if you're curious: 12, 16, 20, 23). I have a feeling another leap is coming upon me as my wedding is impending (I'm 26 now). </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes things are too much, too heavy, too complicated, too involved. Being home makes me yearn for the simple, the young, the living, the past. The photo project I have started does not help this. I have gone through all of the rolls of pictures my parents had taken throughout the years, organized them according to year, then gone through year by year to take which pictures I want, put them in order, and then label them (and my labels are very detailed). I'm averaging 75 pictures per year and I have pictures from every year from 1984 through 2000, plus extras. It has been good for me to go through my life year by year, see who I was, what my parents looked like, where we went, and to remember. And it has been healing. </div><div><br /></div><div>For the first time in many years, I am truly ready to move on with my life. I am ready to keep growing. In fact, I'm not sure that I've ever been ready to grow before; it normally just smacks me upside the head as I'm in the midst of it. I'm glad I'm home, I'm glad I'm where I'm at, I'm glad I have forewarning of growth, I'm glad I'm ready to grow, I'm glad for growth, I'm glad for life. I miss being the carefree child I was, but now I can be a carefree adult. Sometimes much harder said than done, especially as I feel the complete weight of familial burdens. I miss Mommabear. She was my safety net, my buffer, my partner, my friend. But something I learned from being a child was to believe in the invisible and to have faith and trust. Even when I could not see Mommabear or be with her when I was little, I always knew she was with me, I carried her with me. So I do the same now, but in an even more profound way. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-12743912057967696062011-09-27T13:49:00.005-04:002011-09-27T14:01:36.459-04:00My Hair<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>My hair has grown very long (and I have let it mostly on account of the wishes of my fiance, Jess. But I have grown to love it, too) and I have been contemplating a cut and dye after I get married, especially since I am moving to Texas where</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span">it gets very hot. But some background: I enjoy having long hair, I'm just a little bored, but I think my current grown-out cut suits my face very well. Also, I am in love with my natural color, it is perfect for my complexion; however, I am beginning to get grays and so will have to let go of my love for my natural color sooner anyway (I know what you must be thinking...grays?!? How? You are far too young for grays! Why, you can't be older than 18! Wrong, I am 26 and while I still think I am too young for grays both my cousin Paula and my soon-to-be-brother-in-law Jon laugh in my face as they began going gray at 16).</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); ">Me now:</span><br /><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7PD1VWIdTBY/ToIOjmAYbeI/AAAAAAAAABQ/KTC14EUqxYI/s320/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-09-27%2Bat%2B13.53.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657100086591122914" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><div>What Jess thinks I should do:</div></span><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kn0iQriNsZg/ToIO_aLYu_I/AAAAAAAAABY/OlsCtT4KW7Q/s320/Lily-how-i-met-your-mother-3014966-1024-768.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657100564452391922" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></div><div><br /></div><div>What I'm thinking is a little more length than Lily here, maybe a little below shoulder length (that still takes about 6 inches of hair off) and with lowlights of her color and blonde highlights. That way, I can keep some of my natural color and length and still do something new and fun! Thoughts?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8867502610620783879.post-83547725555082769982011-09-27T12:41:00.007-04:002011-09-27T13:11:21.319-04:00Every Flower Must Grow Through Dirt<span class="Apple-style-span">I've always been entranced by stories of homeless people, especially young people, and people who come through such debilitating and gritty situations to find life and love and meaning. I devoured stories about life on the edge, punks, rebels, addicts. My life seemed so whitewashed and clean compared to theirs and so...boring. I wanted a life of excitement and the straight and narrow path didn't really seem to accomodate that. Why did I fi</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span">nd beauty and excitement in these other lives and not in my own? Because there is beauty in grittiness.</span><span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yuaFa9I8SdU/ToH-uLPKwAI/AAAAAAAAABA/Y1FAcpgE4ls/s1600/610x.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yuaFa9I8SdU/ToH-uLPKwAI/AAAAAAAAABA/Y1FAcpgE4ls/s320/610x.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657082676197900290" /></a>There is rawness and realness to a gritty life, a life on the edge. There is no room for maybe or maybe not, only do or don't, live or die. In a way, it is a very profound life. You must always be real and up-front, in touch with who you are, and because, most often, a gritty life is a life at rock bottom or close, you can be who you want to be. Being empty leaves you with space to fill up with and what you fill up with is your choice. <div><br /></div><div>But what we know about a gritty life is that it doesn't normally end well. With that emptiness come the natural desire to be full and some people do not know how to fill themselves with good things. Addiction, over-dose, death, and suicide often ensue. This does not appeal to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want a raw, real life full of adventure and excitement. I don't want to just explore a place, I want to play in it. But I don't want a whitewashed life, never experiencing any suffering. Why? Because out of our suffering emerges such beauty and virtue, resistance and perseverance--all of the things that can make us great. </div><div><br /></div></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O7pxSLU9s9Q/ToICdlJlicI/AAAAAAAAABI/cIa0WLWVgDo/s320/jesus-christ-on-cross-close-up-black-and-white.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657086789142546882" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span><span class="Apple-style-span"></span><span class="Apple-style-span"><div><br />And that's how I fell in love with Christ. That's when I discovered who I want to be and how I want to live my life. God, Who did not spare Himself any pain or suffering but Who also led an amazing life of joy, excitement, intimacy, and love. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is realness in pain. When we have nothing left, there is no fear in showing who we are or where we are at. This is Christ's call to us everyday, to be who we are, who we are created to be. And above all else, I am His.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#0000ee;"><u><br /></u></span></div></div></span><div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0