Oh Hello Aunt Flo...

Before we begin, I want any "boyz" who are reading this particular blog to know in advance that today I am talking about "girl stuff", more specifically, "old woman stuff".  Feel free to read along if you want, but I'm not holding back.  Read the title and consider yourself forewarned.

My Aunt Flo is here.  She's an old family friend who has been coming to visit me almost every month for the last 42 years.  Quite often, Flo shows up unannounced, demanding that I indulge her every whim. Typically, she kicks in the front door, hands me her bags, goes straight to the pantry for a bag of Cheetos and then hits the couch. From there she proceeds to point out all of my short comings.

"You're looking a tad bloated my dear.  Why don't you go put on a nice comfy pair of sweat pants.", she'll say, as she crams Cheetos into her mouth.  There's no pleasing this woman! If I put on the grey sweats, she'll raise her left eyebrow and suggest that "maybe somebody needs to hit the gym?"  If I put on the larger blue velour pair, she'll roll her eyes and tell me I look like a pregnant smurfette.

Flo's got an attitude.  In her never to be humble opinion, the house is never clean enough, my cooking is "pretentious", my husband is too good for me, and the neighbours all think I hate dogs because I don't have one. [Update:  I got one now, Mookie and she's wonderful]. She insists on going everywhere with me, flipping off drivers who have the nerve to come within 10 feet of the car.  It takes twice as long to get anywhere because she needs to stop and pee every 15 minutes, and she insists that it is just plain rude to use a gas station bathroom without making a purchase so I end up buying her chocolate bars and potato chips. (She never eats Cheetos outside of the house, cause the orange fingers are "unladylike".)  Yet, she'll pass gas with abandon in just about any public place, so long as she can pin the blame on somebody else.)

In the past few years, Aunt Flo has begun to show her age. She's cut back to visiting every 3 months or so, and usually only hangs around for a few days. Quite often, she is accompanied by the menopause twins, Hor and Moan a cranky couple who bicker and complain about getting old. And, they're nuts!  Hor cries, Moan laughs hysterically, usually both at the same time, then they demand ice cream. Aunt Flo has taken the notion that she is now the Human Torch with the superhuman ability to burst into flame. Always the comedian, she gets a huge kick out of waiting for the most inconvenient moment before turning up the heat and then FA-WHOOSH and I've turned into a towering inferno. Not funny, Aunt Flo.

Most of you, who have been reading my blog, are probably waiting for the part where I turn my story into a metaphor for my Spiritual walk with Jesus Christ.  Something pithy such as a stage of transition - towards a higher purpose... a graduation of sorts.  Perhaps I could say that I have earned a Master's degree in Women's Studies. Maybe, I'm now entitled to be a wise guru(ette) who sits atop of  a mountain  dispelling great wisdom and knowledge to younger women seeking enlightenment. Surely, I must glow with beams of serenity and joy now that I have put the years of fertility and child rearing behind me. I have come full circle, from infant, to child, to woman, to mother, to grandmother and now death a time of joyful respite, well earned.

Ya... sure... let's go with that.

It's me,

Jan (saggy boobs, mood swings and all)

P.S. Aunt Flo sends her regards

[Aunt Flo passed away in 2012; she is not missed.  Sadly, Hor and Moan moved in with me right after her death and refuse to leave. I'm trying to evict them but apparently, at least according to Mother Nature,  they have "legal rights" and get to stay until further notice.]

Hey there... it's me, Jan: A Public Apology

Hey there... it's me, Jan: A Public Apology: Ahem... To every Language Arts teacher who ever had the misfortune to try and teach me the range of skills needed to become proficient in ...

A Public Apology

Ahem...

To every Language Arts teacher who ever had the misfortune to try and teach me the range of skills needed to become proficient in using the English language, especially the mechanics of writing:

To Mr. White who stood on his desk and read Shakespeare in an effort to make us Grade Nine nincompoops listen.  To Mr. Reid who read my first attempts at short stories and encouraged me to keep writing. (Naturally, being too cool for school, I didn't.) To Jim Pehura, my grade 11 and 12 L.A. teacher and later my friend, thanks for telling me I was copping out when I tried to down grade from university level to general English courses. And to Ms. Nobel, Mrs. Hewlit,  Mrs. Mackintosh, Mrs. Fullerton, and Mrs. Dewar, (and the rest of my primary school teachers whose names I have conveniently erased from memory), who laboured to drill grammar, spelling and neat penmanship into my fuzzy, daydreamin' little head, I am really, really, sorry!

