You, Me, Oui


A beautiful Japanese maple preens its Autumn plumage in my parents’ front garden. A larger version of this tree, but with bright green leaves, had filled the broad multi-paned window of the Shoreline house where my parents first brought me home as a baby. And, to continue tradition, in the small triangle of soil that borders the edge of my townhome’s communal courtyard grows a little Japanese maple with pink and beige speckles on a field of pale green. The heritage of the window tree has been passed from one generation to the next.

A reader-board hangs above a local lumberyard that drive past multiple times a week. It currently says, “I’m not superstitious, but I’m a little stitious.” This description seems to fit so much of who I have been for the last eight months or so.

My sister has a Thanksgiving countdown on her phone’s calendar. She regularly tells me how many days are left because she’s eagerly waiting for more than the holiday festivities to begin. We’re both waiting for something big.

I meet a steady stream of women who struggle through the dark, hidden woods of a grief that I have shared with them. I recently discussed genetic infertility tragedies at a bridal shower, feeling a strange sense of This isn’t okay to talk about here–but maybe it’s fine, because we’re comforting each other.

What am I trying to say?


I’m pregnant.


Pic taken September 6, 2016

The news will not come as a surprise to some of you, but I have never made the official announcement here on the blog. Is it because I’m “stitious”? There are many days I feel this is the case. Don’t jinx it.

Did I delay releasing the news until now because I don’t want to bring hurt to the women wrestling in the darkness of their own childbearing journey, who cringe every time they open social media for fear they’ll see more mommy bragging photos? My answer: probably, at least in part.

My baby girl’s due date is November 24-Thanksgiving day. My sister is thrilled out of her mind. This particular holiday seems such a fitting and perfect due date. To be able to associate my baby’s arrival with a day of gratitude helps me feel the rightness of this.


Little girl clothes!

I’ve had three baby showers for this girl. One was thrown by the ladies in my writing circles, one was thrown by my sister and mom, one was thrown by friends from church. I’ve washed a folded and laid into drawers a wide assortment of beautiful, dainty, and darling clothing items that were design especially for a little female human.

All of this makes her arrival firmer, something I can almost touch.

A mother asked me last week if I’ve stopped feeling anxious about the safety of this baby. I laughed coldly. No. That’s why I want her to arrive so very badly. To hold her in my arms and feel her breath against my skin and look at her tiny eyelashes and just know she is mine here on this earth.

Something changes in a person when that person longs and hopes for a thing four separate times and only gets to hold a tiny child at the end for one of those times.

At each ultrasound, I tell my story in a few short words. “What number pregnancy is this?” the sonographer asks me. “Five,” I say (referring to my current pregnancy). “Five pregnancies. One live birth.”

This girl will be my second live birth. She’s 36 weeks as of Thursday October 27th, she kicks and moves more than her brother did, and I can’t remember feeling so tired. (Of course, I didn’t have a toddler to chase while I was pregnant the first time around).

My son kisses my tummy. He sometimes brings little toys and holds them at navel level so he can show them to Baby Sister. He doesn’t like to witness me with any other babies in my arms. Ever. He’s learning to share playthings with other children. He sings songs along with me and agrees that he’d like to sing them to his sister.


The big brother

It will be a major adjustment for him. I know this. I also believe that a sibling is among the best things I could ever give him.

Am I happy that I’m pregnant? Absolutely. I wish I were giddy. I wish it often. A strange lingering guilt trails me: shame that I cannot seem to bravely embrace a wild, fragile hope. That I somehow lack courage to be joyful for something so good, for this rainbow baby who is the bright beauty and color after the gray storm of death and despair.

My obstetrician, bless her, said the happiness might not become real for me until I hold my daughter in my arms. I was only a few weeks pregnant when she told me this and the future event of Birth felt so distant, my heart sank.

There have been moments, though. Seeing my daughter move on the ultrasound and noting her adorable nose and perfectly formed feet. Hearing my husband chuckle as he feels her kick against his hand on my belly wall. Watching my mother cry as we cut into the “gender reveal” cake and she saw the pink icing.

I predict that I will hold my daughter for the first time and burst into tears. Of gladness. Of relief. Of the delight in knowing I can move forward with my family.

A tree has always been a symbol of life and endurance for me, and seeing my family’s heritage of Japanese maples reminds me of this longstanding strength. Many people have told me that I’ve been so strong through all of this waiting and grieving and hoping and waiting and hoping.

