My Mind

I ran ten miles this week. More so for my mind than my body.

Sometimes that is my only escape from my anxiety.

Running away -- both literally and figuratively.

I have dealt with anxiety for as long as I could remember. My mother would tell me there was no gain in being a "worry wart." I was in kindergarten when she told me that. What would a five-year-old have to be worried about?

As I get older, my anxiety has found a way to advance itself against me.

A few months ago, I wrote a Crystal's Corner about my personal bouts with anxiety and panic attacks. I felt like I lifted a heavy chain off my chest by writing it. It allowed me to explore the downfalls of my own mind and look them square in the eye. I have been reluctant to share it because it places me on a level of vulnerability that even my more candid posts can't compete with.

Anxiety makes me feel like my head is caught in a muddy cloud while a concrete wall is closing in on me. While I scream at the top of my lungs for help, I have no voice. There is no sound.

Panic attacks -- when they do show their face -- convince me death is certain in that moment.

People say I am too young for a heart attack, but if ever my body wanted to know how one felt, my panic attacks have given me great insight.

I have taken note of what triggers these episodes. Luckily, I have found when I sync my mind and soul they occur less often. When I exercise, eat right and sleep well they are also less dominating.

I am a strong, educated and self-aware woman. Some view anxiety, depression and panic attacks as a weakness. I, however, view those uneducated comments as being weak.

Mental illness is not an option. I didn't raise my hand in grade school hoping to get picked by it. In fact over the years I have seen it as hereditary. My family and I unfortunately have weekly if not daily confrontations with this beast.

We win some. We lose some. But our biggest weapon is recognizing it for what it is and moving forward. We do that with the help of prayer, meditation and our resounding faith in God.

I end this blog with a word of encouragement and hope from the last place I thought I would find it.

After being on the phone with Sprint for three days straight hoping to resolve ongoing issues and miscommunication, I was mentally fatigued to say the least.

It was one of those days when you plan to rest and take care of yourself and then find yourself taking care of bills and being placed on hold again and again, being rerouted, explaining your issue over and over and battling it out with automative services.

I decided I was going to move on to another carrier after being a Sprint customer for the past 13 years.

But before I did it was one last call with a customer service rep named Jeremiah who changed my mind -- about a lot of things.

"Mam, I am so sorry you have had so much trouble with us lately and I understand how frustrating that can be," he said.

After an almost two-hour phone call with him -- the first employee to fix, handle and empathize on a professional level -- I decided to stay."

"Thank you for your help," I told him. "You have excellent customer service, you have been so kind and single-handedly changed my mind to stay with Sprint."

Despite a throbbing headache, I took a deep breath and felt relief knowing I had resolved all that I could that day. But it was what this random customer service agent working out of Central America told me that gave me chills. Because after talking gigabytes and iPhones, he didn't have to say any of this:

"No problem mam," he said. "Life is hard enough. There is no need for miscommunication and frustration. I have been working at Sprint for six months, but I have been in customer relations for a long time...before that I was a teacher."

I just listened to him forgetting I was on the phone with Sprint.

"We all need to just relax and live life," he said. "I find that my life runs smoothly when my mind, spirit and body are in tune with each other. When I am working out, eating healthy, sleeping right and connected spiritually -- that is when everything falls into its place. I am glad I could help you today and I hope you have a blessed rest of your day."

"Thank you," my voice cracked. "You have been so helpful and inspiring."

"I hope you like your new phones and I hope that you get all that you want out of life and reach your dreams. Like I said, life is hard enough, we all need to be here for each other."

I told him thanks and God bless.

I hung up the phone and just sat their in disbelief. What just happened? Who was that?

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that God spoke through him in that hour.

God used the last phone call I felt like making in my favor.

 In one of the most unlikely places I would have sought after, I found peace of mind.

So thank you Jeremiah with Sprint. Jake from State Farm is overrated.

And thank you God for always reminding, nudging and winking at me through the eyes and lips of your angels.


"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord. "Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

-JEREMIAH 29:11

Airports

At the airport. It's never easy to leave home. But I sometimes find peace through complete strangers.

I look around and I see so many different faces, different ways of life, worried faces, happy faces and those who are in tears -- it is where I find a different sense of comfort.