Sorry for not paying attention in class (although the pictures that I doodled were mighty pretty.) Sorry for not doing my home work.  Sorry my never-ending whispering, humming, giggling and other lapses in good judgement.  Sorry for day dreaming instead of learning about verbs, nouns, articles, pronouns, adjectives, adverbs, dangling and misplaced modifiers, interrupting modifiers, verb tenses, subject-verb agreement, pronoun agreement, relative clauses and relative pronouns, comparative and superlative forms, modal auxiliary verbs (huh?), idiomatic construction (what?), commas, periods, question marks, apostrophes, quotation marks, colons and semicolons, and exclamation marks!  Oh - and run-on sentences.

You see, at the time I had other career goals in mind.  Ballerinas dance their dances, not write about them. Doctor's remove tonsils, not dangling participles. And I am sure that my heroine diva Diana Ross hired someone else to write all those songs. What did I need to know about writing for?

Well, at it turns out, I needed to learn  this stuff because now that I've finally grown up, I have discovered that I am a writer. Actually, at present, I am a scribe for all the voices in my head, and for some reason, they insist that I write down every dang thing they say.

And Mr. Ligowski, who referred to me as "Hey you, with the glasses" in grade 8. In spite of your predictions, as it turns out, I didn't end up living in a van down by the river... at least not yet.

Lastly, a shout out to Mr. Greene, my Grade 11 Math teacher who valiantly tried to teach me geometry and algebra.  You gave me an exemption for the final math exam as long as I promised not to ever study math again as long as you were alive.  I kept that promise and as a result, I have am now a writer and not a Quantum Physicist. Thanks dude!

In summary, I am really, really, sorry.  I'll try to do better. And for my beta reader and editor (not going to name her until my book is published) I am absolutely, totally, completely, and awfully sorry; and eternally grateful.

It's me, Jan!

Don't Poke the Bear

There once was an old man with only one arm, who lived in an rickety log cabin on the edge of the woods, beside a well-travelled path.  He had a pet bear which was tamed to the point that although it was free to wander in the forest, preferred to sit quietly by the man's side.  In front of this odd pairing was a dusty crumpled old hat and a hand-painted sign which said: Best advice you'll ever get!  Please put a donation into the hat.

Every day, a small crowd of passer-by's would gather in front of the old man and his bear.  They would toss coins and bills into the hat and wait for the show to begin.  The old man just sat there saying nothing.  The bear sat beside its master, doing nothing.  Eventually, the crowd would grow restless, shuffling their feet and mumbling among themselves that this man was a con artist.  Only when the crowd reached a fever pitch would the old man stand up and raise his only hand for silence. Staring out over the crowd, in a quiet but stern voice he would say: "Don't poke the bear." With that, he would offer everyone their money back, and gesture towards the bear which was now sitting on the hat, snoozing.  

Everyone agreed that the old man's advice was truly the best they had ever heard, and happily went on their way.  The old man would then sit down and wait.  He sometimes waited for hours for the bear to wake up and wander in to the forest for some food.  The old man had learned the hard way to never poke the bear.

I offer this parable as context to what is in my heart and frizzy little head today.  Why do I insist on learning things the hard way? 

My journey of self discovery includes both re-examination of self beliefs that I hold fast as the truth, as well as discovery of new truths about myself.  One thing that I have come to realize, is that I, Jan Christianson, like to poke bears.  No, scratch that... I LOVE to poke bears!  

Bears come in all forms, shapes and sizes.  Some are people, others take on the form of past events and still others are events that are yet to happen.  There's nothing I like better than to summon up a crotchety old she bear (memory) and poke it with an accusing finger until it rears up on it's back legs and bites me square on the butt. (I am tempted to say A** for dramatic effect, but I've sworn off swearing so work with me here.)

The old bear grabs me by my "derriere" so I can't  turn around to defend myself; shakes me up before tossing me to one side and stalking off into the past where she lives and prefers not to be disturbed.  And you would think that after multiple episodes of this self-inflicted abuse, I might get a clue and stop poking that bear.  But I don't.  

