The Seeking Daddy Project Day 28: The albatross.

I admit, sometimes my spirit rubs up against being a corporate shill the wrong way.

For the most part, I like my job.  I'm very blessed to have it.  My company fosters a wonderful working environment, my team is supportive and collaborative, and my intelligence and initiative are encouraged and rewarded.  I'm blessed.

But then, sometimes this English major's little soul gets lost in CRMs and ROI and the endless questions of "So how is your company going to make me money?" and I just want to pull out a Victorian novel and hide under my desk.

As I've whined previously, February was tough.  I'm on the sales side of the company, and it was a short month anyway, coupled with several days lost because of the blasted, incessant snow.  We were struggling to even come close to our goals at the end of this month.  I swear, if I find white hairs in my head this weekend, I'll be able to pinpoint exactly the moment, at almost 4pm this afternoon when we still weren't quite there, that they appeared.

All that said, this week, my long-suffering English major heart enjoyed a glimmer of hope when, as I was speaking with the CEO of a company I was trying to get interested in our service, he said something to the effect of "...so it becomes an albatross around their necks."

Coleridge! I thought.  He knows Coleridge!

It's not every day I hear a Romantic poet quoted in everyday business conversation, let me tell you.

And so, to hasten the end of this dreadful month and move happily forward into warmer weather, longer days, and better ability to just get people on the bloody phone and do our jobs, I shall leave you with a little snippet of the poem he was referencing:

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!To Mary Queen the praise be given!She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,That slid into my soul. -"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"


Goodnight, folks.  Happy March!

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 27: Apologies.

This week's been rough, y'all. This whole month has, really. And I haven't been handling it well. I've been whiny and petulant and needy and angsty and temperamental. I've complained more than I've comforted, by far. I've gossiped where I should have been graceful. I've responded with consternation instead of with consideration. I've been selfish. And I'm ashamed.

I was at a Rob Thomas concert a few years ago, back when his last solo album came out. Before he sang "Little Wonders," he told us his dog had actually inspired the song. 

"I was feeling all depressed and annoyed at the time, I remember," he said, "But when I got the leash to take my dog on a walk, he was so happy he could hardly stand it. We walked all around and he sniffed everything and had to check everything out and he was just so damn joyful just to be walking with me. And I thought, I am such an asshole. I came home and wrote this song."

I've been working long hours this week, getting home later than normal and collapsing. I haven't been playing with Lottie or paying attention to her as much as usual. Tonight, tired of sitting around all week, I asked her, "Sweetheart, do you want to go on a walk?"

She got so excited that she started darting back and forth and all around the house the way she does when she just can't contain herself with glee. As I was strapping on her harness (which took three tries because she kept wiggling out of my grasp in her happiness), I remembered Rob's story. And in that moment, I felt humbled. I am such an asshole.

Please forgive me. That's all I can really ask. 

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 26: Failure.

Everyone, I have to apologize. Work is crazy busy, I'm overwhelmed, and Lottie is all "I have no mother!" because of how late I've been getting home this week. It's the end of the month and I'm in sales. We have quotas, people. QUOTAS. I'm actually pecking this blog post out on my iPhone because I'm so tired I literally can't go back downstairs and turn the computer on for 5 minutes.

I'll be back with a (real) new post tomorrow - I promise!

Until then, pull up Pandora and listen to "O Danny Boy" in my honor. I love that song - it's hauntingly beautiful.

Onward to Thursday!

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 25: Come on, PURR!

“Purr!!  Come on, PURR, you little mutt!”

My boyfriend Tate loves cats.  Unfortunately, we’re both allergic to them, but alternately he is slowly warming up to my Lottie.   Up until now, he hasn’t been her biggest fan because by virtue of her size, her bark is high-pitched and hurts his ears; plus, I’m guilty of spoiling her just a bit.  I think it’s more that he’s had to come to terms with the fact that he’s dating a single mom than anything else, really.

Everyone loves Lottie eventually, though.  She’s just that amazing.

Sunday afternoon, as we were on the couch catching up on the show we watch together, “Almost Human,” Lottie snuggled between us and rolled over onto her back so he could rub her belly.  I watched this moment play out in delight, struggling to conceal my happiness that he was finally taking to her.

Tate petted Lottie absentmindedly for awhile; then, during a commercial, he seemed to take more notice.  “Come on, purr!”

The thing is...toy poodles don’t purr.

Not wanting him to be disappointed, and relishing in this heretofore unseen moment of affection between them (Lottie snuggles up against him regularly, not understanding the concept of a person who doesn’t like her because it’s literally never happened before, but he’s taken a bit longer to come around), I tried to produce a guttural, purring sound in the back of my throat.  It sounded more like I was choking on a hairball.

“Purrrrrhrhghghghrrrrrrr,” I growled.

Tate looked at me in surprise. I immediately stopped and made my eyes super wide.  “Oh my gosh, she’s PURRING!”

He burst into laughter.

“You sound like you’re hocking something up!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  She was purring!”

“You’re a goober,” he said, shaking his head.

He continued petting her and I continued to try to make purring sounds, to little avail.  Eventually I had to stop because, well, phlegm.

After Tate left, I was thinking about closely that relates to our relationship with God at times.  We want to hear from God.  We want a neon sign from Heaven.  We want direction, or clarity, or blessings, or answers.  We want purring.

Come on, God, purr!

But sometimes God doesn’t purr.  Sometimes God is like a little toy poodle who just snuggles up against us and shows us His love that way.

And shouldn’t that be enough?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 24: Ummmm...

"How do you know which are the best deals?" a male voice to my right inquired.

I was standing at the meat cooler at the back of Food Lion, sifting through different types of ground beef: 93/7, 85/15, 80/20.  Tubes in perfectly portioned pounds.  Packages with a little more, a little less, a bit here and there, weighed out.  I was concentrating.

Last week, seeing that my team was suffering though malaise because of snow days and a general inability to just get anyone on the phone so we could, y'know, do our jobs, I decided the thing I could do would be to cook something.  We can have a team lunch! I thought. It'll be awesome!

So, a week ago, I sent an email out to my whole team titled "ITALIAN FEAST!" and now there's a conference room booked and my coworkers are bringing sides and oh yeah, I remembered this afternoon...I should probably go get the stuff to make the lasagna.