Knowing at that moment complete strangers can relate to how I might be feeling. Knowing that gut-wrenching feeling seeing someone trying to make it on a flight with bad news on the otherside of their destination. Watching a parent hug their daughter or son goodbye. Hearing a child cry because they don't want their father to leave for work. But then there is that feeling of pure joy seeing two people run up to eachother and hug eachother. A soldier running to hold his kids. A group of college kids and their contagious laughter about to step out on an adventure.

I once heard someone say airports and hospitals are the two places you will hear the most sincere goodbyes. If these walls could talk...

All these people around me, we all woke up today. We all had a different journey up to this point. We all have different worries, struggles, anxieties...we never truly know what the next person is dealing with. Sometimes I silently pray for strangers. I wonder if anyone is silently praying for me. Considering how blessed I feel, I must be surrounded everyday by a dedicated group of prayer warriors.

The power of prayer is just that -- POWERFUL.

Being in a public place and observing people can teach you a lot. Our own worries and struggles are not to be dismmised because they may pale in comparison to those we see having "real problems." But our worries and struggles are still our own. Our feelings are never wrong. Instead what it does, is it puts things into perspective when you see how very blessed you are in the presence of complete strangers.

So thank you God that today I am not the scared teenager sitting across from me who looks like they're headed back to school. I remember those days. I've been blessed enough to be able to say that I have been through that stage with God -- conquered it. Thank you God that I am standing and waiting in a long line and not in a wheelchair. Thank you God that leaving my family is still a choice I have made for my career and not a mandatory deployment like my brother-in-law had to make. Thank you God that I am sad right now, not because of anything bad that happened, but because I am gonna miss my amazing, tight-nit family who loves and supports me unconditonally.

Do the little things that can make a huge impact on the life of a stranger. Smile. Hold the door. Conversate. Compliment someone. Offer a helping hand. You'll never know how far that will take the next person.

Be someone's blessing today.

#LETGOd #CrystalsCorner

Tileman

 This was a story I wrote for a creative writing class in college almost ten years ago. It was one of several stories I wrote, but it was this one that stood out to my professor and he used it as an example in class. It's not so much that I was creative in my writing, but as a writer I took my sister's advice and found my forte writing about what I know. In remembrance of my grandfather's 19th anniversary on March 11th, I decided to post it here on my blog. Though it is significantly longer than my normal posts, I hope you find time to read it and can relate to the love of a grandfather.

 

 

T I L E MAN

By Crystal Dominguez

 

Three steps led up to a small area with a brick wall that hugged the porch. I was there quite often as a child, but now my recollection consisted of only vague, black and white images. Which in a way, complemented the already fixed perception I had of my grandparents from back in the old days.

It was that small, triangular house that sat in the middle of Pershing Drive, where the foundation of my childhood memories would take form. I remember all the identical houses surrounding it with only slight changes in color that separated them. When I would take a few steps back, I noticed that the entire block was synchronized with the same house structure and porch entrance. It was up close that the front porch of my grandparents’ home was permanently marked with a peculiar beauty that I would never be able to erase from my mind.

 

*             *            *

 

I don’t know how many times I tried to pick up the dimes and nickels that were randomly placed on my front porch. They seemed to have been there for as long as I could remember. I always wondered why no one else had yet slipped them into their pockets. They were just there, rusted silver coins that nobody else wanted to pick up. As I grew up, the coins were still there. Their worth still intact, but their rhyme or reason was beyond me. It wasn’t until I was older and able to comprehend the simple fact that the coins were always in the same place because they were stuck in the ground.

My front porch consisted of broken tile, not by accident of course, but purposely placed in a way that created an almost perfectly imperfect pattern with a few coins between random tiles. It was arranged with autumn shades of yellow, red, orange and brown with the exception of this one pattern that sits vaguely in my mind to this day. I think it is blue and white, swirled with . . . well I can’t remember. But regardless of the exact design, I noticed my porch was not the only one that harbored this futile money. When I saw a similar tile jobs at my grandparent’s home as well as other relatives, it was then I realized that was his trademark as a tileman.



