wendyblanquelg-writes

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Living Hauntedly in 23 Lines

Sun leaks in through the windows to show a nice home built in 1920. The old flowery wallpaper still sticks to the walls, peeling at the ceiling corners that can’t be reached. If you’re in the basement whose newly constructed rooms were built years after the family moved in, there’s the possibility of hearing footsteps during the day when no one is home. The house groans but so do they. From the kitchen, you can see the basement door shut after a little girl ran down the stairs and closed it. But it’s only you home, and no little girl. That same girl will slowly show herself to everyone else years after you mentioned her. Back then when no one believed, and now they fear to hear what else wails through the walls at night. Daytime brings peaceful days, aside from the common calling of your name that you ignore out of intellect. Nighttime shadows the home till it’s no longer the bright nice home from 1920, but transitioning into the home of endless time. By 9pm, you can’t walk alone in the dark living room to the kitchen without light. Their breathing will heat the back of your neck and their feet almost touch your heel. At 12am, you look up at the wooden white ceiling because they’ve started knocking another night to let you know we’re here. By 2am you can hear the woman’s faint cries from the vent, coming from what you suspect to be the boiler room in the basement. The same woman who calls your name during the daytime hoping you’ll answer to let her in. You’re asleep by 3. In a deep sleep where you can’t wake up because you accidentally astral project into a new version of your home that can’t be escaped because you’re where you want and need to be—home. But be careful…they can see you. Soft footsteps at 4am wake you and are mistaken for the possibility of there being mice. But you’re the only one who knows that’s not the case. Two figures—one tall and one short—stand at the dining room door frame staring, but if you stare back they start to move closer. They appear to the young 6-year-old at 5:30am when her mom leaves for work and the bedroom door opens. If she stares long enough to feed them her energy, they form to their true shape and start walking towards her. She looks away and so do they. But the door stays open. The house keeps looking, gaping to let in the shadows and melodies of the unrested in one day more.

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

It Wasn’t Supposed To Be Like This

This story was published in DePaul’s literary magazine, The Crook & Folly’s 2021 Edition. 

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Only Child

When I think about when I was 6, I picture myself sitting on the dark gray carpet in my room, the remodeled half of our porch, surrounded by toys and pink decorations on the wall. I’m sitting quietly looking around at everything, completely alone. My image zooms out to my mom’s bedroom next to mine—which you had to walk through in order to get to my room—next to the kitchen where my grandma’s cooking while watching her novelas, then to the rest of the house that’s empty. For years the routine was the same: mom would leave to work around 6 in the morning, my grandpa left at 7, I was taken care of by my grandma, I’d spend most of the day to myself, then usually between 4:30 and 5 in the evening everyone would come home, eat, discuss the problems or issues of the day, watch some tv, and soon go their separate ways. Most days you could have found me in my room reading only to get bothered when asked if I wanted to stop reading and go out. Other days I’d play with my dinosaur toys and question too many things around me. Why does my mom have to work so much, why is there a man with my aunts but my mom doesn’t have one, why does my grandma cry sometimes, who’s the woman my grandpa talked to the other day, what will I do in the future, is being at home all I’ll do, and I want to do more. Why am I an only child? Although being alone made it easier to get lost in my thoughts and learn through reflection, it also made me cry more than other kids. I felt more. I became a bit more. Because being alone made me be in tune with myself and as a result, my spirituality and morals.

First, let me define what I’ve come to understand as spirituality: the belief to love yourself and others, respect all living beings and being one with the world and universe; specifically Mother Nature and spirits or angels. To live life as your own with good morals is a peaceful way to live. However, I didn’t come to this definition right away, probably until most recently at the age of 22. Since I was raised Catholic and started attending mass by the time I was 4, I was taught good morals by my mom and the readings given during mass. I was also told to pray, idolize, and ask for help from a higher being and religious men in robes. Every segment of church was aweing, the ‘peace be with you’ handshake left tingling vibrations on my hand the first time I did it. As if God himself shook my hand. Surprisingly enough I fell into this pool of lukewarm devotion of believing I’m loved by God, which sprouted the power of faith in myself. 