Maybe so.

What I know is, I’m feeling really ready for this baby’s birth. I’m want that moment to come.


She Gets Married


The bride

She entered the world when I was seven and a half years old. People often marveled at our ability to stay close, even with such an age difference. But we did. She was my baby sister. To this day I still accidentally slip up when calling after my son, using her name instead of his. She was the first little life I helped to care for.

I wrapped florist tape, snipped stems and wire, poked and rubbed and chaffed my fingertips till they felt more like sandpaper than skin while I made the corsages and boutonnieres for my sister’s wedding. Little bouquets of seeded eucalyptus, baby’s breath, burgundy ribbon, and a small pink tulle flower with a jeweled center.


Bride and groom with family

My sister designed her gown with her mother-in-law. She was covered in hundreds of these tiny pink cloth flowers. She was covered in smiles and tears and prayers. Her husband cried as she came down the aisle. I always count tears from the groom as a good sign.

This was my first time watching another sibling get married. I had my own wedding to initiate the Saba Kids Get Hitched, and of course that morning in September eight years ago was awash in the excitement and emotions of joining lives with the man I loved.


Bride and groom

But now I watched my sister make those same decisions and felt the fibers of my family and those of her husband’s beginning to knit together. I gained a new brother. I embraced a new sister. I felt the deep need for unity and teamwork to make the day’s event come together smoothly.

When my sister and her husband exchanged vows, I saw their heartfelt earnestness. They used no microphone so the vows were audible only to them and those who stood in the first row of wedding guests. Luckily for me, family sat in the first row. I listened especially close to the groom–that protective older sister thing never really goes away–and I saw a man ready love, serve, and be honest and true.


First dance

Their first dance was a tango. She inherited her wonderful hips from my family line. It was the father-daughter dance that made me break down and weep. I saw a little girl and her daddy together in a parent-child relationship for its final time. Afterward, she would be a married woman, learning new skills, shouldering new responsibilities and priorities, no longer a child in her parents’ home. A definitive legal adult age is a nice thing, but it seems to me that these huge life milestones are what force the change upon us.

The bride and her girls

The bride and her girls




The day after the wedding a bunch of family gathered to celebrate the wedding couple, eat leftover wedding food, and pray for the newlyweds. After hearing us pray for a supportive community to look after my sister and her husband, for forgiveness and grace that the couple would need to have for each other, and for overall help with the trials and tribulations of married life, my grandfather commented that we weren’t being happy enough. We should be celebrating! This was a wedding, for crying out loud!

Funny thing is, I disagree with him almost entirely. Of course a wedding is a joyous time. We danced our hearts out, threw golden balloons into the air, ate doughnuts, and waved glow sticks wildly into the night (my son’s favorite part) as we felt out hearts swell with joy.

But to say a wedding is just a happy celebration without recognizing it as a sober life decision is just crazy. I don’t pray on behalf of my sister’s married future because I fear for the worst. I pray because I know how hard it is to merge lives and dreams and goals and I want her to have all the help and resources she can get! Isn’t it easier to party with someone than it is to help them pick up the pieces of a hot, broken mess?

Again, I’m not predicting doom, I just feel that being realistic is of tantamount importance. Two people just decided to share everything and they happen to be imperfect, flawed, and prone to selfishness (of course, I include myself in all those adjectives, too).


Mother of bride, me, stepmother of groom

My son knows that the wedding was a huge celebration. He grasps his multi-colored bouquet of glow sticks that I keep saving for him by putting them in the freezer and shouts “Hooray!” as he remembers the send-off of the newlyweds at the end of the night. He’s happy for the prospect of another uncle to spoil him.

Yet even my three-year-old knows the deep importance of the people who are present during the hard times. I might not take him on the most enthralling outings every single day (thank God for grandparents with the energy to escort him to Seattle’s outdoor fountains on sunny summer days), but my son runs to me when his heart or body hurts, when he’s frightened or too tired to self-regulate his emotions anymore.


My son and my cousin

I braided my hair along one side of my head, a tribute to the beautiful braided hair that ran across my sister’s head. She and I both tucked baby’s breath into our braids–we’ve liked to match each other for most of our lives. I want to still be there for her, to help her, hold her, advise her, and I also know I have to let her go. When I visit my parents’ house, she won’t be in her room downstairs, sitting on her bed under a dozen glowing paper stars while her fingers work at some creative project. That room downstairs isn’t hers anymore.

