27 pairs of stillettos.

I just got home from the Southern Christian Writer's Conference, and it was one of the most blessed experiences of my life. I have never had anything so inspiring and I met so many wonderful people.

Part of it was learning to write every day, so here I sit, ready to write. As I was resting (not packing), someone knocked on my door. It was a black girl with braces and tattoos. Something or some person on her left forearm. I couldn't tell. She wanted to sell me magazines. I have no money. I couldn't invite her in because I'm in the middle of packing and there are TONS of clothes everywhere. I cannot tell someone I don't have money when there are currently 79 pairs of heels, 27 pairs of stilettos, sitting in the floor of my apartment. So, we sat outside while she gave me the song and dance about the books and magazines I couldn't afford. In all honesty, I couldn't afford them. I'm constantly in trouble for overdrafting, and I know there is not an extra $48 in the bank right now to buy 3 years of Woman's Day.

Jerk. I felt like a jerk.

We made a deal. I gave them all the change I had, plus green tea and my last two Weight Watcher's icecream if I didn't have to feel bad. They asked me if I smoked. I don't. I would never. By this time another girl came to talk. She had tattoos, too, and her dress was far too little.

I thought about going into a lecture about how God didn't want them to dress like that and how he didn't want them to drink or smoke. I didn't. I'm not good at that. I have never been good at talking about God. I choke every time. I suppose that's why he made me a writer.

So, I sit here, spiritually exhausted from the weekend and feeling like a jerk for not buying a Spanish cookbook. One of them told me her mother died of breast cancer. I wonder sometimes if that's not what I bring God. I have a room full of skills that I have gotten over the years. All the lessons and ideas, all the community service "I should do" things, all the letters I should write, all the phone calls I should make, and all I can afford is a cup of tea and 70-calorie raspberry icecream.

Packing in general has been humbling. So often I wonder why I have been chosen to have such a wonderful life: potentially the world's best parents, the best friends, an amazing family, the opportunities, the freedom. Putting all that I own in the open has made me realize, once again, how blessed I am to have parents that will give me anything I want (within reason. 27 pairs of stilettos are reasonable-ish). Did I really need two poor girls to hit it home, God? Obviously, I did.