I felt invincible as a child, so strong in my capabilities and mental state, that I truly believed if I wanted to pick up a car—I could. This confidence in myself originated in the belief of my mind being powerful—a gift from this higher presence—and that was where I first learned that our minds are stronger than we take it. Whenever I walked to school or in a store, I felt this warm spiritual being next to me that made me feel safe and protected. When you’re the only child in a household for years, the thought that this higher being is with you and won’t let anything harm you literally sounds like a great comfort and relief.  At the time I took this being as God, but after many years and realizing I don’t identify Catholic, I take that feeling of this being as the universe or my spiritual angel. My heart and intuition as a child were woven together, the addition of self and higher-faith only enhanced my perspective of living. In my head I was God’s favorite, and I kept myself in my head a lot.

When spoken to I already knew the correct responses and what adults wanted to hear. When starting conversations, I knew the typical topics and starter questions that would make adults go, “wow! You know about ____! But you’re so young.” I knew to read the room and 23    make myself heard and seen without causing a scene. For many years I felt confident in my identity. My mom is the one to thank for that. She taught me manners, but with that also came a sense of submission to pleasing others. And this was easy for a long time, especially when most of the people around me were adults. 

In elementary school, seeing boys be rude, say dumb or ignorant things, or any weirdly immature behavior made me not really want to interact with others my age. Throughout school I bonded with my teachers because I preferred the conversations rather than standing around groups of kids whose jokes didn’t make sense. The only children I had been around growing up were two older cousins and 2 younger ones; all which I saw maybe once a week. Two cousins of mine that are brothers became my best friends and through them I learned about the amazing PlayStation, video games, and the excitement of staying up late watching movies in a forthouse.  Even though I went over to their house about 50% of the year, these relationships don’t have the same roots and seeds like actual siblings you live with. The picky fights, annoying arguments, picked up habits, with unconditional support and soft spot that comes with a sibling weren’t given to me, and through this lack of connection I found some bits of life like sandpaper in my throat with a rough and coursing feeling— interacting with other kids daily, learning that I can’t play fight, failing to say comebacks, struggling to be rude back, or really click with others. My morals up until school had been to be a kind and loving person, which in school didn’t seem to fly so smoothly.

From the lack of company when I was younger, I learned to appreciate my time with people and what each person had to offer, like if they were smart or artistic with some purpose I was curious to know more. In my interactions I would observe their character and hear them closely, for any other ambiguous thoughts or comments they were trying to say. These analytical skills developed more in my early school years when I caught onto new concepts quickly and and caught on quickly to new concepts or activities. In the beginning it was odd to me that my peers found more interest in talking to each other rather than listening to the single adult in the room who knew more than us. I saw an adult like a friend, an educator, a person who I had to have the most respect for. I needed to adapt, so with more socializing and making friends I became like my friends: young and free. My circle up until then had been a few kids my age and adults so I was used to “being” an adult, and being a kid was harder than it seemed. Perhaps I put adults on a too-high of a stand because I lost a sense of identity with trying to please adults for most of my life. 

When asked if I have siblings, after my regular “no I’m an only child,” I usually get a surprised look because I’m outspoken and seem humble enough to have had a few siblings. Back to my old belief in God, my morals and demeanor came off as mature, which were often mistaken as being an “old soul.” From my earliest surprised encounters, I came across a few assumptions about being an only child: 1) people who are only children are selfish and 2) are often spoiled by their parents. Only my mom has been around, being the sole provider playing the dual role of mother and father, working 5 full days out of the week, leaving me to be cared for by my grandma who had her own chores to do. I received love and plenty of attention from my family, but never was it excessive to the point where I became selfish to be in the spotlight. 

Close friends used to joke around that my mom spoiled me because I’d go on vacation a few times out of the year. I’ll admit, I lived a nice childhood: my mom would buy me clothes when she could, buy me a small toy from the store if there was enough money leftover, we’d travel to another state with her and her boyfriend. What became my annually mandatory vacation, was my trip to Mexico every winter. My mom had to continue working and left me with my grandma as usual. The problem was that my grandpa would go to Mexico every year and take her with him. Since no one could take care of me, I had  to go. My trips to Mexico were always full of great food and views, never without the sour taste of yearning for my mom the two weeks I was there. What some people saw as “spoiled,” was me being taken in where I was able to, so my mom could continue caring for me.