I was getting ready to make a decision when this perfectly pleasant man decided to strike up a conversation.

Now, mind you, at this point in my life I'm usually fine in random social interactions.  I talk on the phone to 50 strangers every day, for crying out loud.  I'm no longer the awkward, shy, bumbling child I used to be.  I'm lovely - chatty, even - most of the time.  My manager said he wanted to hire me after the first time we spoke on the phone because you just can't fake that.

But sometimes, it's late and I've worked for 10 hours and all I want to do is get out of this store and go home to my dog and curl up away from all human contact and there's a stranger talking to me.

"Umm, I, uh...I'm just looking at them," I stammered, wondering in that moment why I was even nervous.

"I'm usually a this type of guy," he pointed at the 70/30 ground round in the right hand corner of the cooler, "But I know it's not as good for me."

I didn't really know how to respond.  It was like I had forgotten how to have a conversation.

Suddenly I was aware that I was blocking almost all the other selections.  "Oh, I'm sorry, am I in your way?"

The man looked at me like I had just apologized for existing.  "No!  I'm just...trying to be friendly."

"Oh, sure!" I answered, and rambled out some long winded explanation about how I was getting beef for a "work thing" and how it was going in a recipe and I just wanted to get the best one...but at that point the more I spoke, the less he seemed to care.  The awkwardness hung thick in the air as if an invisible dense fog had enveloped that meat cooler.

I reached back in, shifted one of the packages to the left, grabbed it, and hurried away down the pasta aisle.

There's this thing that Suzanne "Crazy Eyes" does in Orange is the New Black where she hits herself in the temple over and over for being so stupid, and that's just such a perfect representation of how I feel a large portion of the time, I can't even tell you.

I don't get it; I really don't.  I can speak to strangers all day and be as smooth as a frog's belly.  (Now there's an image.)  I can go into a restaurant and strike up a random conversation with the server that spans the hour of a meal.  I even bantered with the checkout guy at Food Lion like ten minutes later! 

And yet, sometimes, I get the better of myself and forget how to speak.  Or think I'm in someone's way.  Or apologize for existing.

I can only hope, as I get older, that this will happen less and less...or else I'm going to have to start smacking myself in the temple in public.  That should help the awkwardness, right?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 23: I'm not bitter.

I've been reading a new book called "Meaty," written by Samantha Irby.  It's honest, vulnerable, heartbreaking, and hilarious, and I can't seem to put it down.

She writes a lot about dating and the tragicomedy it is, which I can totally identify with in so many ways.  She says she's been in love seven times.  I've been in love twice, maybe three times - but definitely twice.  Neither of those relationships worked out.

At 31, after nearly 15 years of dating and almost all of those experiences ending in jagged, devastating heartbreak, I was reading this book when I stumbled across one of the most starkly truthful narratives I've ever seen.  I have to share it, because I could've written it.  These could've been my words as easily as they are hers.

The language is a little salty, so please forgive it; but it's raw and honest and real.  Sam Irby, I feel you.

Bitter.  Scariest word in the entire dictionary.  Meanest word there ever was.  Nastiest tasting word to have in your mouth.  I would almost rather be called a cunt, right to my fucking face, than to have some dismissive asshole refer to me as bitter.  I'm not bitter, I survived a liar.  I'm not bitter, I weathered a cheater.  I'm not bitter, I sustained a massive injury to the giant, bloody muscle in the center of my chest that is responsible for pumping blood through my entire body.  So this hostility you've encountered isn't the result of my ingesting too many sugar-coated romantic comedies and metabolising them into virile hatred for real-life men with all of their salt and their human mistakes.  That would be amazing, if I could just skip weathering all of this heartbreak to instead compare and contrast every prospective boyfriend against the character Denzel played in that one movie I liked.  But no, I came by these feelings honestly.  And I don't accept bitter.  Wounded, yes.  Traumatized, sure.  Grieving, okay.  Anything other than bitter.  I put too much work in to be callously tossed aside as bitter.  Bitter is for someone who hasn't earned it. -"Meaty," page 26

Bitter is for someone who hasn't earned it.

Sam Irby has.  And I have, too.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 22: The more I see.

Today has been one full of reading, of thinking, and yes, even of praying.  I have quite a bit that I'm turning over and over in my mind and heart tonight.  I don't have much extra mental energy tonight, but I thought I'd share one of my favorite Lizzie Bennet quotes from Pride and Prejudice - one that I find scrolling through my thoughts quite often as I get older:

“There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.” 

Jane Austen is the wittiest and sharpest writer I've ever read; she's also, often, the most un-apologetically truthful.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 21: Show me how to go.

I'm sorry this post is so late.  Technically, I'm writing it in the wee hours of the morning on February 22nd, but hopefully you'll all let that slide just this once.

I had the great pleasure of catching up with a friend after work tonight - in fact, this is the first time I've even really been at my computer all day.  I'm sleepy and ponderous after hours of talking about faith and challenges and God's will.  So, to honor our conversation, here's a hymn that I first heard when visiting her church a couple of years ago.  Its beauty haunts me.

Shepherd, show me how to go
         O'er the hillside steep,
How to gather, how to sow, —
         How to feed Thy sheep;
I will listen for Thy voice,
         Lest my footsteps stray;
I will follow and rejoice
         All the rugged way.

Thou wilt bind the stubborn will,
         Wound the callous breast,
Make self-righteousness be still,
         Break earth's stupid rest.
Strangers on a barren shore,
         Lab'ring long and lone,
We would enter by the door,
         And Thou know'st Thine own;

So, when day grows dark and cold,
         Tear or triumph harms,
Lead Thy lambkins to the fold,
         Take them in Thine arms;
Feed the hungry, heal the heart,
         Till the morning's beam;
White as wool, ere they depart,
         Shepherd, wash them clean. -"Feed My Sheep," by Mary Baker Eddy

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 20: Seeing more clearly.

“Wow, these are old,” my optometrist said, peering skeptically at the box of contacts I had brought in for my contact lens fitting.  “We can definitely get you a way better fit than these.”