My grandpa was an amazing man. Amazing in the fact that he was a wise, good-humored, hardworking gentleman who had made a living placing tile. From my earliest memories of him as a child to the day he died from lung cancer, tile was his life. No matter what he was wearing it seemed as though there were always stains of plaster on his clothes, especially on his pants around the knees. Tile setting was a passion of his, but also a necessity and nothing seemed to stop him. He would have kneeled down in a brand new suit if he had to. Even the day we found out he had cancer, his work seemed to have doubled. I remember staring at him in his recliner as he paused from watching the game, he had his hands pressed against his forehead as he tried hard for a deep breath. I knew it was the exhaustion setting in from chemotherapy. The 12-year-old in me felt scared in that moment as I was the only one in the living room with him, but the 77-year-old in him laughed it off and chalked it up to nothing more than a headache. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He said after I asked.

Albert Campos

 It was in those small, hazel eyes that seemed to tell a whole other story. He was spent. If only as much so as those coins stuck in the ground. It broke me to see the bark of this family tree losing its strength. He was after all, a father of seven kids and 25 grandchildren. I sat there with the football game flickering in the dark living room as I watched one of the biggest sports fans I ever knew, get defeated right in front of me.

 

*             *            *

His house smelled of freshly set cement and green and red chiles boiling in a pan. Loud voices and laughter rang throughout the kitchen as my dad, grandpa and uncles played poker. My younger cousins ran out to the backyard to play, which was a great place for hide and seek as there were always huge stacks of tile piled in his backyard of all colors and sizes. My older cousins were in the guest room hanging out talking about teenage life and there I was just a bored, 10-year-old left in the middle of nowhere, so I worked my way over to the poker table. I watched a few rounds and as the night wound down, I asked if I could play. I did after all have $20 in my plastic, Hello Kitty purse and caught on as quickly as I could to the games they were playing. At first, no one at the table even heard me ask. Then my stubbornness and persistence created a seat for me next to my father. My grandpa literally rolled his eyes at me in disappointment when I actually received enough votes to play, but at the time I didn’t know how serious they took the game. The poker table was no place for a kid, more specifically it was the adult table stacked with an equal amount of chips to Pabst Blue Ribbons. It was in one of the last rounds when I got to play. After a couple encouraging nudges from my father and a few bet-raising winks from my uncles, I matched what at the time looked like a whole lot of royalty in the middle of the table and in my hands. But today realize I beat my grandpa, dad and uncles at one round of Texas Hold Em. As my little hands reached for the middle of the table and pulled the pot towards me, those small, hazel eyes both starred and smiled at me, all-the-while grumbling a few bad words in Spanish, English and jibberish. That was my grandpa. Poker playing, tile-laying, football games, family, beer and hot chile.  

*             *            *

“ . . .people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

 

I didn’t understand the importance and the technicalities of tile setting until later on in my life when my father explained the craft that was passed down to him.

“You see Crystal, there’s different tile for different jobs. You have your tile that can be placed on floors for kitchens and those made for the walls of a bathroom.” I listened to him. There was a passion in his voice, but it was mostly seen through the straight lines and neatly set tile he had placed around the house. “Mastic is used for sheet rock and Thinset is used for cement. Bathrooms use the traditional white, but there is sanded grout that comes in different colors and is used when there is more than a quarter-inch between the joints or to you they’re just spaces.” Although, sometimes lost in his explanation, I always came out understanding more and more about tile…about my dad and grandpa…about life. It went deeper than just home renovation, there were solid parallels between tile setting and everyday life.

My grandpa started his own business as a tileman in the 1960s after he returned from World War II. After a short stint as a fireman, he decided to enter into the tile business for a more profitable career. My father started to work for him and that’s how he learned the trade. They had a very close relationship and my father knew my grandpa more like a best friend than an in-law.

 

I realized the art of placing tile had become a part of my life in more ways than one. There was meaning behind the tile. My grandpa was like the mortar keeping the family together and we were his little tiles. We needed each other. Separately some of us were unique, rough, shiny, rusty and broken, but together we were a masterpiece. Tile was more of a mindset that I got from the man who placed it in my life, but he shared it with others as well...in their homes and businesses around El Paso.