I grieve for that change even as I hope for the new future with happy expectation.

A thousand blessings on you, my sweet sister.


*Thank you to Orion Ifland for these wonderful photos!*

Those Words

just-me-and-my-shadow“I can only tell you what my journey has been. Yours will be different,” my mentor friend, Brian, tells me as I grip my coffee cup across the table from him.

We’re meeting because I wanted advice. Wisdom. The next steps. I wanted to sit at the feet of a sage and become excited about the next climb ahead of me.

The reality? There’s a lot more to life that is more vague and undefined than we ever expect or, as I sometimes prefer to call it: frustrating, especially when we’re looking for clear-cut answers.

That afternoon, Brian shared with me some of his greatest achievements and deepest disappointments as a writer. He honored me with his open humility. I felt admiration for the heights of success and renown that he’d reached, even as he revealed his limitations.

Brian’s advice for me was to know my own risks—to only accept a new venture if I was prepared to deal with the worst possible outcome—even if that awful scenario seemed unlikely. The rest of my responsibility was hard work, diligence, and constant openness to learning, all of which he knew that I took very seriously.

Then, somewhere in the thick of our conversation on storytelling, comics, ideas, equality of opportunity, and the philosophy of writing, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m proud of you.”

I froze. These words trigger a particular response in me. They’re the words I wanted to hear from my dad, but didn’t hear enough. I can’t tell you how much I think my over-achieving academic record probably had something to do with trying to prove my intelligence and competence. Then again, I’ve also been aggressively competitive from a very young age (at age six, I refused to be pleased by a splendid production of The Nutcracker because I needed to have a dress that was at least as beautiful as the onstage dancers). I do not blame my dad for all of this. He and I have also made our peace since then, in case you’re interested.

But there I was, hearing someone saying those words. I’m proud of you. Had I really earned them? How could someone so accomplished and smart take pride in what I’ve done? I’m only a young writer, still floundering in so many senses of the word.

“Even if I had never met you,” Brian continued, “I would be proud to know people like you exist in the world.”

Tears edged the corner of my eyes. It’s not as though I start every morning in a state of neediness that aches for a man to speak these words to an inner part of my psyche. It’s that these words sing a special song to the heart of a young girl, and I still hear that song loudly as a full-grown woman.

I left my meeting with Brian and had a much shorter to-do list, a not-very-long-at-all checklist, and not nearly as many answers as I’d thought I’d have to my questions. And as I walked back to my car, I felt an assurance for myself, my worth, an approval for my goals and outlook. I felt the glow that someone I so highly respected had applauded the person I am and the writer I am becoming.

Instead of giving me a list of things to do, Brian looked at my mind, heart, and dreams and said they were good. When I think of it that way, it seems to me that shedding tears is a very natural response.

Director’s Choice or My Worst Theater Experience

from-the-stage-1173066-639x426My mother always told me there’s a 90/10 rule to theater: 90% of it is unimpressive, mediocre, and even terrible. The other 10% is so breathtaking in its emotional depth and scope, it compels us to once again brave the tepid hodgepodge 90% in hopes of discovering the next precious gem.

I’ve seen my fair share of stunning shows. Bright Star, currently new-to-Broadway, is fantastic. Brooklyn Boy, performed years ago at Taproot Theatre, was magnificent.

But today I want to tell you about a show on the other end of the spectrum.

There are some things you witness alongside a companion and the camaraderie enhances the experience. There are others that make you wish you could shoot yourself as punishment for dragging someone else into this torture.

I invited several friends to join me for this particular occasion. Only one showed up.

The guy I had a crush on.

The play was The Bacchae by Euripides, and it’s a shame that my knowledge of Greek mythology didn’t trigger some violent, bloody warnings in my mind when I purchased my tickets. But alas, my alarms were on mute.

The Bacchae, per Greek record, are women who give themselves in devotion to Dionysus through the Bacchanalia, which renders them into an ecstatic state that makes them behave like mad animals.

That’s what this play was named for. *Elise shakes head*

Truth be told, I recall little of the play except its ending, which was scarred into my brain.

The story follows Dionysus, a god who sets out to punish the city of Thebes for its disbelief in him and his new religion (which centers on himself). Pentheus is the king of Thebes and Pentheus’s mother, Agave, is a prime target for Dionysus’s fury because she spread lies about Dionysus’s mother.

