Jesus for Breakfast

I am stupid tired. Again. This is like my 8th night of interrupted sleep and I’m a little irritated . . . okay, a lot irritated.

Usually it’s my idiot neighbors waking me up. They’re under 25, work in bars, and I curse their vampire hours! Typically they’re leaving the house as I stack my pillows just right and I close my eyes knowing they’ll return at 3am with more drunk people and crap music blaring from their open windows. They’ll SLAM car doors shouting “Dude!” to one another across the road (read: IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE) and that’s what wakes me up. They’ll party inside until puke-thirty then wake me up again as they “Dude!” each other goodbye before screeching away in their Acuras. By this time I’m seething… hoping a violent case of dysentery swoops through their den of iniquity and leaves them all trembling.


And if it’s not them it’s a pair of raccoons tap dancing on my damn roof. I don’t know why every furry night vermin likes to hang at my house! I hear them pattering on the roof and I torture myself with visions of them crawling in the attic, chewing holes through the ductwork and laying steamy poops in there to poison us all.

And if it’s not the raccoons it’s me being too hot.

And if I’m not too hot I have to pee.

And if I don’t have to pee it’s a miracle.

I HATE being a light sleeper. HATE it. A fly farts in the next room and I’m up. And last night was no different. But this time it was my husband’s fault though I can’t be mad at him poor thing…Christopher is very allergic to cedar and a recent drive through Bastrop ( read: burning Cedar trees) messed him up real good.

“Go use the Neti Pot!” I elbowed him at midnight.

He shuffled to the bathroom making baby piglet noises….and I guess some of that Neti salt got in his belly cause a few minutes later he was running to the bathroom with a different problem.

But let’s get back to Jesus.

So Christopher falls in bed,  lays there panting…. I reach out and rest my palm on his back because I have a rather handy ability to take away headaches, cramps, and other minor maladies. I never tried to fix allergies but it was worth a try. But then Jesus popped in my mind. Here’s why:

I have this deck of cards called Ascended Masters Oracle Cards. Here’s what the box looks like:

…it’s kinda like tarot in that you flip cards for a message, but all the cards have pictures of ascended masters like St. Francis, Buddha, Mother Mary, and Jesus.

So instead of cards like this from a tarot deck:

the Ascended Master cards look like this:

They say little positive messages at the top, and I pulled the Jesus card four times last week! The message on the Jesus card says: Open Your Heart to Love and that popped in my head while trying to comfort my wheezing husband. So I closed my eyes and prayed.

Hi Jesus, you heal people, right? Please help Christopher feel better and please fix our A/C cause I set it on 70 and I know it’s not 70 in here. Amen. Oh, and thank you for popping through 4 times in my cards. I know that’s significant and I’d love to hear from you. Thank you, and Amen again.

Well, wouldn’t you know it? A lovely calm spread across my chest, down my arm, and through my fingertips. A silent peace filled the room. I was wide awake, my eyes were closed, and I was smiling. Man it feels good when Divinity visits! And you know how I know it was real? Those Acura driving turkeys got home just then and I didn’t even care. Some corner of my brain told me to get mad but the presence of pure Love really does block everything else out.

So here’s the cool part.

This morning I got out of bed grumpy as hell. I barked at everything with a heartbeat, got ready, then walked to the kitchen where my children cowered at the table. Harvey had made himself breakfast and this child has never offered me a bite of his cereal. Not until today.

“Here Mommy,” he held his spoon forward, “this bite’s for you.”
I looked at the spoon. One little Lucky Charm floated solo in the milk.

Now I’m not saying….

….but I’m just sayin’.

When’s the last time you knew your prayers were heard? What happened?


I Vacationed in a Muslim Country on 9/11. Truth.

Christopher and I were in Turkey on September 11th but that wasn’t my choice. I wanted a holiday in Sicily. I wanted to sit under those lemon trees drinking grappa like Michael Corleone! But Christopher wanted Istanbul and he wasn’t budging. So we did what anyone would do. We flipped a coin.

That coin was STILL in the air (I kid you not) when the BBC interrupted our program with a news brief:

Mount Etna had just erupted. And it was serious.

Just a little refresher for the geographically challenged:

So lava was bubbling all over my vacation plans. Poo.  Mr. Never-Got-His-Way got his way before the coin even landed. Heads. I would’ve lost anyway.

We flew to Turkey on September 10, 2001 on the most rickety-ass airplane you ever saw. When we finally landed I was trembling like a chihuahua.

“Are we allowed to drink here?” I asked Christopher en route to our hotel. Turkey was a Muslim nation and Muslims don’t drink. I also needed a cigarrette. Bad.