What I was spoiled with was knowledge and experiences from my mom and stepdad of 15 years. My step dad and my mom dated for years but never lived together, so as a weekend dad he took me and my mom to many places. I’ve been to many states across the country, learning the country’s history and survival skills as I went. My mom has taken me on the CTA since as long as I can remember, pointing out the maps and different “lines” which go north, west, east, and south to our house. Each line passing a different neighborhood, different people, and bringing a new trip. Through learning the different areas, I learned the city and cultures withint. Similarly, I observed how my family members were and acted with each other, learning how I did and didn’t want to be. From failed relationships, to debt, to saving money, and backstreet alleys, I decided I wasn’t going to be inconsistent or carless like some uncles, and instead be hardworking to the bone like other family members. I’d consider my alone time growing up the most reflective portion of my youth. I became very intuitive when it came to reading people and knowing to trust myself with actions and exchange of words. That subconscious voice in my head became my guide, my spirit, leading me down the right path in life. Additionally, rather than bickering with a brother or sister, most of my conversations were about learning right from wrong and “adult” topics such as money and news from the adults I lived with. In middle school I was consistently called mature by teachers and other students, only to realize that my “maturity” was the result of growing up quickly. 

I’ve found comfort in being close with other family members and building strong relationships with friends. It’s odd that a misconception about only children is that they’re dependent on others. I might have an issue where I ask someone where they’re going everytime they’re leaving a room, but overall I’d like to think I just enjoy being around others. Although I don’t like being alone like I used to be, being an only child has definitively shaped me into a strong-willed and loving person. An aunt once told my mom, “you let her go too early, she’s more independent than any of the other grandkids. You’re sad she doesn’t need you anymore but the reality is she hasn’t for a while now.” Only children are not always dependent on their parents. Only children are not always spoiled or selfish, sometimes they don’t know how it feels to even be that way. Only children are oftentimes people who have to grow up quickly and learn to fill in the blanks on their own to make it in a crowded world.

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Unfocusing from the Damned

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

This Is For You Dad

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Me Duermo a Morir

Transparent grey matter floats above my head

and your delicate smile shines with a burst of sharp, inviting fangs.

Your hazel orbs encircle me and I breathe in the lust in our created air,

while you continue to consume the mystical green forest that you love so much

as you cradle it in your two fingers.

Thoughts patter my mind and ears quicker than

your hands on me, in the cold October breeze.

Lips soft like silk sheets and the scent

of whiskey encircle my fluent tongue which know 

to give in to your homely shape.

My hands, feet, and face are there,

yet all I feel is numbness and fatigue.

In this surrealista state of mind with sweet cycles of fear is when 

I hear the sweet voice from long ago tell me,

vete a dormir.

Pero si me duermo, me duermo a morir.

*vete a dormir - go to sleep*

*pero si me duermo, me duermo a morir - but if I go to sleep, I sleep to die*

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Paloma

I.

O madre mia, 

cuanto te quiero igual que tu a mi,

y cuanto me haces daño. 

Eres mi angel, 

eres mi cielo,

eres la pureza y la paloma que 

nunca se escapo.

Quisiera que tu me vieras

como yo te miro a ti.

Cariñosa y tierna

con belleza en todos los rincones que hacen tu, tu.

Das donde no te dan a ti, 

y eso si, 

 cuanto me duele.

A veces te usan sin querer queriendo,

pero a ti estos detalles

no existen, o importan.

Ayudas a otros sin que te ayuden 

a ti.

Asquerosos, eso es lo que son.

Eso, es la definición de 

humilde, madre.

II.

Las palomas son conocidas como los pájaros

Que dejan ir el dia de una boda.

Pero tu eres la paloma que nunca se escapó.

perdon, tal vez yo fui 

la culpa, 

o tal vez no. 

Nunca quebraste los candados que te tienen amarrada,

amarrada al piso.

Experiencias que nunca viviste,

noches largas que no tuviste,

y conclusiones a las que no has llegado,

a lo mejor nunca llegarás.

Está viniendo el tiempo en donde tus ojos

se te van a caer.

Asi que dejate ir libre,

hazte feliz,

y vuela como nunca has hecho.

Sin miedo o pena, 

y ven conmigo.

ven al mundo en donde puedes ser

lo que tu quieras sin restricciones. 

Vuela paloma.

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Death’s Ring

was given to my grandmother from my grandpa. 