It’s a pleasant fact of my current existence that I have, quite inadvertently, surrounded myself with dreamboat men to help me get through the mundane trivialities of adult life.  After more than a decade of suffering through a painfully awkward teenage experience and a bumbling early young adulthood, I can somehow now banter easily with men who even a few years ago I’d have been too shy to speak to at all.   My massage therapist is one; my eye doctor is another. The feeling I get when I inevitably deliver some deadpan one-liner that leaves them helpless with laughter is immensely gratifying, let me tell you.  It’s like a sigh of relief after years of holding my breath.

My optometrist is a strapping young man who hails from the same area as my hometown in Pennsylvania.  At my first appointment a few months ago, right after he walked in and shook my hand, I declared, “So bad news: I think I scared your assistant because I’m practically blind.”  He took to me immediately.

“I’m surprised they would even refill this prescription for you after so long,” he mused, shaking his head as he stared in disbelief at the contacts I used.  “I guess because you’re, uh…nice…they figured it was okay.  I definitely wouldn’t have refilled a prescription after four years!”

I tried to look innocent.  “Uh, yeah, about that, so…I really hate the air puff test, so, uh...I just used the same prescription.  It reminds me of dodge-ball in elementary school.”

He chuckled as he updated my file in a tablet-like device that made me feel like we were in Sick Bay on the star ship Enterprise.  “Well, these will be a huge improvement.  They’re much more breathable and comfortable.”

After a few more questions and mournful wails from me when he said my eyes are probably too bad to undergo Lasik, he walked me out to the receptionist where I proceeded to spend half a month’s rent on the exam fee and a year’s supply of these new lenses he recommended.  The chipper girl at the desk put in an order for them to be delivered to my house.  Presumably, for the first time in four years, I’d be able to see more clearly.

Seven business days later, they arrived at my house, and this morning, I pulled back the little foil lid that always makes you feel like you’re opening a tiny present and shoved them into my eyes excitedly.

I’ve been walking around in them all day, and honestly, unless I think about it, I can’t really tell much difference so far.  I haven’t noticed my eyes getting dry as much as usual, even though I was at work a whole hour later than normal today.  And, if I really stop to focus, I can tell my vision is sharper – but it all kind of blends together, really.

Maybe that’s what seeing more clearly is all about – it’s minute, gradual, and not really earth-shattering when it finally happens.  Just one day, you wake up and put on slightly better lenses.

But that tiny little improvement, well, it makes all the difference.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 19: I am worth more.

"That's why I love sales," my manager said, leaning over the little wall of my cubicle and grinning slightly, the way he does when he's sharing a truism.  "To do a job like this, you have to have yourself together.  You have to be self-assured enough - you have to have a sense of your own value and know your own worth and be secure in that - to do it well."

As I've mentioned, my manager is a smart guy.  We seem to have a strength of communication and exchange of ideas, he and I.  Even so, in that moment, I froze inside.  I nodded in agreement as he kept talking, waxing philosophical as he often does...but inside, my mind was racing.

You have to have a sense of your own value. You have to know your own worth.

If we had stayed together, today would have been my two-year anniversary with my ex-boyfriend.

There was never really a time, from the Friday evening we met at the beginning of October 2011, that we weren't dating, but he hemmed and hawed at making it official for four months - probably, again, out of fear.

I'd been thinking about that today, off and on.  During the busy bustle of the office, amidst phone conversations and notes and emails and tasks, whenever I took a moment to pause, to breathe - the date swirled around me.  Memories pulled off their cloaks like dusty statues and showed their faces again.

Know your own value.  Know your own worth.

I remembered that, shortly following our breakup, he checked a dating site in my living room as I made him breakfast the morning after I helped him pack his late father's truck so he could move three hours away.

I remembered that he spent my 30th birthday party three months later texting with another woman.

I remembered that he didn't even bother to call the weekend before my best friend - and one of his very good friends, as well - went to prison for seven years.

Know your own value.  Know your own worth.

I remembered all those things, and I've come to a conclusion.

I am worth more.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 18: Tuesday.

It's Tuesday.

A random, run-of-the-mill, nothing-special Tuesday.

Is God in the mundane?

The softness of my sheets when I wake up.

The sweetness of the green juice I drink every morning as Lottie eats breakfast.

Indulging in McDonald's for breakfast because the sales manager brought it for everyone.

Conversations about work, about our dogs, about our lives, with my coworkers.

Lunch outside, shivering a little as we try to get some fresh air.

Accomplishing something pretty great at work today.

Filling up my gas tank on the way home.

Cuddling and petting Lottie after a long day away from her.

Playing games on my iPhone with my aunt, 300 miles away.

Our evening walk, up and down and around the subdivision.

A single whiskey-and-lemonade to end the night while watching TV.

Snuggling in bed with my little girl, another day drawing to a close.

Does God care about these things?

Is He here, on Tuesday?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 17: Justice or mercy?

“I sympathize with the correctional officers,” Tate declared.  “They have to deal with that insanity every day!”

I stared at him in disbelief.

At long last, on Saturday afternoon, I’d gotten him to watch Orange is the New Black, which has become my new favorite show.  He agreed to watch one episode, and I picked my favorite:  it’s about six episodes in, where the inmates hold elections to represent them to the officers, like student council.  Prison surroundings or no, it’s just brilliant social commentary – and hilariously written, in my opinion.

It might be a coincidence, but the timing of Orange couldn’t be better for my emotional well-being.  As one of my best friends is in prison now, in a similar Federal camp like the one that inspired Piper Kerman’s memoir, I’m keenly aware of the broad strokes of truth in the show - even if the relationships are dramatized a bit.  Since my friend’s situation was the result of ignorance rather than malevolence, and he’d be a functioning, productive member of middle-class society were he not there, I’m all the more invested.

Tate, though, sees it differently.  As a 7^th grade science teacher in a, shall we say, rougher neighboring city than Raleigh, especially since he’s a generally mild mannered gamer guy who looks remarkably like Harry Potter, he has to deal with tough, disobedient, mouthy kids on an hourly basis.  About a third of the way through the episode, watching the caricatures of inmates of all races, backgrounds, and education interact, it became too much for him and I had to turn it off.  He said it was like watching his students.