Gender-bending in this production cast the character of Dionysus, god of chaos and wine, as a skinny Caucasian woman with dreadlocks. This conflicted sharply with my own presuppositions, but I can’t blame the play’s director for that. I have to blame Disney’s original Fantasia film.

You see, my earliest image of Dionysus is that of a pudgy, happy man who gallops around on the back of a donkey, inviting party-people to stomp through huge vats of juicy grapes. Dionysus is also a contented man who drinks rainbows out of a golden goblet. Again, I can’t blame this discord on the director’s choice. But there was discord, nonetheless.

Fast forward to the memorable conclusion of the play. Agave becomes enmeshed in the cult of Dionysus, and while engulfed in the characteristic frenzy of the Bacchae, she kills her own son Pentheus, thinking he a lion she’s slain with her bare hands. She brags about it.

Now here is where I do fault the director’s choice. They brought Agave to center stage, topless, with her hair frizzed out, and had her scream and wave the head of the decapitated son.

The naked bouncing breasts were uncomfortable (as was the wailing), but the element that made it all ridiculous was the paper mache head prop that was supposed to be Pentheus’s head.

I was horrified, but probably not for the intended reasons.

When everything had ended, I turned to my crush with all the fervor and scorn that my undergraduate college self could muster and declared, “That was not good theater.”

Funny thing is, the guy didn’t question my taste or sanity. He stuck around. He actually married me a year and a half later!

And me? Well, I learned to think a little more carefully before buying tickets to just any show.


P.S. Want more awesome stories of awful theater? Check out these posts from fellow bloggers Camela Thompson, Mike Munz, and Tiffany Pitts!

End of an Era


Booktrope, the publisher who signed me for my first novel, Moonlight and Orangesthe publisher that turned me from “writer” to “author” announced on April 29, 2016 that it would be closing its doors.

This was the publisher that helped teach me what it’s like to professionally edit and revise a manuscript, to collaborate with others in a book’s cover design, how to write the words that on the book’s jacket that invited readers to explore the interior.


And along with Booktrope’s demise also goes the viability of all three novels that I published with them.

I cried. I tried to focus on the good things that would survive this collapse, even as my mind crowded with a hundred unanswered questions.

The day after the heartbreaking announcement, I pulled out my stationary and wrote cards to the dear friends that I’d made through y connections in the Booktrope family. These relationships would last. No matter what happened.

I have a new path ahead of me. I’m facing the decisions needed to keep my books available (they go out of print unless I find a way to get them republished). Additionally, I need to settle with the creative teams who came together to make these books. My mind is pretty scattered.

It’s felt like a tragedy. It’s felt like a chance to start fresh.

To say I feel peaceful and optimistic about the future would be somewhat wishful thinking. Right now I feel enveloped in a low-lying fog, fully expecting the sun will break through in due time.

A good thing died in the closing of Booktrope.

I know it wasn’t a perfect publisher, but I don’t regret my (almost) five years with them. I’ve learned and grown so much–and ultimately taken myself seriously as a writer. These are precious gifts.

I’ve forged some cherished friendships among this community. These are priceless.

And so…we move on. I will continue to write. There will be more books to come.

By the by, should you want a copy of one of my books for yourself or to give as a gift, order them before May 31, 2016. Once this date passes, the Booktrope editions of my books will cease to exist.

I hope to make “out of print” an impermanent situation, but until then, these are about to become collector’s items.

So you can go save your copy in a glass case (ha!).

Through the Valley



One of my son’s favorite places to visit is the cemetery.

We walk there from our house (it’s our nearest “park”) and, once past the enclosure fence, my son crawls down from his stroller and pushes the stroller around like a life-size toy car.

There’s a fountain under a huge old fir that we call my son’s fountain.

Flat headstones make level ground which is easier to navigate than the lumpy soil and sod. It’s common to see my son leap from stone to stone, his shoes slapping happily as he runs.

There’s a special section on a hill covered in pinwheels, balloons, and little toys. Babyland. I once read a book that described such a section of a cemetery and it said, “By the waters of Babyland, we lay down and wept.”

This particular area used to break my heart. Then my son insisted on exploring it. So, I followed him between stones that noted lives that had lasted one or two days. Babies with names who had not grown old enough to recognize them.