Some bears walk upright on two legs and disguise themselves as people. People I know, used to know and even people I've never met.  If any of these bears dare to offend my sensibilities, I will poke 'em right in the eye!  Maybe not to their face, but the minute their back is turned, boy do I like to poke at 'em.  Negative comments, gossipping, mumbling to myself and others about how these people bears have (or are going to) done me wrong.  However, my bear poking days are coming to an end.

Self discovery leads to epiphany and I have come to learn that the only bear I've been poking at all my life is me!  I have become a walking, talking poke in the eye, and  it has to stop. No more kneeling at the alter of past mistakes and trespasses. I have handed these over to Jesus Christ and He has wiped these files clean. And, (news flash) Jan Christianson does not know everything, and therefore she's sometimes wrong! Really, really wrong!  But that's o.k., as long as I continue to take a moment to moment inventory, and promptly admit when I've grabbed the wrong end of the stick. (That is a weak metaphor where I am in fact the bear being poked by the stick instead being the poker.)

So, in conclusion; (and believe me, I am as glad as you probably are that I'm wrapping this one up) DON'T POKE THE BEAR! 

How to Write a Book

Announcement:

I, Jan Christianson, am going to write a book.  TA DA!

There, I said it.  It's official.  Once begun, half done.  ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXZ.  hmmmmmmm......This may take a bit longer than I thought.

As you, my faithful followers, know (if you don't know, take a day off and read my blog from beginning to now - it's kind of a whole journey of discovery thing and dang funny I might add.) So I say again, as you, my faithful followers know, I have been busy figuring out what I need to figure out so I can figure out what I am going to be when I grow up.  Apparently, I am going to be a writer, motivational speaker, and on a part-time basis, a jewelry designer. That is somewhat of a change from my earliest career goals of being a doctor, a ballerina and Dianna Ross of the Supremes. 

The doctor thing didn't pan out because I am too easily nauseated by blood and stuff, and I managed to pull only a solid C- in science throughout junior and senior high school. If that was not enough, vomiting all over my lab partner and the frog we were dissecting confirmed my suspicions that Dr. Jan was never meant to be. However, I do make a damn fine hypochondriac. 

 A distinct lack of rhythm put a quick and merciful end to my dancing career.  I have two left feet, a lead bottom and get horribly dizzy after only one pirouette.  Plus, my mother put me in a tap dancing class when I was 5 years old with a scary loud dance teacher named Mrs. Block unt Tackle (or something like that). There I was, a unwieldy plump frizzy haired kid (not much has changed) cowering in the back row as she screamed "unt von, unt two, unt tree and ball, step, chain... ball, step, chain... and me desperately trying to keep up.  The lessons promptly ended when my mother was informed that although her money was welcomed, the aggravation of trying to drill one simple dance step into me head was too much of a cross to bear.  (I was consequently sent to piano lessons with much the same result.)

Now, I am glad to report that I can sing!  Well, carry a respectable tune anyway.  I've had the lead a few times in a Cabaret, with roles such as Mama Morten of Chicago fame.  Thanks to my inner drama queen, I can belt out a tune and give a convincing performance. But Diana Ross I ain't.  So, it's a writing and motivational speaking career for me. Hence, I am going to write a book.  

But where to start?  It is one thing to make the decision and entirely another to sit down and whip up something amazing. Somewhere between "I'm gonna write a book" and my eulogy where people expound on the sad loss of the 21st century's most prolific author lies my first book. Better get to work.

If you haven't already figured it out, today's blog is strictly meant  to be a procrastination tactic. But I'm going to write that book!  Seriously! Just as soon as I clean the house, do the laundry, walk the neighbour's dogs, mow the lawn, weed the garden...

It's me, Jan 

TGIF -Thank God I'm Free

It's Friday, and supposedly it's going to be a scorcher! I'm sitting here pondering the meaning of life (again), thankful that I am blessed with air conditioning, and that I live in such incredible beauty, surrounded by God's handiwork and having the time to enjoy it.

TGIF: Thank God it's Friday; the mantra of all members of the rat race.  At least it is for those who live a Monday to Friday existence. For everyone else, I suppose their mantra is Thank God that it is My Day Off or TGTIIMDO. A tad cumbersome.