“Look, I deal with kids just like that every day.  They get put in prison because they did something wrong, and then the officers have to keep them under control.”

“But…didn’t you think it was funny?”  I was so disappointed.

“They’re not that smart.  Those are just well-written versions of who they really are,” he said flatly.  “Of course, the officers are all mean and evil because they have to enforce the rules.  Well, how about don’t do something to get sent to prison in the first place?”

“But they’re still people!”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean the officers are bad.  They’re just doing their jobs.”

My feathers were ruffled.

Tate’s job is very difficult, and it changes him in tangible ways that I’ve already become keenly aware of in our five months of dating.  Over Christmas break, I wondered who this giddy boy was and what he’d done with my usually more serious boyfriend.  The stress that often hangs over him was gone, and he became lighter and more joyful all throughout those couple of weeks.  Since it’s not my first time at the rodeo of dating a teacher (not to mention that both of my parents are educators), I get it, and I don’t hold it against him.  It just saddens me.

Our conversation left me thinking – who gets the mercy?  Who deserves the clemency?  Do the correctional officers deserve sympathy, whether or not they’re short-tempered and unfair?  Do the inmates deserve pity and leniency, since they’re already in such an awful, dehumanizing situation?

Does it have to be polarized, or should both sides get some slack?

On Orange, some of the correctional officers are simply horrible, abusing their power and using the inmates to further their own selfish motives.  One such instance even results in a young girl’s death, among other tragedies.  I don’t doubt that, similar to the rest of the show, the underlying, broad strokes of these events ring true in real life.

I’m a bit of a bleeding-heart liberal, as Tate often teases, citing the cycle of poverty, the lack of role models, and the virtual imprisonment of abusive situations as many of the reasons many inmates end up incarcerated.  I combed through Piper Kerman’s book with vigor when I first got it, and did my share of research outside of the book as well.  

But I also know I’m biased, and situations like my good friend’s aren’t always the case.  Sometimes there is malicious intent, sometimes the law is knowingly and purposefully broken, and sometimes the punishment is necessary.  The man who terrorized my neighborhood early last fall, holding several women at gunpoint and kidnapping them to rob them, comes to mind. 

So who deserves grace, and who doesn’t?  Or do we all?  

And who measures who gets how much?

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 16: Back where I began.

This afternoon, Tate and I went to see Les Miserables in downtown Raleigh, because he'd never seen it live before and my roommate is an assistant stage manager for the show.  Nothing says "Happy Valentine's Day!" quite like a tragic musical about the French revolution.

I love the show for the most part, mostly because of how introspective it is, especially about God.  I saw the movie three times in the theater (and I rarely go to the movies these days).  I was fully expecting to post part of Fantine's "I Dreamed a Dream" for my blog post today...and then I heard other lyrics that struck me even more.  The women sing this as they clean up in the aftermath of the massacre at the barricade (emphasis mine):

Nothing changes, nothing ever will 
Every year another brat, another mouth to fill. 
Same old story, what's the use of tears? 
What's the use of praying if there's nobody who hears? 
Turning, turning, turning, turning, turning 
Through the years. 

Turning, turning, turning through the years 
Minutes into hours and the hours into years. 
Nothing changes, nothing ever can 
Round and round the roundabout and back where you began.
Round and round and back where you began.

I couldn't have said it better.

Sometimes this merry-go-round I call belief feels like an exercise in futility - especially when I inevitably end up right back where I began.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 15: I was wrong.

Some days, as I predicted would probably happen, I have so many words and yet none at all.

This poem's been swirling around in my head for days, so I'll let W.H. Auden say it the way I can't.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 14: The benefit of the doubt.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

It's only the second year out of all of my 31 that I've had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day.  I'm very excited for our weekend plans.

However, since I have spent 29 Valentine's Days without a boyfriend, I had instead to find love elsewhere; and in many years past, I found that love - that comfort, assurance, peace, and joy - in Daddy, God.

This year is different.

This year I feel estranged from the source of love I could always count on.

I was on the phone last night with a close, faithful friend who knows my story, and who himself has also been led by God into some of these same mountains and valleys.  I listened to him in silence for awhile as he talked about theology, his church, and some of the issues therein that he's dealing with right now.

Then, even though he knew already, the words came tumbling out - about this blog, about how far away I feel, about how  I don't understand how God could let this happen.  How, even worse perhaps, He would will it so.

My friend knows my hurt personally.  He's been through it before.

"That's really tough, I know - believe me, I know," he said finally, after a few seconds of silence.  "You just have to keep trusting Him."

I'm a big believer in giving people the benefit of the doubt.  I do it almost to a fault.  It's part of the reason I'm in this situation in the first place, frankly.  To the people I love, I'll continue to give grace upon grace upon grace, whether or not they've shown they deserve it or can be trusted with it.  I fully admit that I give people the benefit of the doubt probably well after I should.

God showed me grace when I didn't deserve it, so how can I not give it to others?

There's always a moment, though - a moment that is enough.  A moment where I have taken it on the chin one too many times and I can no longer bear it.  A time when I feel like I have to stand up for myself and say not this time.

I don't think it's supposed to be the same with God, though.

You just have to keep trusting Him.

I hope I can someday.  For now, I'll keep seeking out what that really means.

I love those who love me, and those who seek me diligently find me. -Proverbs 8:17

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 13: Breaking through the ice.

Snow is many things:  it's inconvenient, it's cold, it's dangerous.  It's also beautiful and reminds me of my childhood, of long winter days spent sliding down the hill in our backyard, of warmth and hot chocolate and time with family.

But what I love most about snow is that it tends to make everything go quiet.

Raleigh is closed down today.  When Lottie and I went out earlier this morning, she skated back and forth across our tiny yard, her barely 6 pound body not able to break through enough to give her balance.  I had to stamp out a circle in the ice for her to be able to get the necessary traction to do her business.

It started snowing pretty steadily again about two hours ago.  When I took Lottie out for her afternoon constitutional, snow evenly falling all around us, the quiet hugged me like an old, familiar friend.

These days, I feel like there's so much noise - well meaning noise, but noise nonetheless - from friends, family, and everyone around me.  I can't get a word in edgewise.