A gift given to a new beginning, 

a whole new life. 

It is red when placed on the skin

but magenta when raised to the light. 

Gold surrounds the precious jewel. 

Ruby? Diamond? 

I’m not sure what jewel it is. 

The only jewel I know, is my grandmother.

My second mother.

The past owner of this gem. 

Her limbs were turning weak with sadness,

her smile had turned worrisome, and one day

she collapsed. 

She had been in the hospital a month, 

Two months,

Three and four.

Was death at her door?

Possibly, maybe, slightly, just a bit.

The inability to walk by herself after dancing zumba for years,

the inability to feel strength in her bones or fingers at all,

were her weaknesses. 

A woman so strong was breaking down,

But was it the end?

To her it was. 

It can’t be, la muerte is not here for her just yet, is she?

“Bring me a dark brown wooden box from my drawer,”

she asked me one day.

Rushing home and scurrying around her room with tears in my eyes, 

I had finally found the box with a glass window on the top.

When in her hospital room again with this box she opened it.

With trembling and wrinkled hands, she brought out a golden ring

with a sparkling jewel. 

“Esto es para ti, de mi.”

This is for you, from me.

Her favorite ring was now mine, a parting gift 

to remember her by. 

“Ama no te vas a morir, grandma you’re not going to die,”

I told her.

Quien sabe, you never know.

Dramatic was my grandmother, the strongest 

and most stubborn woman I know.

Because a month after this gift, 

she was out and at home.

The recovery was majestic, 

like a rose blossoming again on a breezy spring day.

With medicine, walks, the support and love

from everyone, she rose to her feet once again.

Two months, 

three and four,

she was dancing zumba all over

the dance floor.

The ring never leaves my finger, just how I hope she never leaves my side. 

Not yet.

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Xurro

The old peeling brown wooden chairs almost match

the brown churros that are visible 

through the sticky glass case by the register. 

Smells of fresh dough and sugar float in the air and into my nostrils,

just how money keeps flowing into the card reader and register by the front. 

Order numbers are being called out, 

83, 84, 85. 

My number is 95, how much longer will I wait?

My mother had ordered a dozen churros:

5 Vanilla

5 Chocolate

2 Cream Cheese

and her hot coffee, 

alongside my iced salted caramel latte.

We waited by the back of the line for our order, but there

is no place to sit or even stand.

The small pastry shop barely fits 10 people, and each time the door opens

with a new customer I feel like I’ll go mad

because the small breeze barely gives us all enough air

to breathe in and not feel claustrophobic. 

By the top of the wall opposite of the door there are colorful words against

The badly painted color.

Sunday: Pineapple, Monday: Apple, Tuesday: Nutella, Wednesday: Peanut Butter, 

Thursday: Guava, Friday: Rompope, Saturday: Dulce de Leche. 

The Flavors of the Day catch my mother’s eye, and soon enough

she runs to the register to add two pineapple churros.

Order 95 is called and my coffee is so cold my plastic cup is crying 

white droplets into the palm of my hand.

One sip and my taste buds and mind come alive.

The bland walls don’t seem bland anymore, 

The tight shop now seems like a grandma’s house where all are welcomed. 

One bite of a cream cheese churro and my heart starts pumping to its natural rhythm again.

My heart smiles,

My mouth curves up in a smile,

my mom turns to me after getting the pineapple churros with a smile,

the customers smile at their partner with churros in hand,

the world is now smiling,

thanks to you,

churro.

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

“The first thing you notice are her long white and grey streaks hidden”

The first thing you notice are her long white and grey streaks hidden

in her dark auburn hair.

You finally notice that the creases of her smile 

have finally turned to withering wrinkles.

What used to be her strong walk with agile legs

has turned into a slow stroll with a vein display.

The contagious laugh is weak and turned to soft begs

to help her as she decays.

The annoying pestering is something your ear lingers for

because sooner than later she will no longer be anymore.

Gone,

lost in your mind,

with your heart holding on,

but forever physically deceased

is what she will soon be.

Reflection on your past is the nonstop banging

around your head on whether

you were a good or bad child chanting,

“Was I kind? Understanding? Appreciative?”

No, probably not and first it’s only

one, two, and three white hairs on her head

but it soon turns into the scalp boldly

because time doesn’t stop but that is what’s left unsaid.