“You drink whatever you like,” our driver said through the rearview mirror.

I hate eavesdroppers.

We arrived at our hotel where two men worked the front desk. One of them was greasy in that silk shirt kinda way.

“You English girl?” he smiled, oozing you know you want me.  He had olive skin and green eyes. But his teeth were nicotine yellow.

Texan,” I corrected, grabbing a brochure on a  Turkish Bath. This guy was a slimeball.

“Ah Texas bang bang!”

He made a gun with his fingers and stared at my boobs while Christopher filled out paperwork. “George Boosh?” he smiled, immensely proud of his English.

“No… Jennifer,” I kicked Christopher’s leg. I was ready to go. We grabbed the keys and walked upstairs away from Mr. Creepy and his stupid fake Gucci sunglasses.

But the day got better. We spent it eating and drinking. The locals were warm and sincere and their food was amazing.  All the bars and restaurants looked a lot like this:

I remember sitting in an open air bar enjoying the first of several cold beers. I’d  just paid several million Lira for a pack of cigarettes….it was like 1.65  million Lira to 1 U.S. dollar but we were converting British pounds so I was thoroughly confused. Jet lag+ fatigue+ liberal arts brain= just don’t worry about it and have a good time.

We left the windows open that night and fell asleep under a giant crescent moon. 24 hours later the entire world would be upside down.

September 11, 2001

Turkey is 7 hours ahead of New York.

We were getting ready for our evening out. Christopher said he’d wait for me downstairs because I was taking too long.  He’d only been gone 10 minutes when a lady started screaming in the hallway. I dropped my lipgloss and rushed outside where three people watched this lady freaking out. One of them was holding her shoulders. She was crying incoherently. “Bombs… New York….Plane…. and terrorists… no one knows….another one… London’s next…. my son Oh my God Oh my God!”

Or something like that.

Is she okay?” I asked. They didn’t know what she was saying either.

“Are you American?” the  lady cried at me. Her face was bright red.

I nodded.

“They’ve bombed your World Trade Centers,” she gulped then turned to the others, “And London’s probably next. Oh my God my son….It’s all over the telly!” she got hysterical again. And I bolted for the stairs.

Ten or so people were standing around the lobby television; I saw their legs as I ran downstairs. They stood there quiet, some of them with their hands on their mouths. Christopher saw me and held out his arm.

I watched a plane crash into the tower. Was this a Harrison Ford movie? That’s where my brain went. No one was moving. Fire. Police. Screams. America. Planes. Dead. I heard the reporters but I didn’t register their words. A strange energy filled that lobby. It was fear.

The tower collapsed.

People screamed.

Not on television, in the lobby.

 Smoke billowed on the screen and dusty New Yorkers ran for their lives. Wait, I looked at Christopher, This is real?!?!

Terrorist attacks. World Trade Center. Two Planes. Many trapped. Many dead. 

 The BBC reported and my tears came. They were hot. My body was reacting to things my brain didn’t grasp. I stood there dumb. Shaking. I wanted to say something but shock had my words.

A few people mumbled their “Oh dear God” equivalents. Christopher and I were the only English speakers but I was the only American. I turned to the front desk where Mr. Slimy was polishing a glass. And it wasn’t my imagination. He smirked.

I ran to the counter.

“I need to use the phone,” I cried.

He said he needed a credit card.

Bastard made me run upstairs to get one before I could dial. But it was pointless. All lines were busy. I hadn’t been home in over a year. My fingers punched numbers, fumbling with international dialing codes. I just needed to hear someone’s voice. An American voice. But I couldn’t. I slammed the phone down. Phone lines were jammed the world over.

“Let’s go, Jenny,” Chris pulled on my arm, “Let’s get out of here. We’ll try again later.”

We walked outside, hand in hand, both of us silent. Traffic had stopped. The open air bars and restaurants all had their tvs on and that’s all we could hear. People stood in quiet clumps around the screens, shaking their heads.

 We walked around numbly. We were supposed to be doing something but we couldn’t remember what. We wandered into a Chinese restaurant because it didn’t have a television. Not that it mattered. People ate their meals in silence. What happened in New York took everybody’s words, not just mine.

Yesterday locals enjoyed asking where we were from and I proudly answered “Texas” but now an unfamiliar sensation crept over me. Something I’d never felt before. Vulnerability.

“Where you from?” the waiter tried. Bless him, he still had to work.

“London,” I lied, looking at my plate.