You should go back to church!

You shouldn't care so much about the past.

You should do this or that or this and that to further your writing career.

Why aren't you doing it?!

Why are you letting this stuff get you down?!

Except, of course, from God.  From God, I hear nothing.

After Lottie finished, she wanted to go back inside immediately because she was cold (and, I suspect, she kind of hates her coat).  But I didn't.  All I wanted to do was stay outside.

So I put her back in the house, pulled on the boots I got to tramp around the Renaissance Festival two years ago, turned on some music, and went back outside.

I walked up and down the sidewalk as the snow fell around me, breathing the cold air in deeply and relishing every moment of the snowy hush.  I traced a pattern along the sidewalk in my subdivision, stopping occasionally to take pictures or to let the lyrics that were playing sink in.  I walked until my hair was soaking wet; until the snowflakes were sticking to my eyelashes and I could barely see.

A tree with tiny buds, now frozen over before they could bloom.

Up and down I walked, all by myself, enjoying just a little bit those moments when I had to stomp down hard to keep my footing firm.  It felt like a decision every time - a decision to keep walking.

I was breaking through the ice.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 12: SNOW!

As you might have heard, Raleigh is suffering under a huge snowstorm right now.

Around noon, it began to flurry, and in a flash, it was full-on snowing.  Our office closed, and a very sweet and obliging coworker of mine with a 4-wheel drive SUV offered to drive me home, as my house is on the way to his apartment and I drive a Ford Focus.

The 9-mile trip took about three hours.

Three. Hours.

In that time, every exit we took - every way we tried to get to my house - was blocked by accidents.  Down the off ramp from the highway; on the side road we took to try to circumvent the exit; people swerving and stalling and getting stranded all around us.  I've never been so scared in a snowstorm in my life - and I'm from Pennsylvania.

At one point, after we realized we had turned around twice and were trying to think of another way to get back to the main road, I started to panic.  We're not going to make it, I thought.  I was in a dress and a cardigan; my tights were super cute but not at all what you'd call warm.  I hadn't eaten since breakfast; we had no water, no food, and everywhere around us people were stranded, cars sideways, four-ways flashing, getting out of their cars and walking.

For the first time in a long time, I started to ask God for help.  Please get us home, I whispered inwardly.  Please don't let us get stranded.  I'm so scared.

I tried not to show my friend how terrified I was, but he sensed it and put his hand on my arm.

"Are you nervous?" he asked.  "Don't worry, we'll be fine.  I'll get you home."

The exit off the highway.

No one could get up the hill.

When we finally pulled up to my house about half an hour later, I struggled to blink back tears of relief as I thanked him.  I don't know what I would have done otherwise.

Sometimes my prayers are answered when I don't even realize I'm praying. Grace surprises me sometimes.  And so it should, I suppose.

"I'll get you home," he said.

And he did.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 11: My sick puppy.

Last night, I came home from work to find that Lottie had gotten sick and had accidents all throughout our house.  That's the reason my post last night was so short:  I spent most of the evening cleaning up the rather unpleasant messes she'd left and also continuing to take her outside.

Around 5:30 in the morning, after we'd been up every hour (before bed, at midnight, at 1:08, 2:23, 3:40, and so on), she was a very unhappy little girl - trembling and pacing, her tail down, her big brown eyes looking at me as if to ask, "What's wrong with me, Mommy?"  She sat up in bed, restless, staring into space as her tummy gurgled and lurched.

I had to make the call - I'd either have to cover my house with blankets and towels and leave her there all day, sick; or stay home with her and take her to the vet.

I chose the latter.

This afternoon, looking pitiful.

Thankfully, our vet is wonderful and after a dosage of fluids and antibiotics, we're home and she'll be fine.

Last night, though, was miserable.  Lottie getting sick is way worse for me than getting sick myself.  I just kept thinking, "If only I could get sick for her."  She's just a little dog.  She didn't understand what was happening.  I'd have given anything to be able to have the sickness affect me and not her, to let her sleep peacefully and not be trembling and scared and whimpering.

I'd have done anything to take it from her - even if it meant being sick myself.

Is that what Jesus did for us?

But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed. -Isaiah 53:5

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 10: Letting go.

Last week, right around this time, my massage therapist was digging into the side of my right arm where it meets my body when suddenly he stopped, dropped his head, and sighed deeply.

"Forty-five minutes into the massage and you're finally letting go," he said.

I didn't even know I had.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 9: The silence is deafening.

Two years ago at this time, I was head-over-heels in love.

The story of my now ex-boyfriend is a long one, with many mountains and valleys, most of which I'm still trying to make sense, so I won't go into all the details just yet.

What's important to note is that, at that time, I believed (as did he) that God had spoken to each of us about the significance of the other.  Also, I had a closer spiritual connection with him than I ever had with anyone - and vice versa.

The time we spent together was filled with some of the happiest, most spiritually challenging, fulfilling, exciting, and creative moments I had ever known in all of my almost-30 years. We spent the spring of 2012 making church homes between mine and his, sharing our thoughts, our theologies, and our prayers, and learning more about God and His love than we knew possible together.

And then, things went downhill fast.

Suddenly, it was as if the last eight months were a dream conjured up in my mind.  He pushed me away, shoved me aside like a kid in a middle school hallway.  I can only assume it was fear - fear about our connection, fear about the future, fear about changes in his life that had nothing to do with me but about which I bore the brunt of his reaction anyway.  Fear is the ugliest motivator I know.

He moved away in a flash, and it was as if nothing had ever happened between us.  He forgot me - or perhaps he didn't care to think about me anymore.  Reeling from being thrown aside like yesterday's garbage, I tried to at least stay friends - calling, emailing, even driving three hours across the state to visit.  In those moments, it seemed like he remembered, like he was grateful for me and could still almost see me as the girl he'd once tearfully described as having the greatest impact on his faith of anyone in his life.

But as soon as we hung up the phone or I pulled out of his driveway, the silence returned.  And then, even worse, he replaced me with another girl around this time last year.

When he needed me, he'd call - like when he needed prayer about finding a new job, or staying in the town he'd run away to, where he was now feeling spiritually bereft.  "I need you to pray for me," he'd say.  "You're the strongest person of faith I know."