 Pershing Tile, my grandpa’s business, was a small, humble tile company that was named after the street he lived on for so long. It was not very complicated or really that professional, but the end result was well known around the city. He had about four to ten workers depending on whether his sons (my mother’s brothers), my father or my brothers would occasionally help him out at certain tile jobs. It was a trade the whole family knew a lot or at least a little something about. My grandpa paved the way for my father’s business as well. It opened the year I was born in 1983 and was named after me, Crystal Tile Company. It was a way for my father to take part in the trade he loved, but mainly to make ends meet because he had just gone on strike at the smoke stack while my mother was pregnant with me. However, Crystal Tile Company wasn’t too successful and ended a couple years later. All I remember was the tile and white plastered buckets that were now stacked in my backyard, as well as the hundreds of business cards left over that had my name on them. They were plain, white cards that read in bold letters, “Crystal Tile Company, Free Estimates, Henry Dominguez, 751-4951.” It made me feel special to have such a connection to the trade even though I never got my hands dirty.

I was always fascinated by tile when I was little. The only jobs I saw done were the ones in my home. Every single piece of tile placed in my home was done either by my grandpa or my father and brothers. My den had dark reddish brown tiles that looked like huge bricks that had sunk into the ground. The kitchen had yellow and white tiles that were staggered neatly along the counters and walk way. The hallway bathroom was my favorite. Light, pink tiles lined the walls and all along the shower. My mother’s bathroom was decorated in pale shades of brown with reddish toned colors on the floor. No matter where I looked…there was tile. We would use small and large pieces of tile as coasters, wall decorations and as centerpieces on the tables. Even one of our flowerpots in the kitchen had green and white tiles in the shape of leaves all around it.  It wasn’t until later my mother told me she had made it when she was younger. I guess her father had also taught her a thing or two about the trade.  

*             *            *

I watched as my grandpa and my dad kneeled for hours on the bathroom floor. I was worried my mother was going to pass by and be upset with them for making such a mess. But she walked by and instead complemented them on the work they had accomplished so far. It didn’t really seem like they had everything under control, but now I understand why.

“You see Crystal, placing tile is an easy craft to learn, but it’s very competitive. Back in the day, you needed to know how to plaster walls to even them out before you could even place tile, but after they introduced Sheetrock and Wonderboard it became easier for people to learn.” My father always jumping from one point to another, “It’s a very messy job applying the grout, so people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

I realized this held true when I watched the process unfold before my eyes. They broke off all the old tile that was going to be replaced and started leveling the ground and sweeping up the remaining pieces. They measured the walls and started with the longest wall first. After they were finished cutting pieces of tile with what I used to think looked like a fancy cheese grater, they used a trowel to apply the mastic, which acted as a glue to hold the tile in place. They placed the tile firmly into the ground and used little, white spacers to evenly separate each tile. I remember always playing with those little white spacers because they, for one reason or another, ended up in my Lego box when my sister and I would dump them on the floor and start building nonsense. One day I guess they decided not to use the spacers, but again I learned another tile lesson from my father, who now acts as a messenger for my grandpa who I no longer can ask.

“You see Crystal, in bathrooms . . .” he paused losing his train of thought and slightly thrown off track. “Placing tile is a long process. It takes 24 hours for the mastic to set in with the grout . . . And the spacers are not needed when placing tile in a bathroom. You see, the bathroom tiles already have a built in ridge that spaces them out evenly and typically you are going to use nonskid tile to avoid slippery situations.”

Okay. So he was a little confusing to understand sometimes, especially when he jumbled up his thoughts and spit out mixed sentences, but that was the interesting part. Tile seemed to be a very organized process that had a lot more detail to follow than a foreigner to the craft might expect.

After they had all the tiles in place they mixed the grout and then scooped it out from white buckets and began to spread it on top of the tile with a float pushing the grout into the joints. I was baffled as to why they were putting this on top of the pretty tiles. I thought it was going to get stuck to the tile and ruin everything they had just spent hours on. But they were patient and let it set.

 After learning the messiest part was the most important, the next and final step became my favorite part to watch. They dipped huge orange sponges into the bucket of water and in circular motions wiped down the tile. Very quickly with not much effort the excess grout disappeared and the shiny new tile that had been placed adjusted to its new surroundings. The wet sponges revealed more to me than I think anyone else could understand. No matter how organized you do things and how perfect you want things to be, they have to get a little messy before things start looking good again. I guess this inspired me more than the old cliché that spoke of cloudy days and the trust that there’ll be sunny ones.