And while my heart rose to my throat, my little guy strode on, picking up pinwheels and spinning them to flash in the sunlight. He crouched to smile at a teddy bear, droopy and sodden from many nights out in the rain. And I was reminded that we all walk through the graveyard of loss.

No matter what direction we try to take.

I can grieve. (Grieve and grave seem like word-siblings. I only just now see this). And there will be times when I cannot rise from my knees. But this will not consume my days. I will pass through the cemetery. I will intimately know some of the names carved on those stones.

But, like my son, I must also raise my eyes. To delight in the sparkling water fountain, the blanket of lawn daisies, the luminous leaves of the grand old maple.

At an Ash Wednesday service, a woman from my church read a poem, the essence of which plead this passionately: in the face of war, cruelty, torture, brutality, racism, starvation, and death, we cannot forget to laugh, dance, throw lavish parties with our friends, and delight in the blessings of the earth.

I think of the film, Life is Beautiful, and I glimpse the courage to be joyful in the face of the unspeakable. I watch my son’s innocent playfulness as he touches a toy sitting on a baby’s grave.

These things keep us strong. These are what we mean by the word brave. These are the songs I must find the strength (Jesus give me the grace) to sing.

These are the songs I must sing.

Work Until You Cannot See

shadow-plant-1512993-640x960It’s purely maddening and bewildering to discover this:

The longer I work on something, the more I try to improve, the more I can’t tell whether I’m actually getting better.

I exercise and my muscles get sore and irritated and suddenly sitting up straight is a challenge. (Oh great! Now I’m going backwards!)

I add a few more spices and a dash of salt to the sauce on the stove and now I’m not certain it will taste good with anything.

I write and revise and experiment and then I wonder if the story is still speaking its message or if I’ve just screwed it up.

The only cure I’ve found for this is asking for help. I.e. Will you watch me do this? Will you taste this? Will you read this and tell me if it makes one shred of sense anymore?

Not at all sure why my critical capacity is hampered proportionally to how hard I work on something, but maybe it’s a fail-safe. A part of our human design to need each other.

My husband tastes the food for me. He reads a lot of drafts. He encourages me in my exercise efforts (even if he does turn on the blender while I’m trying to hear the Youtube instructions). Heh. I definitely, absolutely, desperately need him.

Another surprise-I didn’t know my third book was my best writing yet. I honestly didn’t think it was. But people keep telling me it is.

And now it’s a finalist for the INDIEFAB 2015 Book of the Year in its category. (Can I just say YAY!!!?)

So when you are working hard and you can’t see straight anymore and you think you might actually be getting worse, ask someone else to look at it in your stead.

You could be doing something amazing.

Here Comes the Bride



I met her at freshman orientation. She and I had both circled a long list of identical activities from a series of opportunities designed to help us explore our new university campus.

We wanted to see all the same things. It was a sign. (I love looking for signs!)

She told me, over lunch a few days later, that she felt we’d known each other for years already, and were only just getting reacquainted.

There are friends and there are bosom friends.

I have been honored to be touched with a handful of beautiful friends who’ve passed in and out of my life in various seasons. Some passed out and then passed back in. Some passed through and faded. Some still have yet to pass back in. Some I still have yet to meet.

Today I want to tell you a bit about Lainie.

Hanging out with college friends

Hanging out with college friends

My whole family fell in love with her. She’s a woman who loves with her whole heart, laughs with her whole body, gives with her whole soul.

She is a brave world traveler, a passionate cook, an intellectual who challenges you to greater heights that you’d comfortably reach on your own. She’s encouraged my faith, soothed my wounds, and inspired my creativity.

We were inseparable in college.


At a friend’s birthday, I lost a board game and cried about it. She walked with me and calmed me down.

We made a pact, early on, that if we had to cancel a “date” together, it was always acceptable if the reason for canceling was a romantic opportunity (although I think we phrased it “You can always cancel on my for a boy.”) We promised to always make things right if there was pain or disagreement between us. We promised to keep our friendship alive.

We went out swing dancing. We saw theater shows. We acted in theater projects. We painted together.

I have one distinct memory from one outings in which we decided to wear floor-length red gowns and paint in a park.

(Yes. This is the sort of thing we do.)

Lainie, my sister,me, the cast of Twilight

The dresses happened to be of similar hues, though that was unplanned. While we perched on a bench in Carkeek Park, conversing happily and making our brushstrokes, a woman approached with a timid smile on her face and asking if we were celebrating our wedding.

Ah yes. We did meet in Seattle.