Isn't it amazing how God often pops up in conversation?  People, who may or may not acknowledge that God exists can often be heard to say "Oh my God!" in response to just about anything.  I wonder, who do they think they are talking to? The greatest of agnostics might greet the resident atheist  as they gather around the proverbial water cooler with a glib "Thank God it's Friday, eh?", even though they don't know Him personally. And, when something good happens, expected or unexpected, we often hear people exclaim "Oh thank God" as if to acknowledge that He is their benefactor when in fact they don't actually give Him the credit. Why are these acknowledgments of God so pervasive in our culture?

This is the part of my blog where I would nornally expound some great wisdom on the subject, but truth be told, I have no idea what the answer is.  However, here are some guesses;

It's just tradition, a turn of phrase that was once sincere but now just commonplace. Watch any home decorating show reveal and count the number of times people say "Oh my God!" or "I promised myself I wasn't going to say Oh my God... but... Oh my God!"

It's a genuine acknowledgement that some things are so special that they appear to be a blessing. As in "Oh my God, that was so thoughtful of you.  Thank you so much."

It's a bad habit of cursing God for anything that annoys us. (In the 14th century, people could be heard uttering curses that involve God's private parts - so sayeth the nerdy side of Jan who adores fictional medieval murder mysteries).

It's a sincere exclamation of worship, giving credit where credit is due.  "Thank you God for saving my (husband, wife, child, parent, brother, sister)" from what ever crisis has occurred.

Whatever the reason, I find it interesting that we most often hear expressions of incredulity that include God's name but seldom the names of other supposed deities. How often do you hear someone mutter the oath "Of for the love of Ganesha" or "Oh my Zeus" or "What in Horus's name do you think you are doing?"  There is no "Thank Geb its Friday".  For whatever reason, many, many people no matter the culture, location or language mention God's name in times of joy, anger or just in casual conversation.

I remember seeing a sign on a secretary's desk that said You may know where you are going, and God knows where you are going, but does your secretary  know where you are going?  God, it seems, is everywhere, whether we want to admit it or not.

It is Friday and the end of the week for my husband the only member of our household who is currently living a Monday to Friday existence right now.  When he gets home tonight, he'll exhale and sink into the couch saying "Thank God its Friday. I'm free for the weekend." I on the other hand, have the great fortune, for now anyway,  to enjoy each day as it comes, hanging out with my dear Lord and reveling in the fact that I am free.  Free from the stress of the work week.  Free from the self deception that my self worth is predicated on my paycheck. Free from the ball of pain in my gut and no longer a slave to the favourable opinions of others.

Eventually, I will return to the world of work.  Wiser, happier, stronger, and if it is His will, doing the work that is my passion instead of being  a mill stone around my neck. I suppose the choice is mine.  For now, I revel in the fact that through His grace, I can truly say "Oh my God" and mean it as an exclamation of joyful praise for His grace and mercy to me. I can conduct myself throughout the day simply for the love of Jesus with an attitude of gratitude and receiving blessings from complete strangers, because I bless them.

Thank God I'm Free. Amen!

It's me, Jan

Cleansing of the Soul

This blog may come under the heading of "too much information", but I'm in a mood to share.

Spoiler Alert!!!!  Today, I am going to talk about diarrhea.

At 2:00 p.m. this afternoon, I will be under general anaesthetic while I undergo a colonoscopy. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this procedure, I suggest that you read up on it through Google. But I warn you, it is not for the faint of heart.

The preparation process is awful.  Yesterday, I purchased $60.00 worth of a power laxative, and have taken 3 doses which are meant to "cleanse" my bowels in preparation for the procedure.  I am italicizing this word, to point out the irony of what I am putting myself through, in the name of preventative maintenance.

Procedure.  What a nice word:  A manner of proceeding; a way of performing or effecting something. It certainly sounds better than acknowledging that I am willingly agreeing to have something put where the sun doesn't shine (and have picture taken!) But I digress.

Immersed as I am in my discovery of faith in Jesus Christ and understanding God's purpose for my life, I tend to draw metaphors from all of life's experiences. (See yesterdays blog about IKEA). So, as I purge my body in preparation for this unspeakable procedure, I can't help but think how much easier it would be if we could only find such a quick fix to cleanse our souls and purge ourselves of our sins. An instant cure-all that cleans like a white tornado.  Unholy one day, and all cleaned up and holy the next. No more work to do.

Purging. Another nice word: (a) To remove (impurities and other elements) by or as if by cleansing. (b) to rid of sin, guilt or defilement. (c) law to clear (a person) of a charge or imputation. In order to make this procedure go smoothly, (more so, I am certain, for the surgeon than for myself,) I need to rid myself of all residual "matter".  Ewwwwwwww.  Sorry, back to the metaphor.