For some, they realize too late

that a mother’s love is one you can’t take 

once she is gone and no longer awake.

For others, they knew the truth all along:

Your mother is the reason your world spins

so appreciate and love her from

that auburn hair to

fin.

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Women as priests? Not I.

The first time I went to church was when I was baptized, but I don’t really remember attending mass for the first few years. As toddlers, we may remember glimpses of our babyhood yet not until the age of about five or six is when we start to retain all of our memories. My earliest memory is waking up at the crack of dawn on the queen sized bed I shared with my mom and seeing she wasn’t next to me. I might’ve been about five or so, and the sky outside was a bit cloudy; I now assume it must’ve been near the end of summer and the beginning of fall when tiny me saw the world through a new lens. I had climbed out of the covers, jumped to the floor, and ran to my grandma’s room in fear of being alone and in almost utter darkness by myself. That’s all I remember about that day.

I’ll never forget the first time my mom took me to church with the intention of having me fall in love to committing to God. Oh, did I become enamored with the beautiful architecture, stained glass windows, gold chalices, chronologically placed images of Jesus being crucified, angelic ceiling paintings, the twinkling lights that scream Christmas, and the smiling people who made me feel welcomed and appreciated. My mom’s only wish was complete: God had me in his hand—hypnotized in the idea of having someone love and care for me unconditionally my whole life.

Before mass, my mom had been telling me for days about taking me to church where we can pray with others and not just each other before bed. She went on about who God is, Jesus being his son, and I, his new follower. Never was I told off the bat that sinning was a grand deal to God or the church, probably because I was innocent at the time. Going to mass sounded like the dream, a second home that wasn’t Mexico, a new part of my life that I was ready to venture on like so many Disney characters did in their heroic plots. 

That Sunday morning I woke up at 7am ready to get changed. Our church is a block over from us so we walked down to the alley and took the broken gravel road straight to the golden doors which were slightly cracked, being held open by an older man. My mom’s hand held mine tightly as we entered and she reached over to the wall where water was held. She dipped her finger in it, signed the cross on her forehead then did the same to me. It smelled funny but homely, I loved it. Every person I seemed to look at would look back at me happily as if they’d been expecting me my whole life. The lights dazzled me, the recurring kneeling, standing, and sitting movements wowed me, the united dialogue made everyone sound interconnected, and my first la paz, “peace be with you,” was my welcome home. After people shook my hand I couldn’t stop looking at it and felt the pain and love from everyone I had ever touched—truly magical. I was home.

You can expect my mom’s happiness over the years of my love for mass, learning my prayers, excelling in catechism school, and my good behavior from knowing I’d be punished by God if I were a bad child. By the age of 8, I knew what I wanted to be in life: a priest. In my heart I felt like God’s favorite, his teaching being my calling, his followers being my new family, our love being one. 

I was devoted, yet when I told my mom my dream, she smiled and said, 

“That’s great, but there are only male priests.” 

“But why?”

“That’s how it is,” was all she said. I was so confused.

I later brought it up to my grandpa and he said in Spanish,

“That’s outrageous, that’s crazy, you can’t be a priest. Priests are and SHOULD only be men.”

How is it that after my long three to four years of devotion and love to God was not enough for me to be a priest? I once asked a priest if I could one day hold his position. He looked uncomfortable with a tinge of anger when he said no, but that I could work in other parts of the church to help. I was unsatisfied with everyones answer and God especially, for not letting me be what I wanted to be. I didn’t fight them on their answers nor stopped loving church for a few years either. I still wanted to be the person everyone came to for confession, to alleviate them from their stress and sins, to read and lecture people on the word of God, to host fundraisers and events to help the poor, to continue studying until I was close to God himself. There simply wasn’t a door for me to enter into priesthood. Even the word ‘priest’ sounded specifically male to me after a while, like the sound of each syllable denied a woman to take hold of its title. The word became bitter in my mouth.

I started reading Dan Brown’s The DaVinci Code, Angels & Demons, and many other books that questioned religion. Did Jesus actually marry Mary Magdalene and have a secret child? Were the scripts lying and the men in the priesthood hiding the truth of our famously loved icons? Is God real? Are there really non-believers who do not go to Hell? I thought everyone believed in Him, was I his favorite who was supposed to question his authority and change the church’s establishment? No, instead, I started detaching myself from my second home after not being fully welcomed after all. I didn’t want to be a nun, or a receptionist, or the woman who went around during mass with a clipboard taking attendance; I wanted to be more, to help more. I tried to stop loving Him.