But then, again, once he decided on the job and the town - silence.

Like I said, I'm still working through it.

Our sudden breakup was a year and a half ago now.  For all intents and purposes, I've moved on.  I'm dating a sweet, affectionate young man who sees my value and makes a point to tell me so.  He calls me his little bunny and often reaches for my hand in public.  In the past year I moved to a new house, got a new job, got a new start.  When we drove past my ex's church on the way to our New Year's Eve dinner with my parents, it didn't sting the way it used to.

And yet sometimes, like on Sunday mornings, the silence still surrounds me.  Mocking.

My friends don't understand why I care.  They have colorful names for my ex, or they just don't feel the need to talk about him at all.  The way he treated me - and some of them, in the process - left a bitter taste in their mouths.

The problem is that when someone you love, esteem, admire, and cherish - with whom you [thought you] learned about God's very nature - casts you aside and treats you like you're worthless, it's very easy to think that God is doing the same.

I would have stepped in front of a bus before I'd say that God didn't speak to me - to both of us - telling us to be together.  There was a time, I believe, he would have wholeheartedly agreed.

Now, all I hear is you're nothing.  You're worthless.  You don't matter.  I've replaced you.

Since he left, I've been further from God than I ever knew I could be.  I've wept, I've raged, I've begged, I've become righteously indignant and unceremoniously angry.  I've pleaded with God for reasons, for answers.  I've taken responsibility, I've taken blame, and then I've crumbled when none of that gave me the answers I need.

I still can't make sense of it.  I still don't know why any of it happened.  I still don't understand how he could go from viewing me as vital to insignificant.

I'm afraid I never will.

It's not just him, though.  It's not just a breakup or the loss of him, however important he was to me at one time.  What's worse is that for months, I've felt like God has been silent, too.

It's as if God has made that same judgment about me.  Not picking up the phone.  This is God, leave a message.  Not answering emails. Your spiritual inbox is empty.  Forgetting me once I pull out of the driveway. Who are you, again?

You're nothing.  You're worthless.  You don't matter.  I've replaced you.

The silence is deafening.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 8: Is the story more important than the people?

My boyfriend Tate* is a gamer.  He loves it all - Dungeons & Dragons, Warhammer 40k, MMORPGs, single person games, online, offline, you name it.  I don't even know enough about that world to list them all, but he loves 'em.

Now, if you think gamers are antisocial nerds, I'm here to tell you, you are sadly and sorely mistaken.  Though we're both introverted by nature, Tate is much more social than I am - out at the local gaming store or gaming at a friend's house at least three or four times every week.  He calls me in the evenings as he's driving home from a D&D game, laughing and recounting stories of that night's shenanigans as I sit nursing a glass of wine with "Modern Family" on pause, Lottie in my lap, listening.  His stories, his creativity, and his enthusiasm make me smile.

Since we live an hour and a half apart and both work full-time, we only see each other on weekends.  When we started dating last fall, it was with the understanding that Sundays would be our day together, as he'd already committed to spending Saturdays at a friend's house playing an intricate, highly developed game with a detailed story-line that would suffer from his absence.

Then, one day a couple of weeks ago, we were Skyping when he said, "So I'll be able to come and see you on Saturdays more now cause I won't be going to the gaming house."

I was surprised. "Why?"

"Ben* said he doesn't want me there anymore."

Since we're not 13 and this isn't a Disney after-school special, I needed more answers.  "What are you talking about, he doesn't want you to come over anymore?"

Tate's not one to get into heavy emotional stuff.  "Well, we kind of had a disagreement about the story and he said he didn't want me to come back."

I was still floored.  "But aren't you really good friends?  Don't you go over there on Friday nights too?"

"Yeah, I'll still go over on Fridays I guess.  For now," he said flatly.

I looked at him, waiting. He looked back at me.

"I'm sorry...I don't understand!  He said don't come back, just like that?"

Tate sighed.  "Look, this has happened before.  Ben's always been this way.  His story is more important to him than his friends."

And that was that.

It's been about three weeks now and I'm still having trouble with this concept.

He's just that way.  It's how he is.  The story is more important than the people.

Is that how God is?

Tate thinks so.  When we talk about God, sometimes it's as if the two of us are speaking different languages - or at least different dialects.  He thinks it's arrogant to believe that God cares about the intricacies of our lives.  "God cares about nations, about ages, about whole groups of people," he said once.  "Modern Christianity has turned faith into being all about each individual, and it's not.  That's a selfish way to view God."

I used to believe that God had a plan, a purpose, a specific calling and will for each of our lives...and then the bottom fell out.  Now, well...I don't know what I believe anymore.  I can't say that what Tate thinks doesn't make sense. It does. It's just totally different from everything I thought I believed up until now.

Is the story more important to God than the people? 

*Names have been changed.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 7: Tiny letters.

"My paper has to be college-ruled," my manager said, turning to a clean page in his signature composition notebook that he brings with his laptop into every meeting.  "Whenever anyone gave me a piece of paper in school, it always annoyed me if it had big spaces between the lines."

We were meeting, just the two of us, to talk about writing email templates to send to prospective clients.  Apparently, my wordsmith abilities make me just the girl for the job.

My manager isn't a big man physically, but he's a powerhouse of leadership - dynamic, enthusiastic, encouraging.  Only two years my senior, he's well-read and driven, with a way of making everyone on his team feel like we're being heard.  Plus, he thinks I'm smart, which, believe me, goes a long way towards inspiring me to do my best and not disappoint him.

His brow furrowed as he thought about what to write as a format for the emails I'll eventually compose, but suddenly a small smile edged its way around the corners of his mouth, and he looked up at me.

"When I was in, like, third grade, I remember I'd get these pages of paper with big lines, and because I'm me, and I was bored, I guess, I'd write all my spelling words as tiny as I possibly could.  I tried to see how many I could fit in between the lines."

I raised an eyebrow, smirking with him.

"I don't know why I did it.  There wasn't a possible scenario where it would end well for me.  I was just like that."

I nodded, grinning.  I wasn't surprised.  He is like that.