16 years ago, I found salvation by accepting Jesus Christ into my life.  I was baptized at the ripe old age of 40, because I wanted to undergo a spiritual cleansing and receive the Holy Spirit. And although God is faithful, and welcomed me with open arms, I did not receive Him with all my heart and soul.  I just kind of "friended" Him and went on my merry way.  We have had an on again - off again kind of relationship since that time.  More to the point, I was the one who was on and off, not Him.  I accepted His friendship, but did nothing much to deepen the relationship.  Pity too, because I experienced a lot of unnecessary pain along the way in my stubborn desire to take care of my own problems and try to medicate the pain through the acquisition of stuff.

But, Jesus never gave up on me.  He has patiently travelled by by my side, ready to take up the conversation where we left off, whenever I came to my senses and admitted that I was in need of Good Orderly Direction. Finally, through a lot of trial and tribulation, I have found my way back to the foot of the cross, humbly admitting that I am a sinner and incapable of living a life filled with peace and joy without a deep and personal relationship with Him.

This is where purging comes in.  When I first knelt down and admitted that my life was unmanageable and committed my life and will to the care of God, I laid out all my sins.  Well, most of them anyway.  I was hoping we wouldn't have to have a conversation about the really bad stuff.  I wallowed in guilt, shame and anger - thinking that this was the way one gets right with God.  Self-inflicted punishment to ensure that I learned my lesson.  But get this:  He knew everything and He forgave me for everything. Done! Finished! Purged! Clean as a whistle.

But, with purging comes responsibility.  I know better now.  I can't just say "sorry, sorry, sorry" and then go back to my old life.  I have to step up, live right, immerse myself in His word, admit that I am a sinner ('cause I am, and continue to pull a lot of boners), and ask Jesus to help me do better. I am in recovery from my addiction to negative emotions such as guilt, fear, worry shame, and anger. I mean, once it is out, flushed away, do I really want to fill myself up with all that nasty stuff again?
No more gossipping and back stabbing.  No more indulging in resentments. Retail therapy? Nope, doesn't work. Lying my way out of an uncomfortable situations?  No longer an option.  Abusing my body in the name of pleasure? Doesn't feel good at all.

So, what's left?  Peace, contentment, joy, being loved unconditionally, loving myself, better relationships, comfortable in my own skin, full of confidence, discovering talent in myself that I had no idea even existed.  I could go on and on. My point is this:  in order to make room for all these wonderful things, I had to purge myself of the miserable beliefs and attitudes that have been my travelling companions for most of my life. Jesus Christ's forgiveness was instantaneous... My willingness to experience the cleansing of my soul took a bit of time due to a lack of cooperation on my part.  But in the last 8 weeks, my soul had opened up and life could not be more beautiful.

As I prepare for today's procedure, I am confident that things will turn out just fine.  No matter the result, I am in God's hands.  Can't think of a better place to be than right there.

Well, off I go, Purged and purged (seriously, I feel as though I am completely hollow). Thanks for listening. Other than letting you all know how it all comes out in the end (pun intended), I promise never to bring up diarrhea ever again.

Opps!  Gotta go!

It's me, Jan

Later today...

4:15 p.m. and I'm back home.

It's all done and dusted, and I am happy to report that I am the proud owner of a pink and healthy colon.  It wasn't bad at all.  I got to have a nice nap, they gave me juice and cookies after, and I even got a report card congratulating me on my healthy colon.  No need to return for another 10 years.  

But now, friends, I think that it's time to bid you adieu, before I think of any more metaphors which rhyme with poo....

You Cannot Find Your Bliss at Ikea (I know 'cause I tried)

How many of you have visited Ikea?  This shopping mecca draws all stripes of people seeking to find their ultimate personal space - that space where everything fits together perfectly, with unlimited storage for all their stuff, complete with an external appearance that says "I am hip, I have it all together and I did it all on my own." No matter what we go through as we try to figure out the instructions, discovering that there are fundamental assembly pieces missing, not to mention the blood, sweat and tears (literally!) we experience as we screw, nail and glue our Ikea furniture together, the end result looks just like the one in the showroom - as long as you don't look too closely or shake it too hard.