But on the subject of weddings—and this is where I am going, she and I haven’t been perfectly synchronized when it came to chronology.

Bridesmaids at my wedding.

Bridesmaids at my wedding, helping with my veil

I met James while I was still in college. About a year after graduating, James and I tied the knot. Lainie was my maid of honor. She said such amazing things about me during her speech. It’s comforting to know she thought I was a good friend to her too.

Lainie and I have actually spent a lot of our friendship apart since the early college years. We’ve written stacks of letters. We’ve continued to share our hearts and dreams. We’ve reconnected over holidays.

Celebrating a play that Lainie starred in.

Celebrating a play that Lainie starred in

Five-ish years into my marriage, I gave birth to my son. Lainie rejoiced over him as his auntie. My heart ached to share this new season with her. I wanted to raise our kids as friends. I wanted to be a married woman alongside her. I wanted all of this to be mutual territory. But it wasn’t.

I prayed a lot. It was one of those fierce, determined prayers, begging, pleading that Lainie and I could share these things together. To be wives and mothers together. I know this isn’t something all friendships have. I know a friendship doesn’t need this common ground to keep going. But I wanted it badly, so I kept praying.

I don’t hear clear and vivid answers to prayer very often.


Dinner with friends

But in Lainie’s case I did. God told me on Christmas 2013 that Lainie would meet her husband in 2014. I waited a long time to hear the news. But when she finally told me she’d started dating this wonderful man and that he loved her in such a way that she was reminded of the way Jesus loved her, I was silently screaming with happiness. I didn’t tell her about the whole “God told me about him” until Nathaniel had proposed marriage.

It was a very happy secret to share at last.

A wedding is the merging of two lives.

It’s the beginning of the most important team we’ll ever build. It’s the hardest and best human relationship I can imagine. And I’m overjoyed to see my darling friend stepping into its folds. She’s found her lover and her friend.

Lainie, you are a bright light. You’ve found a man who treasures you. I couldn’t be happier for you and I’m giddy to watch you become a bride. There are so many moments in life where things seem to get harder, but this is one of those times when I’m certain it gets sweeter.

I wish you both joy, laughter, an abundance of grace and forgiveness for each other, and a friendship that will weather the years of scarcity and of plenty.

I’m sending you all my love.

Real Life Drama

It’s a blast from the past today. Drama school lessons ranging from social studies to sexual attraction.

(Photos of Elise from acting projects at the end of this post!)

A large part of my personality formation came through my involvement in the drama department at my university. I took the year-long acting series offered there and gained an enormous depth of understanding for:

1. What makes people the way they are

I performed a monologue in which, I was the victim of horrendous abuse, brought into a place where I could accuse my former attacker of his crimes, only to hear him deny that he had ever harmed me. By the time I was through with working that monologue, I couldn’t perform it without getting one or both of my palms slick with sweat. (Play: Death and the Maiden)

2. What makes people do wild, irresponsible things

In another project, I was a woman about to be married who is sure she’s going to enter into life with the wrong man, has recently discovered she’s pregnant, has drunk far too much wine the night before, and now, in the dregs of everything, decides to be honest with the true love of her life before it really is too late. (Play: Maids of Honor)

(Heh. Okay, from these two examples you’ll assume that I only did dark and highly-dramatic plays. A fun aside: For the scene in Maids of Honor, my partner and I performed the scene in English and then, for extra credit, in Spanish. It was like doing a live telenovela soap opera.)

I also learned:

3. What makes a physical space beautiful and enchanting

I was cast as the Spirit of Wind for a musical performance of William Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Someone wrote original, four-part harmony songs to create the whimsical atmosphere of the island, but the beauty of onstage spectacle was something I’d never experienced hands-on. The play was performed in a Theater-in-the-Round, so the audience sat at four points on bleachers around the stage. In between the seating hung long tendrils of muslin fabric like tattered jungle vines. At the very end of the story, I and the other Spirits wound the four masses of vines together, forming a trunk at the very center of the stage. The audience saw, as the play’s final image, a tree growing in center stage. The image never left me. Beauty can be wrought from the simplest things.

4. That I was appealing, as a woman

This awareness hits us at different times in life. I can’t honestly say if I was late or early in my own realization, but through work on a scene from The Birthday Party I was made aware of the reality that I was beautiful, attractive, and interesting to the male sex. As I write this, I hear a chorus of voices proclaim this is just an effect of the debauchery of all drama departments and no one leaves its clutches without a stain. I hear you. I don’t completely disagree to the licentiousness present in much of theater—and yet it does a fantastic job celebrating the dangerous, beautiful mating dance of attraction and all that belongs to that world.