Throughout high school and college I’ve gained an interest in learning about Catholicism, I wasn’t sure why. From what I learned my sophomore year in a theology class, only men are ordained as priests because Jesus only chose men as his apostles. When I read that, it made sense to me only because at that time women were not allowed to hold any position of power. Women were still handed over to their husbands by their families, much less would society had taken them, or Jesus, seriously because gender equality was an outrageous concept to them. Was it possible that Jesus did not want to risk women being mistreated more than they already were, by being made an apostle? Men might’ve shrugged off Jesus’ teachings if they saw something out of the norm being used: women. We might never know. What I came to find, was that through all my research I only wanted to find the flaws in God’s word and written history, to find an answer that said, “I’m right, God’s right, but the church’s institution is wrong.” I became angry at being denied by humans who thought they could tell me I couldn’t help God, not God himself.

In an article by the National Catholic Reporter, Polish Roman Catholic priest and Theologian of the Papal Household, Wojciech Giertych, was asked why women cannot be priests. He said that no one can say why Jesus chose who he did to share his teachings, and that “The son of God became flesh, but became flesh not as sexless humanity but as a male,” and that since priests are to be the image of Christ, “[priests’] maleness is essential to that role.” He later says that some parts of being with the church call for having and loving the church in a “male way,” where men apparently “show concern about structures, about the buildings of the church, about the roof of the church which is leaking, about the bishops’ conference, about the concordat between the church and the state.” Anyone, really anyone, can admire the archaic structures of holy houses, just like I did. I fell in love with the church also because of the Roman Catholic church architecture, so it mustn’t be a “male way,” but a “in-tune with the world and details way” where one doesn’t just go into a building with no attention to what’s around, but takes in everything. That isn’t male, it’s human.

The theologian does mention that women’s mission in the church is “beautiful” nonetheless because they touch God and Jesus’s heart differently. They encounter Jesus with faith, charity, approaching, touching, and kissing Jesus’ feet. Luckily, Giertych did acknowledge that “a Catholic woman might sincerely believe she is called to the priesthood, said such a “subjective” belief does not indicate the objective existence of a vocation,” I suppose that’s me? I, who felt entitled and deserving of being a priest is a, I guess you can call, reasonable idea or thought, but simply can’t be because the position doesn’t exist. I see now.

Vogue published a piece in 2018 about seven women being ordained Catholic priests by two bishops on June 29, 2002. This act was looked down upon by the Church and the women, the “Danube Seven,” were excommunicated from the church after refusing to nullify their ordination. Many priests were upset, some of the women’s priest superiors told them “that their sin in being ordained was equal to a clergy member sexually abusing a child.” Despite these comments, many of the women claimed that they felt spiritually awakened and called to the church—just how I was many years ago—and continue their religious path with pride. 

Now there is an emerging movement and group that advocates, supports, and ordains women as Roman Catholic priests: the Roman Catholic Women Priests (RCWP). Their movement supporting women has gone international, reaching and ministering women in over 34 states, Canada, Europe, South & Central America, South Africa, the Philippines and Taiwan. Many men are also part of the movement to grow this new chapter in Catholic history. The first women ordained initiated this movement: Iris Müller, Ida Raming, Pia Bruner, Dagmar Celeste, Adeline Roitlinger, Gisela Forster and Christine Mayr-Lumetxberger; creating an opportunity for more women to partake in the Lord’s work.

Although I would not become a priest today, or in a few years when women priests are officially accepted by the church, I’m glad that the door has opened for others. I no longer am a strong believer in the church, if even a believer, after so many cases of rape behind sacred doors, abuse, and the neglect of women holding power. The fight for equality continues and may not cease, ever, and it is everyones job to ensure that doors we’ve known to be closed to our fellow women start cracking open—even if dust is thrown and moths come bugging. I might have lost my inspiration and dream, but I’m better off where I am now. Other young girls who also feel the need and love to share God’s teachings like I once did, now have a better chance and warm embrace of following their calling; may God be with them.