 My lying shame made me decide right then and there that fear was not going to ruin my trip. Though I did answer “America” rather than “Texas” after that. People associated George Bush with Texas and I wanted to distance myself from whatever that meant to them. When the locals found out I was American they bent over backwards to show kindness. They couldn’t express empathy in words but free coffees, teas, desserts and warm human gestures ensued. I didn’t understand why the news kept showing  that same clip of those radical Muslims celebrating. Where I was the Muslims were horrified.

 And the rest of the trip was a blur. Days later the phone lines unclogged and I managed a 2 minute call to my grandmother. That slime ball at the front desk delighted in charging me for $50 for that call and we were stuck in Turkey until air travel resumed and two weeks later. I wonder sometimes what the Sicilian perspective might have been but it doesn’t really matter.

Ten years later it still feels like yesterday. I know everyone has their own stories, their unique perspectives… so thank you for reading mine.

 God Bless our incredible nation.

Angels. They’re real you know.

I met my first angel at work. 

Well, I didn’t meet him really…we didn’t shake hands. Rather, I felt him. And this ‘meeting’ forced a change in me. See, I never really believed in angels. Nice concept and all that but really, I thought they was just biblical lore and fodder for crappy  mass-produced posters all the sorority girls had in college.

But I was wrong.

For the record: ANGELS ARE REAL.

So now I have to tell you about Heather. Heather and I are distant cousins by marriage and she is one amazing chick. And incredibly psychic. Heather’s business cards read: Spiritual Intuitive*Channel Medium*Angel Therapist

..and yes I was skeptical. But had no room to be.  I’d had my aura photographed (it’s blue thank you very much), flipped tarot cards , participated in seances (sort of),  had my palm read….  walked in labyrinths with Wiccans and had a few past life regressions. I’d even participated in a Shamanistic ritual in Mexico…. I’ve seen some weird shit man! But I have never had anyone channel the voices of Heaven and call it a reading.

So there I am at work. The flourescent lights are poking holes in my soul one hour at a time when I get this email from Heather. I’d asked her to tell me more about the angels because for all my skepticism, hers was one of the best readings I’d ever had. All of her messages were so loving, so positive. My future wasn’t so important as fulfilling my life’s purpose and “the angels” had direction and advice on how to get there. She referred to different ones by name and I wanted to know more.

So she sent this email to me and my mom. It was about Archangel Michael and now I can’t even tell you what it said. All I know is there, reading in my cubicle, I felt…..heaven.

A profound warmth started in my chest, deepened, then spread to my fingertips one pulsing cell at a time. I got giddy. A delicious tingling bubbled up my spine and through the crown of my head. My entire body was vibrating with, with….God I barely have words for this….LOVE. Though that doesn’t quite describe it. It was LOVE-WELL-BEING… a long, delicious EUPHORIA-gasm.  My eyes glazed over.  And as I read her words about Archangel Michael this physical bliss washed over me again and again and again in radiant, crashing waves.

I sat there, love drunk, quite sad when my phone rang.

It was my mother.

“Did you get Heather’s email?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” I murmured, blinking super slow. I must have looked stoned. As a matter of fact, I KNOW I looked stoned. (When I’m super tapped in that happens.)

“Jennifer you’ll never believe what just happened to me….” she said, proceeding to describe EXACTLY what she’d just interrupted for me.

But I was incapable of barking at her. Nothing but good exists in that space.

To date I have not felt anything that strong. Close…but not like that. And I know it’s because Heaven wanted no mistake: THIS is what you listen to. NOT the folks with the crystal balls.

No arguments here. They’ve been a guiding force in my life ever since. I still like tarot cards, collect them as a matter of fact, but they’re only a deck of cards with interesting pictures. God is the Source of every answer I seek  (and give in my readings) and His angels, I find, come along to help us on our path.  Because that’s what He wants.

It will be my absolute JOY to share my personal angel stories with you. And I really, REALLY, REALLY encourage you to share yours too. I’ve had hundreds of people share personal stories with me, most of them in confidence because they were scared of being judged.

Not too long ago I heard a preacher say that angels aren’t there for our beck and call; they’re God’s messengers only and we shouldn’t be asking them for stuff.

I can’t say as I totally agree with that. In my personal experience, not only are they there, but they listen. They help. And they intervene. You can talk to them directly and get an answer if you drop your expectations. Because angels don’t look like this:

And they don’t necessarily look like this:

As a matter of fact, if you’re expecting someone with flapping wings and a halo you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I’m not saying I know exactly what they look like but I’m confident no human eyeballs could handle seeing them as they really are.  So they work with the things around us.  Physical Sensations. Intuitive thought/guidance. Music. Animals. Dreams. They’re that same number you see on your clock, microwave and radio and that dime you always find.  They’re that sparkle of bright light you THINK you just saw but convince yourself you didn’t.

So much more to come.