 

*             *            *

 

It was March 11, 1996. Exactly one week after his 77^th birthday. It felt like I had just played Las Mananitas for him on my cello. He was in good spirits, but the Hospice nurses let us know he didn’t have much time.

Slowly, one by one, from around town to different states, we all made it to my grandpa’s house for one last goodbye. This time there was an empty poker table, my younger cousins sat quietly in the living room and the tile, well it was still stacked in the backyard. A moment where I wanted to run out and hide from the sadness inside. Many times I saw both my pregnant aunt and sister hold his hand to their bellies as he lay there in his bed slowly leaving us. Tears were rolling down everyone’s cheeks as his breaths were getting further and further apart. His small, hazel eyes closing and his raspy, distinct voice…in the distance. He held on long enough for one more goodbye as my two uncles closed the door to my grandpa’s room for one last time after they shared one final moment with him. He peacefully drifted away…

After my grandpa died I knew I knew him, but maybe not as well as I had liked to. All the stories I heard and the more I learned about him, came mostly from my parents and grandma. I was around him a lot but mostly as a child so I never really had a chance to sit down and have a real conversation with him. I knew there was more than tile to this man. There was a heart big enough to create the big, loving family that I am proud to be a part of. A husband that produced more than just seven kids with his beautiful wife, Carmen. There’s a father that taught his kids more about the ups-and-downs of life than he even knew he did. A father-in-law that handed down a craft and a friendship that would impact the life of other’s in more ways than one, and as a grandfather who would grab the hands of his grandchildren immediately after they walked into his home and take them across the street to the Circle K for candy. His passion for the UTEP Miners, hot chile, backyard huachas, beautiful pieces of tile, a close game, a cold beer, a good joke and a big win at poker. It was these things that made him such a great person. And that’s what I knew of.

Right before he died, I wanted him to remember me as an individual rather than just another one of his 25 grandchildren. It wasn’t that I felt deprived, but I wanted him to see that there are certain, distinctive qualities that set each and every one of us apart. I wanted him to know me as a person, know what I’m involved in, how I’m doing in school and how I sound when I play my cello.

I slowly worked my way from a small chair against my grandmother’s wall to an open spot on the floor as I closely and curiously listened to her talk. Before I knew it, the fifteen minutes I had planned on staying had turned into a very quick two hours.

 “I was about your age when I met your grandpa,” she paused taking a moment to reminisce about her past. “ . . . He was so cute.” She said honestly and sarcastically at the same time.

She talked her life as a child; how she dealt with the Depression and the time she spent away from my grandpa when he served in World War II.

It seemed as though everyone had their memories of grandpa, but mine, although chopped and scattered, were a possession I cherished immensely and somehow crumbled together from top to bottom in this blog.

Even though he is no longer here, his presence is locked in each and every tile that is placed in El Paso. He surrounds me in my home, my mind and my heart.

 

It was just recently when I found out why he placed coins around his tile work . . . The year of each coin matches the year he placed the tile at the specific site. Now whenever I see tile he placed in El Paso, including my front porch, I know when my grandpa was at that very spot. Whenever I pass that house on Pershing, I still can’t let go of that peculiar beauty, his creativeness and his trademark. The idea alone creates a warm sense of comfort that fills my heart’s vacancy for my grandpa’s presence. He was a smart man; he left behind a piece of himself for us to embrace.   

The day he died, my family’s sense of humor got us through our great loss and battle with emotions. My aunt laughed and said my grandfather would be disappointed once he got to heaven.

“He probably told God that he needed tile in heaven so it would look pretty. I bet he already is starting his next tile job right now.”

 

*             *            *

I sat in the church surrounded by my brothers and sisters. My hands were interlocked, my head down. I prayed. It was a tough goodbye for me, because at a young age I was still looking for a better grasp on the definition of death.  But I guess God needed a bigger job from my grandpa than we all understood. His white slicked back hair and cute, wrinkled face that still held on to his handsomeness with his favorite red and blue flannel shirt.