If that is not a metaphor for life, I don't know what is.  I mean where else can you go to find all the answers to life's problems if not Ikea?  We walk in with the single desire to purchase a bag of  tea light candles or Swedish meatballs and through clever marketing and store layout, we find ourselves on a journey of discovery that leads us to the perfect answer to hiding our dirty laundry or redecorating our dens of iniquity with comfortable, yet affordable furniture.

But what we fail to remember - every single time - is that Ikea is a parallel universe. Each room assembled by talented technicians with training, aptitude and  access to ALL the fundamental screws, bolts and little pieces of wood necessary to actually put this stuff together.  Professional stagers then come along and place each  beautifully crafted unit in it's proper place, within the perfectly proportioned allotted space, accompanied with the ultimate in lighting, flooring, and ambiance and a choir of angels sing hallelujah songs that promise a little bit of heaven on earth. Luring us, fools that we are, into believing that we can replicate this Utopian existence  in our cramped apartments or houses with nothing more than a screwdriver and a hex wrench (not always included).

Forget those inconveniently placed windows and doorways, unlevel floors and 8 foot ceilings. Never mind that the elevator in our building or a stairwell that cannot accommodate the huge over packaged units.  Can't afford delivery? No problem, Ikea provides free rope so that you can get this stuff home strapped to the top of your tiny Smart Car.

It's as though we are lured by the Ikea sirens who sing melodies so beautiful that shoppers  passing by can't resist getting closer to them. Following the sound of music we steer our carts towards each perfectly staged "room" or jump in and marinate in the beautiful environment to fully immerse ourselves in the promise of unadulterated domestic bliss   Either way, it always ends in disaster on the rocks.

My life has been one big long Ikea shopping trip.  My bible was the Ikea catalogue, full of promises for a coordinated, organized, ultra-cool life complete with storage solutions for every messy little concern. From the lowly tea light to the Pax wardrobe system, my perfect life could be secured for a reasonable price and a small donation for delivery. And Ikea delivered! Brought my purchases right too my door.  And so, in a quest for a better life, I wandered from room to room, department to department, searching for the ultimate solutions to my problems and happily shelled out the price, not matter how high, so that I could find inner peace and contentment.

Except, there was no peace and contentment.  The delivery truck backed up to my door and dropped off exactly what I bargained for: confusion, despair,  disappointment and disillusionment. One promise after another broken and me left sitting on a wobbly uncomfortable chair as I watched my stuff crashing to the floor as my ill-gotten wardrobe system collapsed. No amount of twinkling tea lights  could cast sufficient ambiance to hide the ugly truth: the acquisition of stuff will not give me peace, only pieces of leftover parts and bitter disappointment.

So what's the alternative?  Leon's with their "integrity" pricing? Or the Brick with their best boxing day sale ever plus 50% off the lowest priced mattress and take 18 months to pay sales?  No!  

Listen, if you actually need furniture, then buy the basics and be content.  Don't waste any more of your time trying to find inner peace by chasing after the illusion of beauty.  Mooch from your parents, check out Craig's list, go to yard sales and get the basics. After all, no matter how expensive a chair is, it serves only one purpose, which is a place to park your butt.

More to the point, put your energy into discovering where true inner peace and contentment come from: finding salvation in Jesus Christ and seeking to know Him better. Discover the rich blessings from His father, God, who made the world, who created you in His likeness, complete with all the necessary parts and talents to achieve the specific purpose that He has in mind for you.  No assembly required!  When you come to the realization that laying your life and will on the alter of material stuff is no longer working and you begin to search for something better, take a look at the greatest Life Catalogue ever written - the Bible.

If you are tired of kneeling at the alter of acquiring material stuff with only a massive credit card balance and the hounds of collection agency hell to show for it, then hear this Good News.  You don't need that stuff

I find myself in a curious place these days.  Out of work, limited income, not sure where or when I will return to work, but at the same time, I have more peace, joy and contentment than I have ever had in my life.  Why, at a time when I would normally be frantic with worry and freaking out all day long, am I filled with this kind of peace?  Because, I know Jesus Christ.  I have FAITH!  I have finally placed my faith along with my life and will into the hands of God, knowing that he loves me and wants the very best for me.  He created me and blessed me with talents and skills that will allow me to make my living in service to others.  He is faithful, I am grateful, and we're working out where I will go next.

Stay tuned..,.

It's me, Jan