I wish I could have known him, could have gazed up at him in all his six foot two-ness, could have run my fingers through his thick dark hair, could have held him as he whispered his wisdom, his verses, in my ear. Is it right to have these feelings, to think these thoughts about someone I would never have met, someone I will never meet, his body lying in a grave nearly seven years now? Yet somehow I feel like I know him, his rebel exterior, his faithful God-heart. And because of him I cling to hope.

I'm a liar, he's a liar, she's a liar, we're a liar, wouldn't you like to be a liar too? (With apologies to Dr Pepper).

I wonder if there was ever a time in my life when I was completely honest -- honest with myself and honest with others. I look back at pictures of a bespectacled girl with her brown, braided hair in loops next to her ears and I wonder if her innocence is truthful -- or if she's already started on the path to the liar she will become. Is she already living her lie?

I lied again today. It was small -- a white lie -- but nevertheless a lie. It rolled off my tongue so easily -- too easily. It was a lie of self-preservation, a lie to prevent an argument. Does that make it good? Noble? Okay?

It shouldn't be so easy to tell untruths; it shouldn't be so easy to deceive. What would my life be like if I, Pinocchio-esque, were unable to lie?

A lie haunts forever, yet I know that I wouldn't be living this life if it weren't for that one little, years-ago lie...

I write and worry about your thoughts.

I don't wake up with intentions to lie -- many days I don't lie deliberately at all -- but the snowball of one long-ago lie rolls on, so I always carry guilt, guilt that is sometimes tolerable, sometimes unbearable, yet always, always there.

It's likely I don't know you and will never meet you, yet I feel guilty for the truth of my lies and guilty for exposing my sin to you and wonder if I should instead hide my "self" with pretty words and fake impressions about my day.

Johnny Cash once said that sin and redemption are the themes of his life. He said that when he was really bad, he wasn't all bad, and when he was trying hard to be good, he could never be all good -- there would always be a black streak running through.

Although I'd never thought about sin and redemption in this way, I have to agree with him. I'm hard on myself, I admit. I want perfection; I demand it of myself. Falling short is hard for me. Thinking about it all Cash's way helps.

Sometimes I can't see the point of anything I accomplish. I do (and mostly enjoy) what's expected of me, the "mom" work, yet I'm just holding my breath, waiting for my real purpose to reveal itself.

Many things interest me. I was a college instructor and a journalist; I have a master's in English; I write and love to read... I get excited about all the creative people I meet who are doing their creative things, but I can't seem to find the one thing that really belongs to me. I wonder if I ever will.

Restlessness. That's the word I've been reaching for. I feel restless, unconnected from my life. I float above that woman (me) who on the surface appears to have it all together while secretly yearning for more.

It's not that I don't like or appreciate what I have. I do. I love my life. But I feel like I'm missing something, like I'm supposed to be doing something more, and I become frustrated because I don't know what that "something" is.

Restless.

Fidgety.

Uneasy.

Searching and waiting and longing to know...

I'm not interested in doing something "big." I don't need to be famous. But I feel an emptiness; there's something there I haven't discovered.

I consider myself a creative person. I write, which is creative, but I'm not sure I've hit upon that thing which I'm supposed to do -- was put here on this earth to do -- quite yet. Maybe I just haven't found my medium. Maybe I'm a crafter, a painter, a woodworker like my family before me. Or maybe I am a writer who just hasn't yet found her voice.

He wasn't scary, and when he walked up close to my car window I discovered that he wasn't smelly either, although his clothes gave that impression. He seemed normal, just old, and pleaded for me to drive him to Tops. "It's such a long walk."

I hesitated. A woman with two children, approached by a man, even this harmless one... I knew the stories. I was afraid -- not of the man but of the unfamiliarity of the situation.

For some reason, though, I told him to get in.

I haven't been the same since.

The phone rang today. Baby on hip, I picked my way across the toy-strewn floor, passing my toddler, who was driving his Hot Wheels jeep around his milk, sandwich untouched. I told him to eat, picked up the phone. "Hello."

"Dana." My dad, voice weary, subdued. Wrong.

"Dad?" A question, bracing myself.

"Dana, my brother Jeffery died today." Do not go gentle...

Hand shaking, I pressed the phone harder to my ear.

"Heart attack." Voice breaking. "He was only fifty."

WHY?