For those who ask, “What happened in this scene, Elise? What the heck did you do?” I didn’t make out with someone on stage. I didn’t sleep with my acting partner. I played the part of a woman who’d had too much to drink, got involved with one of the other party guests (we walked off stage and I fluffed up my hair to make it look disheveled) and then re-entered a minute later, pushing my acting partner to the floor and straddling his chest. It wasn’t just the scene that alerted me to my own attractiveness. It was the way my acting partner and my director (both friends of mine) spoke to me throughout. They weren’t disrespectful, and yet both men clearly had no problem imagining Elise as able to carry out all of her directed action, naturally.

Drama is by no means a tame, safe beast. I’d never put that in its sales pitch.

Theater attempts to understand the primal forces of human nature, which can be harrowing, exhilarating, and emotionally complicated to an actor who chooses to venture therein.

All I can say is drama impacted the adult person I became. It enhanced my confidence, improved my empathy, and refined my communication skills. It reminded me that I am a flesh and blood woman, and that it’s a powerful thing.

You want to see some theater pictures? I’ll end with that. I’ve dug up a few from the archives. In one I have theater blood on my face. It was a domestic drama (kind of a horror story). The other ones with my blue dress and the big hair are from The Tempest.

Elise as Wind

The Tempest: Yes, my hair really does do that under the right conditions.



From a student directed short “A Kiss Before You Go”

Water, Earth, Wind

The Tempest: Spirits of Water, Earth, and Wind (Left to Right)

Ariel, Wind, Water, Trapeze

The Tempest: Ariel movef across stage on a trapeze!


In all that, you might guess that I would defend theater until my throat was bloody from speaking in its defense. But you probably guessed it already!



2015 Highlights

frozen-flower-1182297-1280x960This year has truly, madly, deeply* been one of the craziest that I, my family, and my heart has ever seen.

I’ve experienced more heartbreak this year than most of those that came before it and I’ve been knocked to my knees, in tears, by generosity and love in measures that have risen to meet the height of my pain.


*Truly, Madly, Deeply by Savage Garden was a beloved song during my high school years.


2015 Highlights

January 2015 – My short story Phoenix was published in an anthology of fantasy stories and I was finally able to share the story about love chasing love into the realm of death itself.

February 2015 – I faced the unbearable and found that Jesus gave me the strength to bear it. Time is a mercy that softens the blade of the sharpest sorrows.

May 2015 – I defined a few of my own wisdom gleanings–things that took me years to learn and years more to believe for myself with pure conviction.

June 2015 – I faced the sacrificial years of motherhood that lay ahead of me and determined to live without regret, knowing I’ll have just a few short years of childhood with my son.

July 2015 – The little prince of my household turned 2 this year and I stopped to notice just how much he’s becoming himself in an astonishing, powerful way.

August 2015 – I went down into the black of general anesthesia for my very first surgery (apart from my wisdom teeth removal), and I found that as I stood on the brink, I was desperate to thank my husband for all the good he is to me, and to acknowledge I’m not nearly grateful enough. I realized, in the painful, Velveteen Rabbit kind of way, that this loss and sorrow and pain might just be part of my process in becoming real. Then I found myself struck speechless by the number of friends and family who chose to walk with me though the darkness.

November 2015 – My third novel, Guardian of the Gold Breathers, entered the world to the fanfare and excitement of many friends and supporters. I continue to be amazed by the community that supports me with fierce loyalty.


As this year ends and another one begins, I am hopeful in a state of quiet fragility. I am growing to believe I’m strong, though most days this word does not seem to fit me at all.

I long for beauty and healing to visit  me in full measure, and I know this takes time, and that life will not stop moving no matter how slow it seems to crawl.

My arms hang wide, palms up, in deep gratitude for the people who surround me, hold me, pray for me, and believe on my behalf in the breathtaking and good things that are yet to come. I cling to the hand of my God, knowing he has not abandoned me yet, and he has no intention of doing so.

Happy new year and Merry Christmas to you!

I send you my love, my hopes for a fullness and joy in your 2016, and my wishes for a peace that fills your heart deeper than any understanding and head-knowledge can bring.