 I would miss him more than I understood at the time. It was at the church for his funeral, where I was lost in my own thoughts and memories with the mumbled and monotone sounds in the background, I stared at the floor beneath my feet and cried. Through my tears I could feel my grandpa’s spirit was lifting up all of us.

It was in that moment that my mother told me one of his last big tile jobs was in that church. Chills ran down my spine as I felt a sense of serenity arrest my body. My grandfather placed the pearly-white tile underneath everyone’s feet at St. Joseph’s Church . . . the church where we told him goodbye. It was one of the biggest and most beautiful displays of his work -- of his life that I had ever seen. I felt comforted. And with him beneath our feet, I guess it was his way of letting us know that he was going to carry us through this. It kind of reminded me of the poem, Footprints in the Sand, but in this case of course, it would be tiles.

“You see Crystal,” My father’s voice rang in my head, “ . . .people have a tendency to think you don’t know what you are doing.”

My dad was right. I had to trust that no matter how bad things looked in that moment, God knew what He was doing. Maybe things looked messy and I couldn’t see clearly how things might turn out, but I waited patiently and as always was overly impressed with what God revealed with His wet sponge…

 

                   ________________________________________________

 

Albert Campos 1917-1996

 

The next time you see tile with a coin stuck in the ground in El Paso, Texas...

 

The Tileman was there.

Ladybugs and People

For those that know me well, know I love tiny animals and have a serious case of cute aggression! Basically, I am Elmira from Tiny Toon cartoons minus the craziness. Well...I don't know. 

I was scrolling through something online and saw a picture of a ladybug and it reminded of my brothers. When I was little I would get so excited to catch one. I felt like I could give it the perfect little home with some water and grass in a plastic cup. But by the time my clumsy little hands tried to prepare that and actually catch it -- it would fly away from me. 

I would chase it and chase it. (You see what I'm saying here?) I remember my brothers would see how hard I tried and they would tell me to show them where the ladybug was. I'd show them. Then they would do something that made so much sense to me at the time, but today makes me cringe. 

He'd carefully grab the ladybug and under its pretty little, red-spotted shell-like body, he'd pull its little black wings off. He'd smile and say, "There now he can't get away from you!"

Photo Jamie Austin

Wow. My brothers are just so smart and they are the best! Just like that, I had a little beetle friend and was going to take care of it forever! 

On the other hand, now the ladybug was unable to take care of its eggs, unable to fulfill its little 1-2 year lifespan and unable to be a ladybug because of my selfish, twisted idea thinking I was taking care of it when I was actually harming it. But at the time, this was irrelevant, it was about me and what I wanted.

My brothers were teenagers at the time and would probably never do that again. I asked them if they remembered and my brother Andy said, "That's an easy memory."

And I'm just talking tiny bugs. But what if you're dealing with your own ladybug problems in your life right now? Whose wings have you pulled off recently? 

 My other brother Gabriel joked, "That's what big brothers are for. Too bad your favorite boyfriends didn't have wings." And that's just the thing. Thank God my brothers never pulled the wings off my ex-boyfriends just so I would be happy. Some people aren't meant to stay in your life. Some are, but fly away for a bit.

 

"If deep down you know you don't belong there then trust yourself. Don't trap yourself."

As I scroll through my timeline I often come across posts that deal with relationship issues, trust issues or insecurities about a loved one. 

Sometimes when we want what we want, we do everything we can to make sure it doesn't leave us. What would we do without them? How will our lives carry on seamlessly? It goes back to the cliche, "If you love something, let it go. If it comes back, then it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never meant to be."

That concept would have been tough for my five-year-old mind to comprehend, but what it is today -- is quite simply great advice. 

I realize that the parallel I'm making is somewhat different when it comes to the innocent and childish intentions I had of simply capturing a ladybug as compared to a broken marriage, distant family member or lost friendship. But as adults we need to recognize we are fully capable of making the right decision, yet we still find ourselves running aimlessly with our hands out.

If you're struggling to let go of a person who otherwise wants nothing to do with you, you have to be an adult about the situation. Tearing their wings off and making them stay in your life is going to be more grudge and regret than peace and understanding. 

If you're holding on to just threads of what was once a quilted relationship, you have to let go. 