As the workday drew on, and another day followed it, I kept thinking about it: my manager as a kid, writing intently in tiny letters between the big lines of his notebook.  Trying to squeeze in as many as possible, just because he could.  It wasn't wrong, it wasn't against the rules - it was just a teensy bit of rebellion.  Just a little bit off center.  Just because he was himself.

Is that what I'm doing too?

Sunday mornings spent sleeping in instead of going to church.

Three-mile walks spent listening to a stand-up comedy Pandora station, filled with obscenities and acerbic observations that make me laugh with their truthfulness.

Evenings spent with glasses of wine or whiskey-and-gingers, watching sitcoms or reading chick lit.

Lunch breaks spent poring over feminist blogs and articles.

Challenging anyone who uses "churchy" words, like headship or witness or ministry.  You don't know what that means.

Challenging my friends to point out to me where it says in the Bible that sex must be saved for marriage.  Show me where it is.

Challenging anyone who claims the name of Jesus but spends all their time justifying their own choices as the only way.  Nope, sorry.  Good try, but nope!

Challenging God to show me again that I can trust Him the way I used to.  Can I?

I'm not doing anything wrong, per se...but I'm feeling rebellious all the same.  Outside of my comfort zone.  Testing the waters.  Pushing back against assumptions, beliefs, the spoon-fed evangelical ideas I grasped onto for years, taking at face value as truth without real-life testing...until life got real all around me.

I'm scribbling tiny letters in between the lines.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 6: L is for the way she looks at me.

Lottie wasn't even a year old the first time she saw me just totally lose it.

In a month's time, I had suddenly and unexpectedly lost my job (that day still haunts me) and had been unceremoniously cast aside by some boy (who actually turned out to be gay, but that's neither here nor there); and one warm-ish night in early spring I was getting in the shower after our walk when I found a tick on me, fangs holding on tight.

I yanked it off, threw on my robe, plodded heavily out to the living room (we were in a tiny one-bedroom, so it barely took five steps), plopped on the couch, and burst into tears.

Lottie didn't know what to do.

She watched me for a few seconds, shocked and confused, and then she jumped up onto the couch, climbed into my lap, put her paws on my chest, and stuck her face into my face, staring at me intently as if to say, "Mommy! Don't cry!  It's okay - I'm here."

She's done that many times since.  It always seems to work.

I can honestly say that, especially after the last year and a half, I wouldn't be here without her.

At this point, I'm not sure how much I believe God actually involves Himself with our everyday lives, but I know He must have had a hand in bringing us together. 

She's my comfort, my snuggle-butt, and my sunshine, and I am better for being her mommy.

From last night.

"It's okay, Mommy - I'm here." 

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 5: One year.

One year ago was the last time I saw one of my closest friends outside of a prison visitation room.

One year ago was the last time he slept in his home, in his bed, with his wife beside him.

One year ago was the last time I hugged him in his regular clothes, for as long as I wanted, without being watched by a prison guard.

One year ago he self-surrendered.

It’s been a year – one year out of seven.

He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother.

He’s my dog’s uncle.

He’s my source of wisdom, of spiritual insight, of vetting my boyfriends, of protectiveness, of laughter and prayer and affectionate teasing - of everything a big brother should be.

I miss him more than I can say.

Sitting in that prison visitation room across from him several times over the last year, trying to suck the marrow out of the few hours we’re given, has been scary and hard and humbling.  It hasn’t gotten easier.

I won’t go into the explanation, the story, the six years of stress and strife and the haunting, foreboding every-day-ness that preceded that day last year.  It’s not my story to tell, and I couldn’t do it justice anyway.  Suffice it to say:  it is a tragedy.

And yet, in prison, despite leaving his family and his friends and the comforts of home, he is a survivor.  He has flourished.  His zeal for our Lord, his generosity of spirit, and his inherent joy has already left a marked impression on his friends there.  He is doing God’s work inside that place.

I understand all that.  I get it; I really do.

But I still just want him home.

In this world you will have trouble, Jesus said.  But take heart! I have overcome the world.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 4: Ow.

“I’m the only straight, single guy I know who owns a bed skirt.”

My massage therapist is a paragon of wisdom.

A fitness expert with a deep, soothing voice and a melodious, bass-toned laugh that sometimes gets the better of him, he has a Master’s in American literature and sees the world through a thoughtful, introspective lens.  I discovered him last year after buying a Groupon for a massage, and floated out of his studio with no pain in my shoulders for the first time in a decade.  In him, I found relief for my aching body and also someone with whom dialogue comes easy.

I was only planning to go for one massage, but at his recommendation that I come back so he could continue to help, I now go every month.  My shoulders and back have hurt for years, the result of long days sitting in an office chair and a pronounced curve in the bottom of my spine...plus I’d do well to lose 20 pounds.  I’m working on it.

It might seem strange, wanting to carry on a conversation during a massage, but I can’t think of anything more awkward than lying on a table while a [dreamboat of a] man rubs down my half-naked body in total silence.  So, y’know, we chat.  We talk about faith, literature, television, films, his kids, relationships, life.  

“It’s because you’re getting older, hon,” he replied when I told him about this blog last night, his fingers digging into my neck.

“Think about it,” he continued.  “Think about the books, movies, songs…the stuff that inspired you the most, made you the most hopeful.  When was that?  I got into an argument with this guy recently because he kept insisting that they just don’t make any good movies anymore, but I said no – it’s because you’re not as impressionable as you used to be.  Movies are just as good or even better than they were 20 years ago – you just stop seeing the world with that kind of wonderment.”

Huh.

“Every time I listen to Pandora, I end up going back to music from the early 90’s, because that’s when I was in my late teens and life was full of possibility," he concluded.

I thought about it as he rocked my head back and forth underneath his wrists.  He was right.  Given a choice, I tend to go back to music and movies circa 2001.  I was 18.  The world was my oyster.

“It’s just that I feel like maybe God doesn’t care as much as I used to think He did,” I offered, a bit pathetically.  “I bought into all that evangelical hype in the late 90’s when I was growing up, and now it seems like that’s a really selfish form of religion.  Does God really take an interest in every little thing we do?”

“You have to find what works for you, what feeds you,” he said.  “When something doesn’t feed you anymore, you move on and find what does.”