NO PUPPY DOG AND KITTEN DAY

Just

The consuming bitterness, then...

The blowup

Explosion

BAM POW WHAM

Verbal volley

Never stops

Words, crying

Words, screaming

Terror-wrought black anger

Seething, SEETHING

Out of control

Trapped, claustrophobic

This hell hath no fury

The elusive peace

The desperate, unearned forgiveness

Hatred of *being*

Fury that never subsides

This black as midnight rage.

I don't think about it that often, but this morning my husband reminded me about how any time we do something, it's possible that we could be doing that thing for the last time. If you kept this as a constant thought in your mind, a constant refrain, would you do things with more passion, with more conviction? Would you make sure to say the things you've always meant to say? Would you never go to bed angry?

Would I?

My uncle died two days ago. I wonder what his answers to these questions would be...

Last night while walking with my husband and kids, I saw a woman with Crystal Gayle hair. I couldn't help but stare, which I don't like to do because I sometimes become uneasy when I'm scrutinized, but I couldn't stop. I imagine I wasn't the first person to do a double take, as locks that long seem almost an anomaly nowadays. It must be such work to take care of! I myself inherited baby fine hair; if I let it get past my shoulders, it becomes see-through on the ends. My sister, of course, has thick hair.

I read a news story today about a six-year-old artist being hailed as a prodigy. This intrigues me. The watercolor paintings I saw were quite beautiful, well beyond what a "normal" young child could do, and I admit I was somewhat envious that this boy had already found his talent while I, so much older, feel like I'm still flailing, still searching for a clue that will lead me to the person I'm meant to become. I don't paint, but I do write, and I can only hope to create pictures as beautiful as his with my words.

Her laugh broke the silence. It was jarring, even to her, and several in the tiny, packed room turned to glare. Her cheeks reddened, and she studied the paper in her hands, the paper that held the answers to her fate. She read the words again, silently moving her lips, listening to their cadence in her mind.

The door opened, and a man carrying a scroll began to call out names. She held her breath but heard no "Eve." As she threw the paper on the floor and stood to leave the room, she laughed again, smiling now.

He felt it then, a sudden flourish of hate. It wasn't an all-consuming hatred or loathing. It was just a sudden burst, a flourish -- no more.

But as he continued to study her, hoping to find some quality to redeem her, he was overwhelmed by the heaviness of her sin. It crushed him; he couldn't bear its weight.

He had prided himself on seeing good, in choosing love. But her black heart challenged him, broke him, forced him to shake hands with the blackness of his own heart.

And hate began its reign.

True Love

"Who was on the phone?"

"What?"

"You heard me. Who were you talking to?"

"Ah, it was nobody. Just work."

"On Sunday?"

"It was about the schedule. Get off my back."

"The schedule? It's set! What changed? Who was that?"

"You drive me insane. It was Sheila, okay. We've decided to lock you in a room with only your own voice for company, then run off. Together. It's on the schedule."

"Smart ass."

"Nag."

I might be pregnant.

This is a good thing, but it's strange to write the words and then see them here in black and white. My husband and I have two children, both very young, and my husband has two much older sons from his previous marriage. We weren't trying to have another child, but I believe that God ordains these things, so if we're blessed with a third, I will be grateful. It's early; we'll see what the next days bring.

Tomorrow is my birthday and wedding anniversary. What a wonderful gift this would be!

Today is my birthday and my wedding anniversary.

Today is also (apparently) day one of my miscarriage.

Happy birthday and anniversary to me...

Yesterday morning I tested positive for pregnancy. This morning I also had a positive result. Then a few hours later, I began to bleed -- not much, but enough. I saw the doctor, who said that I'm probably going to lose this baby...

I've had four pregnancies, two of which have ended in miscarriages. It doesn't get any easier.

My birthday will always mark my loss...

Company will be here today: my mother-in-law and sister-in-law. I'm trying to clean, make beds, sweep floors, straighten toys... I'm trying to forget that as I go about these daily things I'm losing the life that had lived within me, if only briefly.

It's impossible to forget.

It's time for the fake happy smiles and the fake happy hugs. Time for inane chitchat about petty things. Time to hear about my niece's pregnancy while mourning the loss of my own.

Time to pretend that everything is okay when it's not.

I've started many entries today, but I can't seem to find any words. Everything I type seems meaningless and empty. It's been a difficult two days.