It's a miserable sight to see someone stay in something they despise and the other person to be content with just barely making it work. You're going to end up with a cup filled with wilted grass, dirty water and a ladybug on its back. Don't be a grown-up brat. It's not just about you and what you want. Think about other people. Are they happy?

Don't stay in something because it's familiar or what you're used to. Don't let someone guilt you into staying either. If deep down you know you don't belong there then trust yourself. Don't trap yourself.

Whose wings have you pulled off? Or is it yours that are missing? 

You shouldn't hold ladybugs hostage. 

So don't do it to people.

LETGOd.

The Lens of The Lord

The same God who beautifully created the highest mountains, deepest oceans, tallest forests and the endless dunes of the desert...is the same God who created me and gave me life. So who am I to be unhappy with who I am -- when I was created by the Hand of God? 

Many times we question ourselves inside-out. Are we good enough? Do we fit society's norm? Are we qualified enough? Are we lovable? Likable? Are we kind enough? Smart enough? Rich enough? Does anyone even care about us? What if we had this? What if we looked like that? Enough is enough. We get what we think we deserve and each one of us deserves ALL GOOD. 

Sometimes you really have to stare hard at the raw beauty and intricate face of nature to understand who you are through Christ and what you're made of. 

Do you remember when you were little, drawing a sun with rays over a mountain, green grass and maybe a river running through it? Now compare your final piece of work to the real thing. Doesn't even come close, right? 

The way you see yourself, is the same way that one-dimensional drawing looks. There is so much more to you. See yourself for what you really are. Because you are wonderfully made through Christ. 

We are able to see the very best in other people, but we often sell ourselves short and that's disheartening. There is so much more beyond the surface of who we are that isn't always accurately captured, as in the comparison of the two pictures. When we really come to know the depth of our beauty, the heights of our potential and the endless possibilities we have in this lifetime, then we able to live confidently in our own skin. Today, we are blinded by societal standards and blocked by our own self-given boundaries. "I can't!" Or "I'm not good enough." The way you should view yourself is through the Lens of the Lord. The real thing. You are that sun with beaming rays, the green of the grass and the greatness of those mountains. An indescribable beauty, with unmatched detail and perfection all done from the fingertips of the Greatest. 

I was feeling insecure about a job opportunity, but then realized if it is in fact meant to be, then it will materialize. With that acceptance, I found peace in knowing if the shoes seem to big to fill, ultimately, God has the final say in what I can truly achieve as He is my only promoter. He not only has the power to open closed doors, but to create pathways where deadend signs once were. 

I am worthy. I am capable. I am perfectly made. It shouldn't be up to other people where we stand in this life. The power in it all comes from the realization that we are perfect...just how we are. 

The day we die, hopefully we will not shake our heads at what could have been if we would have only acted out in faith while we lived, instead of just muttering it under our breath claiming to fully know its impact. Have faith that you are beautifully made inside-out, because your faith revolves around The Lord. 

So while you may not always be in front seat to endless streams, crashing waterfalls, breathtaking sunsets and a green pastures...

The next time you want an accurate reflection of who you really are, don't just look in the mirror, but go outside and look around at the detail of a butterfly's wings, the beauty of a red rose sprouting or the simple, but massive blue sky. The same Artist that painted the beauty of this world...created you. 

On an incredibly smaller scale, the works of Van Gogh and Picasso are inarguably masterpieces. No one would doubt the creations from either wouldn't be short of magnificent. So why question God's ability to create you with the same stroke of the brush that made the beauty of the world? 

May you shake whatever is bringing you down today. Recognize your true beauty, your worth and your potential through Christ. 

#Godspeed #crystalscorner #truebeauty #philippians4:13 #faith 

Photo Credit: Adiyon Dominguez, Chad Ehlers

When You Want Something, You Get It.

Matthew 19:26

 

Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

 

 * * * * *

 

 

Before the saying in the picture is taken out of context, I would like to explain where this saying has brought me this far in my life. These are just some of the instances. There's too many to list.

The first time I told myself, "When you want something, you get it!" I was 14-years-old. It was the cheerleader in me and the Christian in me coming together to create the perfect pep-talk for where I wanted my life to go. 