As usual, I walked out of his studio with my head swirling – from the massage and from our discussion.  I listened to Matchbox Twenty all the way home.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 3: The Pico de Gallo Incident

Yesterday, my boyfriend and I went to Applebee's because, though I have zero interest in football, I still wanted my favorite food indulgence ever in honor of the big game:  boneless buffalo wings.  We tucked in: me with my wings and a side of broccoli (because health! Green veggies!  Ahem.), him with a plate of their fiesta lime chicken, which is a grilled chicken breast topped with cheese on a bed of southwestern-spiced rice and a side of pico de gallo.

My boyfriend doesn't like pico de gallo, so he set the little cup of it aside as he ate.  When it came time to leave, we both had food left over to bring home...and I love pico de gallo, so I wanted to bring it home with me.  I asked the waiter for a little cup to put it in along with the boxes.

Well...the waiter brought two boxes, a new cup of bleu cheese dip for my wings, and...another cup of pico de gallo with a lid.

I was distressed.

"But I wanted to take THAT pico home!" I whined.

"Why are you upset?" my boyfriend asked.  "He brought you some!"

"Yeah, but now that one is going to go to waste!"

"...so?"

I suppose this was a perfectly logical question to most people, but to me - the girl who buys tomatoes, onions, cilantro, and jalapenos and spends time chopping up everything and mixing it to make her own pico to put on grilled chicken and tilapia - it was such a waste.

"So I don't want to waste it!  I can use that!  I wanted him to bring me a little cup to put that in!"

"Just take the one he brought you.  It's fine," he reasoned.

"I'm going to ask him to bring me another little cup!" I said.

My boyfriend looked at me as if to say, "Seriously?"

"...what?!"

I didn't ask.  Much to my chagrin, I took the cup he gave me already filled with pico and left a perfectly good heaping tablespoon full sitting there to be thrown away.

Sigh.

At least when I felt connected to God, I felt like someone understood me all the time, even though it may have been in my imagination...just so I could justify asking for another little cup to bring home the pico de gallo.

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 2: But I didn't mean it!

Last night, my boyfriend Tate* and I got into a bit of a kerfluffle.  We were sitting on the couch, talking, teasing each other, and during our banter I ended up playfully slapping his arm.  Nothing hard, nothing abusive, but still, a slap.

He recoiled.

Turns out, Tate had been bullied in school, and that bullying has conditioned him to react very defensively to slapping or hitting of any kind.  (I was bullied too - boy howdy, was I - but teenage girls are more prone to, say, braying at you like a donkey in the hallway than actual physical violence.)

And so we had a tense, terse discussion, in which I learned that what I thought was a harmless gesture - even one of affection and flirtation on my part - was a trigger for him that he finds very unpleasant.  I went from giggling and having fun with my boyfriend to sincerely apologizing for being so careless.

Here's the thing:  if I'd have known he felt so strongly, I would never have done it.  I felt horribly.

Throughout the last year and a half, the biggest questions I've had about the tragedies that I've been through have circled around did God know?  

Did God know this would happen?

Did God purposefully lead me into this heartbreak?

Did God tell me to do this even though He knew how it would end up?

I can't rectify it.  I can't seem to get my head around the idea of the loving Daddy I know - or thought I knew - leading me down the garden path.

I heard a pastor say once, "God gets blamed all the time for things He had absolutely nothing to do with!"  That phrase has echoed in my mind for months.

Maybe He didn't know.

Maybe it's all about free will, and God didn't know the decisions people would make that would hurt me, devastate me, leave me feeling thrown away like yesterday's compost.

Maybe He's just as heartbroken as I am.

But then again, maybe He did know.

Or maybe I'll never actually know either way.

One thing's for sure:  I'd never have slapped Tate - even playfully, as it was - if I'd understood how much it hurt him.  And I never will again.

I've been bullied, too - God knows.

*Name has been changed

The Seeking Daddy Project Day 1: Come here, Sweetheart!

More than two weeks ago, some good friends of mine adopted an adorable little white Maltese.  Originally her name was Sweetheart; they renamed her Lady.

After picking her up, with their two young children in tow, they took Lady to Petco to get her the necessary doggie items, when she leaped from their car right in the parking lot and took off into the suburban sprawl that is north Raleigh.

Frantically they've searched, set traps, and enlisted the help of everyone in the surrounding area to keep watch for the little five-pound girl.  She's been spotted multiple times, even very recently, over the last two and a half weeks...but no one can quite seem to catch her.

Because I myself have a five-pound dog I couldn't do without, I brought my Lottie and some various treats up to where she'd been spotted and walked around on several occasions trying to find her.  Today, we made another sojourn to the area where she's hiding out, dog biscuits from when I picked Lottie up at the groomer's crumbling in my pocket.

We walked up and down, up and down.  Lottie sniffed, barked, went potty.  I put down treats to try and bait her - the biscuits as well as softer chewables from the posh pet store where I frequently get pliable delights for my little toothless wonder-dog.  As we walked, I called out, "Sweetheart!  Come here, Sweetheart!"  She has to be hungry, and cold, and lonely, and sad.

For more than half an hour we canvassed the area, but we never saw her.

As we walked, I thought about all the effort we're putting into finding a dog who doesn't seem to want to be found.  She'd be so much better off at home with her new owners:  a warm home, a loving family, food, cuddles.  But instead, she's scared; she hides; she chooses to forage around in a dangerous forest all on her own.

We hear a lot about God pursuing us.  For the Son of man came to seek and save the lost, Jesus said. (Luke 19:10).  Growing up, I heard stories in Sunday School about sheep:  that we are like the lost sheep, and that the Shepherd (God) will leave the 99 to save the one that is lost.  The story goes that He'll risk life and limb and the safety of the others and then rejoice when that one is found.

I feel like a lost sheep, wandering around in a strange place where I don't know the way back.

Does God call out to me the way I was calling out for that little dog this afternoon?  "Come here, Sweetheart!  Sweetheart, please come here!"

I honestly don't know.

I hope we find her.  I hope she comes home, and is safe, and lives a long, happy, healthy life in the embrace of her family who longs to have her back with them.

Is it the same for me?