OK. So.
I have a new favorite author.
I stumbled onto a kitschy (kitchy?) little bookstore during our recent trip to Tropical Storm Cindy.
I mean, Florida.
I have been looking for a new fav.
Two of my three favorite authors have become lesbians and it’s not the lesbian part that bothers me. It’s the
They. Were. Married. Part.
Ya know, to men.
I know this makes me sound like a mean ‘ol judgy june-bug (no idea where that one came from) but it makes me mad.
That they were married.
They are still brilliant writers, of course, and if they write a book, say about how to survive a Tropical Storm when 5 kids want to swim in the ocean — I mean the gulf, then <em>for sure</em>, I will read it.
I’m just not going to read any more of their books on marriage.
For the record, my favorite lesbian cousin is a lesbian.
See what I did there? I have many, <em>many</em> amazing cousins.
So I guess I should say one of my favorite people <em>in all the world</em> is a lesbian for whom I have crazy amounts of love and respect.
Even though she did dunk my head in a trash-barrel full of water to get soap out of my head.
Cousins. Ah, the memories.
Anyway. Respect.
Why?
Because she didn’t forget that she was a lesbian and marry a man.
Please don’t write me mean letters.
And I totally get that saying I have a cousin who’s a lesbian is also a little like saying “I’m not racists because I have a black friend.”
Anyway.
My new author.
Celia Rivenbark.
Quit reading this blog and go get her books.
I’m currently reading “Rude Bitches Make Me Tired.”
And they do, yes?
Yesterday I read, “You can’t drink all day if you don’t start in the morning.”
Again, nailed it!
Maybe it’s not my authors that I’m mad at after all, maybe I just need to laugh more and think about failed marriages less.
Paul Tripp says that humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking about <em>yourself</em>, less.
I think that’s why I love the ocean.
You can’t help but forget yourself. Forget your failed marriage. Forget.
And instead, remember Him.
Like the tide comes up and washes away writings in the sand, He has washed my past clean.
Our first full day in what I will now be referring to as “My new <strong>very happy</strong> place,” it poured.
The kids found a place in Destin (about an hours drive from my new <strong>very happy</strong> place.
I will say nothing more about it’s location.
Wait. I put in on Facebook.
Dang.
Anyway, they found a place with laser tag and putt-putt golf and arcades.
In other words, hell.
I promised my husband an assortment of favors if I didn’t have to go.
He loves me that much.
After they left, I put on a bunch of clothes. I grabbed a big blue umbrella usually referred to as a sun umbrella and I set up camp on the beach.
Ocean air. Sand. Salt water.
Actually if it hadn’t been for the kiddos, it would’ve been perfect.
Wait. I don’t mean the trip would’ve been more perfect without kiddos. Good grief. What kind of mom would that make me. A trip to the beach with no children. Silly.
I meant the weather.
I was alone on the beach.
In Florida.
In June.
Ridiculously Awesome.
I struggled to get the umbrella deep enough into the sand so I was holding it (ya know, against hurricane force winds), when a big gust sent my umbrella (and me) sailing. Instead of retrieving the umbrella, I just moved my chair and towel (serving as a blanket) to it’s new location.
I’m smart like that.
When my husband got home (and by home, I mean our “framily’s” home. (that’s friends who are family in case you think that’s a typo.)
I never have typos. I alway proof my work.
Except when I don’t.
When he got home, he had this look on his face as if to say, “there are not enough favors in all the world…”
The next day was better. We couldn’t get into the water, but it wasn’t raining and the kids built sandcastles.
And dug holes.
And all I could think about was the documentary I had seen about kids getting sucked into the earth because they dug a hole too deep but I really didn’t want to be a total joy-kill so I sat there and silently prayed that no-one would get swallowed up.
Mike offered engineering advice and you could tell he was really getting into the whole fortress thing, but the kids weren’t interested.
I seriously think they hurt his feelings.
Next, the cousins rode their bikes a couple miles into the neighboring town.
I think they were looking for girls.
And snow-cones.
All I know is that I gave them (our 2) each a $50 bill and I didn’t see a dime back.
That’s a heck of a snow cone.
I have precious memories of time spent with my cousins and I’m so thankful for a week watching this generation of cousins do the same.
Looking at a picture of the 5 boys, I can’t help but think of the children’s song, “Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight.”
We have half-brothers and step-brothers and but for the grace of God, never-would’ve-been brothers.
All. Precious in His sight.
Even lesbian authors who got married.
Twice.
Even authors who title their book, “We’re the same only prettier.”
Well, duh.
I’m headed to church now.
I need me some preachin’. I need me some church family. I need me a Jay Nemeck hug (I’m sorry that your church doesn’t come with that)—
Plus, I need to ask forgiveness for my weird anger issues regarding Elizabeth Gilbert.
Raising Magnolias 