I focused on journalism in high school and even as a young teenager knew I was destined for that career path. I was incredibly intimidated by college, but I still wanted to do more. Something different. Another challenge. So I decided to take it one step further and leave town. I wanted to be the first of the six kids to continue my education at a different university, in a different city. The thing was, I had never been away from my tight-nit family before. I didn't have a car and I wasn't financially stable enough to be on my own at 18-years-old. But I promised myself I would stick to my short term goals in high school, so I could see that long term goal materialize. 

In my final years in high school, with the helpful advising from my journalism teacher, I told her and others that  I wanted to focus on sports broadcasting and one day work for ESPN. To some it sounded crazy, to those that knew me very well...it sounded like something I would say. To me -- consider it done. And not in the materialistic, bratty type of way. I'm talking hard work, long hours, tough days and an elbow-greasing work ethic. Because ultimately, what you think about you bring about.

Time flew by. "When you want something, you get it!" Was written on my text books, scribbled on notepads,  lip-lined on my mirrors and posted on my bulletin boards in my dorms. The most inspiring was when I would fall victim to the tough days, and my own words were thrown back at me by my family and friends. So I kept going and going. I interned at about every TV and radio station in that town.

 

 

 

It was tough relying on my roommates to drive me around. I decided  I wanted a car. It didn't make much sense considering I was a broke college kid. But it was too late. I said I wanted it. I was determined to get one.

 

The Lord answered, "I can do anything! Watch and you'll see my words come true." -Numbers 11:23

 

One day during summer break, I went to New Mexico with my parents to visit my sister. We drove a couple hours away to Santa Fe. I stared at the miraculous spiral steps that were made of wood, water and pegs. I was at the Loretto Chapel. No one knew the man who built the steps, but it is said Saint Joseph did it himself. The structure and design was beyond it's time and is still to this day considered a magnificent display, which in a way, floats up without any support. I stared. Those Sisters of the Chapel were in need of a staircase. But the church was to small to fit one to reach up to the space intended for the choir above. It just didn't make sense and wasn't going to work. But those Sisters, they didn't give up. They made a novena to St. Joseph, the patron saint of carpenters. Out of nowhere, a man came with minimal tools, created it and left, unpaid. This is where I believe, when you want something so badly and you place your prayers and petitions in front of the Lord, He will bless you inline with the desires of your heart and as He sees fit.

 

 

"Keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you." -Matthew 7:7

 

 

We prayed together and asked God to hear our prayers. To give us a sign. We went to the gift shop and I just wondered around, ready to make the trip back to Albuquerque. I came across this green, beaded rosary that hung right in front of me. It caught my attention. So I decided to buy it. When my sister saw what I was getting, she said, "Did you even read this? It's for a car's rearview mirror! Why don't you get a different one?" 

 

I looked down at it. I was shocked. I had no idea. But He did. I felt a strange amount of joy and hope. I smiled and confidently said, "I know. It's because I'm going to get a car in a couple of months. This is for my car."

 

She raised her eyebrows, tried to cover up a confused chuckle when she saw I was serious and then shook her head as to say okay, okay whatever.

 

A couple months later, I hung that green, beaded rosary in my red, 1999 Dodge Neon that I found on my own in great condition and paid in cash. Today, two cars later, this rosary still reminds me...

 

 

 

 

  * * * * *

My time in college away from home, was one of the biggest learning experiences of my life outside of the classroom. It toughened me up. Made me independent and molded me into who I am today.

 

And. Just. Like. That. 

 

I looked up at my entire family in the arena and walked across the stage in they city of Lubbock. I received my degree in Broadcast Journalism with a minor in Exercise and Sport Sciences from Texas Tech University. It worked. I got what I wanted.

 

A couple months later was my first TV gig in Amarillo. Then El Paso. Then I was hired by ESPN Dallas, and at the time it was owned and operated by Disney. In a huge sports city. The real deal. An amazing experience.

 

 

Then it was ESPN El Paso. Today, It's ESPN San Antonio. With a whole lot of little goals met in between. All because of that saying.

 

And now...

Whatever I pray, want, need, hope for and work hard for...

well, that's next.

 

;)

"Take delight in the LORD, and he will give you the desires of your heart." -Psalm 37:4

 

 

 

#crystalscorner