One time, when I was 5, we lived next door to a girl my age.  Her grandparents gave her a Popple.  I wanted it so badly that I asserted my Alpha Girl status, and she gave it to me.

A few days later when her grandparents found out she gave it away, they sent her to our house to reclaim it.  As she was carrying it home, I ran down the hallway and, with a flying leap, tackled her to the ground.

My family brings up this story frequently.

I cannot look at the Nashville Humane Society website.

It breaks my heart into a million little pieces.

I want to save every dog without a home.

Or at least this one.

Her name is Annie, too.

Anyone who beats or abandons a pet should be put in jail.

But instead, it’s the dogs that wind up in cages.

I want to save them all.

Back in March, I went to Kansas to sort through my childhood things and help my parents get their house ready to sell.  While I was there, I found an old jewelry box full of various plastic beaded bracelets, butterfly rings, earrings with no mates, and many, many necklaces whose thin gold chains were knotted and tangled into a solid mass.

No matter how hard I tried, I could not get those knots untangled.  There was no way to decipher where the problem began, and with every link that I would tug, the knot would get tighter.  The mess would get worse.

Sometimes, I feel like those gold chains.

Sometimes, I feel like such a complicated jumble, there could never be hope for a solution.  I cannot see where certain issues end, and where others begin.  I am confused by my emotions, by my tendencies – and have no more understanding of myself than I do the infinite galaxies.

Last night in church, I found myself praying, “God, forgive me for… just… all that I am.”  I didn’t even know where to begin, because I cannot pinpoint a beginning.  All that I know is that a lot of the time, I’m a tangled, muddled mess – and I don’t know why.

Will it ever be resolved?  Will I ever be resolved?

But then, I felt God press on my heart: “I know what you’re made of, and it is good.”

I see the mess.  He sees the gold.

I see the knot.  He sees a straight line.

I see the confusion.  He sees the solution.

One day, the chains will fall loose.  Everything will make sense.  Everything will be made right.  I believe it.

Because if I can be victorious in untangling a mass of gold necklaces using olive oil and a needle, then surely the God of the universe has a creative solution for the complexities of you and me.

I don’t have much to complain about.  My family is intact, and healthy, and stable.  We all love each other, and we all love Jesus.  I have amazing friends, live in a fantastic city, and every need is provided for.  I have opportunities for adventures, and the freedom to pursue basically anything I want to right now.  Life is good – right?

Then why do I feel so shitty?

Lately, I’ve felt weighed down by some heavy burdens – the same old junk that has haunted me my entire life.  How bad has it been?  Oh, just bad enough that I left a dinner party IN TEARS last night.  I mean… the mortification.  I felt completely out of control.

Sometimes, I feel completely out of control.

Here in Nashville, there’s an organization called Magdalene.  Women with histories of violence, prostitution, and addiction are invited to live in community together for two years, free of charge, where they build relationships, “do life” together, and ultimately, have a chance at experiencing healing.  They also run a cottage business called Thistle Farms, in which they sell hand-made bath and body products.  Recently, I was given the chance to review their new book “Find Your Way Home” – and I wanted to share a little bit about it.

In this book, the women of the Magdalene community tell snippets of their own stories – they have lived through things that I, in my sheltered existence, cannot imagine.  But as they write, “We do not share the same experiences, but we all have been in need sometime in our lives.”  And that is why this book spoke powerfully to me – I saw a universal need for love, for acceptance, for truth, and for rest.  Thank God that Magdalene exists for these women who have not found these necessities anywhere else.

It’s a quick read – I finished it in one sitting – and it lists their 24 “rules” for living together.  Some of the lines that struck me?

Even though we may feel lonely when we cry, we are never truly alone.  Our despair is part of a larger chorus howling for justice that stretches back to the prophets.

We are God’s children in flesh and spirit.  We never have to live in shame for all the things that have been done to us or that we have done to others.

I needed these reminders – reminders that God loves me exactly where I’m at, and that it’s never too late.  We’re never too far gone.  Healing can happen, iron bars can be broken, and change is possible.  It’s totally possible.

Because if the women of Magdalene can continue fighting, then I will, too.

Today, I’m wearing all black. My high heels are caked with mud from my front yard. I feel significantly un-cute. I’m in a bad place financially – but this is no one’s fault but mine. I haven’t gotten enough sleep. I’ve made some really terrible decisions. I’ve slacked on my running schedule this week, and over-achieved at consuming calories. I forgot to take an allergy pill this morning. My to-do list feels overwhelming, and my brain feels like a wimpy, deflated balloon.

I am in jeopardy.

I am so tired.

And when I get tired, my mind starts playing tricks on me. It starts trying to convince me that I am a total loser, and that everything is falling apart. And everything just MIGHT be falling apart – but I am not a loser. Even when I act like one. I’m not.

I’m a child of the King. So I refuse to act like an orphan.

Quick status update: I am still a temp worker.

Over nine months have passed, and I am still… not sure if I’m even employed.

I don’t know if it’s good news or bad news that they have started giving me tasks. Good news because it keeps me occupied, and gives me something to think about other than “WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE.” Bad news because the latest task is addressing, stuffing, sealing, stamping, and mailing 3,500 brochures. Brochures that will probably immediately be thrown into recycle bins nationwide.

