Help and Thank You

Every time an ambulance goes by, it's automatic.

I make the sign of the cross and begin,

"Hail Mary, full of grace.  The Lord is with thee..."

Before I put food into my mouth, it's habitual,

"Bless us Oh Lord and these thy gifts..."

As my children put their heads on their pillows and close their eyes, I say,

"Now, I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep..."

Prayers like these bring me comfort and the rote, ritual, habitualness of them grounds me.

***

When I was in college, a Philosophy major, I used to claim that religion was an opiate for the masses, a crutch, a place for people who didn't want to think...sheeps who wanted to be told what to do. I couldn't imagine giving anything over to God. 

The difference between being 22 and 42 is that significant amounts of life have transpired.  I have three children walking around the world, with parts of my heart beating inside of them, and I cannot control what happens.

And there are big chunks of my life that have no rational explanation.  There are things that cannot be bought, eaten, screamed or explained away.  They just are.  And everyone has them.  I think of them as big holes--places in our being that just don't add up--spots that feel broken or lonely or severed.  Maybe not all the time, but definitely upon reflection, some of the time.  And no matter what you do or consume or extricate, you can't make the feeling go away.

Likewise, there are miracles.  And we've all experienced them.  We can try to explain them with technology or modern medicine or fate or fortune or serendipity or happenstance or coincidence, but some things are too great to trust to circumstance.  And we wonder, how did this happen?  How can this be?

***

I didn't find and subsequently forge my relationship with God until I was 25...on my hands and knees on a cold apartment floor searching for answers, begging for a new beginning, searching for truth.

My initial prayers looked like, "Help me and thank you." They were the only things I knew to say.

I've later learned after becoming a ginormous Anne Lamott fan that her favorite prayers are, "Help, help, help and Thank you, thank you, thank you."  An extraordinary writer and observer of what it means to be a nonjudgemental human, she gets it. 

The God I pray to likes that I cuss.  It's okay that a good chunk of my prayers start out, "Get a fucking load out of this"...and then they turn into, what would you do if you were me...how do I make this right...which path is best....I don't want to....I'm tired...I wish that...thank you for him....please, please help me to be better...promise me that it's going to be okay.

I pray on the way to the gym at 5am.  I pray in the shower.  I pray at night.  I pray while I'm cursing out the dip shit, ass wipe driver in front of me.  I pray when my kids are driving me up a fucking wall.  I pray when I'm really tired at night. 

I am no longer afraid to pray the right or the wrong prayer or the right or the wrong way.

I just pray....for me, for you, for us...and I do it because I have faith that my prayers mean something as I believe that my life and your life do.  And I try in that space to cry out for what I need and to be grateful for what and whom I've been given.  And I stand reminded that in a world spinning crazy, sometimes, Help and Thank you are all you need.

Kelly's Hot Mess Celebrates 6 Years!

I remember it vividly.  I was sitting in a Starbucks six years ago, exhausted.  My son, Sam was six.  My daughter, Kate was four and my youngest daughter, Claire was 9-months old.  I ordered a piping hot Venti Americano with extra cream and began to guzzle.

I was 40 pounds overweight.

My house was beyond disarray.

My hamper was begging me to do laundry.

My brain and my heart were flowing with thoughts that wouldn't leave and weren't getting better by feeding them.

I was knee-deep into being a stay-at-home mama and in that moment, other than sleep (which was sporadic and minimal), I had not a lot to call my own, including going to the bathroom.  My life felt in every way like a hot mess.

And so, I started writing.  About everything.  My time at Target, shit my kids said that no one would believe unless I documented it, my decision to start running, every race including a marathon that I ran, my desire to be a writer and to one day get a piece published, my dreams for my children, my love of everything associated with the word fuck and a cup of coffee, the challenges of marriage, sex, masturbation in the steam room at the gym, Catholicism, home repairs, politics, drugs, music, playlists, the desire to savor every moment while simultaneously wanting to run away, death, cancer, mammograms, divorce and I guess everything in between.

And I published my work...620 posts to date on the blog.  And then, I shared them on Facebook, Instagram and from time-to-time on Twitter.

I shared them, because I needed to know that I was not alone.

And then you showed up.

In all of your messiness, too.  And we commiserated.  And we celebrated.  And we cried.  And most of us have never met or seen each other in years (for some, it's been decades).

I've been at the gas station, the library, the grocery store, the coffee shop, my high school reunion and my kids' school and some of you have introduced yourself and said, "I read your blog.  Thank you."

And, I say, "God no.  Thank you.  You don't know how much I appreciate it."

And so to that end, I say, thank you for letting me share my insane, crazy, beautiful, mundane, messy life with you.  Just knowing that you are there, means more than you know.