I've been waiting by the phone all day. One of the doctors from my practice was supposed to call with my blood test results, yet my phone has been silent. I already know the answer, but I wish she would call, make it official, let me begin to grieve.

Although I've been through this before, the pain is just as great.

Good-bye, my precious angel.

"Do you have any regrets?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Really? You think everyone has regrets?"

"Why do you sound so disbelieving? Why can't you just admit that there are things in your life you wish you had done differently?"

"How do you know how I feel about my own life? Don't you think you're being rather presumptuous?"

"How can you presume to presume that I'm being presumptuous? Aren't you being presumptuous to presume you've lived a life with no regrets?"

"Well, I regret that we're having this conversation. How's that?"

Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like if I had taken a different path, like Frost's Road Not Taken. There are days when I feel I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be, yet other days I feel like I've missed something, as if I made the "wrong" choice at some point and that choice has led me to a place other than my intended one. It's not that I'm unhappy with my life -- not at all. It's just that sometimes I sit and wonder what life would be like if I were still with you...

When my husband suggested that we marry on my birthday, my first words were Absolutely not. It was one day I could call my own, and sharing it felt almost like a sacrilege. Then fate intervened: if we wanted to marry in August (we did), my birthday was the only day the justice could perform the ceremony. That settled it.

I don't mind sharing as much as I thought I would, and it certainly simplifies my husband's life, who has found one date much easier to remember than two.

(Thank you for your condolences.)

When she logged into that chat room, she didn't expect to find redemption -- but she did.

That room became her world, her escape from her husband's verbal volleys and uncontrolled rage, her refuge from thrown glasses and broken promises. She could hide there, feel safe there. And even when her husband hit her, screamed at her, accused her of things only he had done, she could cocoon herself in the knowledge that her friends online would free her, redeem her. Her husband could devastate her body, but he couldn't have her soul.

And she grew strong.

When I was in the seventh grade, I took a creative writing class. I loved that class. Mrs. Jacobson was inspiring and encouraging; she enjoyed my work as much as I enjoyed creating it, and she urged me to continue writing. I remember how proud I was when she chose my stories above the others in the class for display in the school arts festival. I think about her often, especially during the times when I'm not writing. I was so free back then. Ideas and words came quickly and easily. I long for that same freedom now.

When I worked in academia, I saw how Publish or Perish ruled lives, yet I feel that requirement only stifles writers, forcing them to write rather than allowing them to follow their creativity where it takes them. I think that's sad.

I've always wanted to write a book about my parents, who have, I believe, a compelling story to tell. I have no delusions about selling this book, likely of interest to only a few, but I'm going to write it because I think it's important to tell the stories, thereby keeping my family history alive.

It hurts me that you only just told me that you're not sure you really believe in God. I thought we shared this belief; maybe you just fake it well. You've always talked about faith as if you meant it. I don't understand.

Obviously you can believe what you want, but I wish you would have told me before we pledged our commitment to each other before God. I don't know if I'd be with you right now if I'd known; faith is that important to me. You should have told me. I had the right to know.

"It's no big deal."

I just overheard you saying these four words on the phone to your oldest son, and my stomach dropped. You said them when he expressed regret about being unable to come home for our daughter's baptism, which we (or at least I) will celebrate in two weeks.

I don't understand what's happening to you. Her baptism is important -- it's so important -- and to hear you say otherwise cuts me to my soul. You were never like this before. What's wrong? What's changed you?

I just want to understand.

I've drifted away from a lot of friends in my life. Most often we grew apart because I moved (from Michigan to Nebraska to Wisconsin to New York), but in this day and age, physical distance is really no excuse.

I taught college in Nebraska for about six years and formed a lot of close relationships during that time. Now, about eight years after I left that job, I'm in contact with only one of those people. I don't think it's anyone's fault, but I do wonder if I was ever truly friends with any of them. Sad.

I attended my high school class reunion about a month ago -- twenty years. Two of my classmates have died, Bob of a heart attack at 35 and Rick from a car accident soon after we graduated. I didn't know Bob well, as he didn't join our class until high school, but I grew up with Rick. We weren't friends, but he had been in my classes since elementary. I remember one time in sixth grade Rick was standing behind me in line and I felt him run his finger down my back to see if I was wearing a bra.