Yesterday, I spent all day working on this project, and got 500 envelopes addressed and stuffed. Not sealed. Not stamped. Not mailed. And only 500. At this rate, the remainder of 2008 is looking quite festive.

Julie, the eternal beautiful optimist, is confident that there is a fulfilling career out there for me. I typically respond with a grunt. But I suppose that is why I need Julie.

Speaking of Julie, did you hear? Did you know? I’M GETTING A ROOMMATE. In January, Julie and I are moving in together; after many years of being a live-aloner, the timing is right for me to join the legions of “people who don’t have to drink alone.” I have to admit that I’m a little bit nervous about the prospect of having a roommate – but more nervous on Julie’s behalf than my own. I mean, what if I’m a terrible person to live with? It could be. I’m particular and introverted and probably really annoying.

Not Julie. Julie is great. Wonderful. Kind-hearted. Generous. Absolutely lovely. A nicer person than I will ever be, and one that I never get tired of being around. I LOVE HER. And I think it will be good for me to compromise and communicate and share life with someone else. I’m calling her my “starter husband.”

The phone here at work just rang – a rare occurrence at this particular financial institution. I answered, and this is what I heard:

“Hi, I’m being detained at the Davidson County jail, and need bail money. I’ve been framed. This is my one phone call. Can you help me out?”

“Um, are you serious?”

“Yes. Very serious.” He told me his name, and what kind of a doctor he is.

“Are you a client here?”

“No.”

“Well. We’re not a bank, per se. We’re more along the lines of private wealth management.”

“Okay. But can you help me? This is my ONE phone call.” The panic in his voice was evident.

“Um… well… I’m just the [temp!] receptionist. Let me toss you over to Sandra.”

I transferred the call, and watched the light that indicated Sandra’s phone ringing blink… and blink… and blink… but she was away from her desk. She never answered.

I have failed him.

For those of you who do not live in the Nashville area: currently, we are experiencing a gas shortage. A gas crisis. The city is out of fuel. Blame it on Hurricane Ike, blame it on the government, blame it on people being worked into a frenzy and hoarding fuel – whatever the reason, the gas pumps are bone dry, and have been for several days. Occasionally, a partially-full tanker truck will refuel a station, but the outrageously long lines of cars quickly deplete the supply.

Last weekend, I took a chance and used a half a tank of gas to drive to Chattanooga, hoping that there would be fuel there. I was able to fill up, but then used that same half tank to get back to Nashville. Luckily, I work just a mile and a half from my house, so the gas should last me awhile. They say that we might have gas by Friday – although there’s no telling how much they’ll charge.

Most of us who live here have seen this – I know that several of my bloggie friends have already posted it. I believe that it displays the sentiments of most people in this city. Beware some harsh language, but what do you expect?
It’s Hitler.

As the Temptress, I make an hourly wage, which equates to a not-very-big salary. Don’t get me wrong: for doing nothing, I make a fortune. And even if I don’t have a lot of extra cash, my bills always get paid. I am grateful for this temp job that is allowing me to have an experience here in Nashville.

But extra money is never a bad thing, right?

So I am currently doing a trial run with one of those Type From Home programs. Companies all over the world have scanned in old documents, and they need people to transcribe them. This seemed like a good fit for me because 1) I can do it at work, and 2) who is the valedictorian of typing? It sounded like easy cash.

But the program that I am using has some stipulations. There is a minimum requirement of pages to be typed each month, and if you don’t meet it – sorry, no money, not even for the pages that you DO type. There is also a maximum number of pages you can type – you may not exceed X number of pages, and therefore, X number of dollars, each month.

Doing the math, I figured out that I must type 15 pages a day to meet the minimum requirement. Not bad – especially when WHAT ELSE AM I GOING TO DO AT MY DESK? So yesterday was my first day, my grand experiment, and I was excited to get going.

Maniacally excited. I typed 75 pages.

When I walked out of work, my eyeballs fell out of my skull and rolled across the parking lot like marbles.

But you know me – I love money! I love cash! Being poor is balderdash!

So I went home, and typed some more – mostly Iranian medical documents about menstruation and chemical compounds. Adding up the pages as I went along, I started calculating the things I was going to buy: a new bottle of perfume, a ticket to Seattle, a new car… visions of Anthropologie dresses and massages and all of the things I’ve always wanted but never been able to buy… Type From Home is going to be my ticket to financial freedom!

But just before bed, I checked the website one more time… and my Blimp of a Thousand Dreams was slashed by the Grand Knife of Reality: there is a 50 page/day maximum. Anything above that is not only deleted, but then subtracted from your total. You type 51, your total is 49. You type 52, your total is 48. So because I typed close to 100 pages, I logged nearly zero.

I have a bad feeling about this.

I am a permanence kind of girl. I like things to be guaranteed, absolute, forever and ever.

But in the past 6 months, my life has been lacking in the whole “permanence” department. Change has been my only constant. Which is why this morning, when I took a job that begins with “temporary,” I felt like God was pointing at me and saying, “Haha, sucka!”

I spent 3 1/2 hours at the temp agency, interviewing and testing my skills on the computer. And I feel compelled to announce that I have THE HIGHEST SCORES THEY HAVE EVER SEEN. I am the victor, the champion, the valedictorian of temp work. I don’t know if this should make me laugh or cry.

I type 96 words per minute. And I attribute every swift key stroke to this blog – and you, my faithful readers.