The Secret Society of Short-haired Ladies

Photo by the second fiddle; https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/

The moment of truth was arriving. The moment of nervous twitches and mind spasms of indecision was beginning. The moment of slowly walking toward the chopping chair was approaching. The moment of my vulnerability was coming. My husband’s voice of assurance and encouragement and my wonderful friend who'd agreed to go with me was all that was sustaining me.

There was a mirror. And around my neck, a black cape choking me, holding my hair. I gasped, “Cut a little at a time.” SNIP! Her scissors severed nine inches. Snip. She continued, Snip. I felt sick. I witnessed again—snip—and again—snip—and again—snip—as gravity claimed my lacerated hair. Snip. Her scissors glinted. Their blades relished the execution. Snip. She freed me from the black cape. Or seemed like a straight jacket covered in the proof of its deed. The sound of metal-shearing-delicate-hair rang in my ears. On my way out, the stylist said, “Don’t forget to style it, or you’ll look like a boy or a lesbian.” How casually she spoke. How casually her broom swept away the evidence of my now-detached femininity.

“ . . .Oh gee . . . thanks.” I mumbled. "Well that was rude." My friend whispered under her breath. "To both you and lesbians. Don't pay her any attention, Natalie. You look awesome, Natalie. I'm even thinking of getting my hair pixie cut now you look so great. Don't listen to her." I staggered toward the door feeling shell-shocked.

The guillotine had fallen—sharp enough to split a hair. "A boy or a lesbian?" The words swirled in my mind. I had had no idea that my entire gender identity and sexual orientation was at stake. How could I have known that a pixie cut held such power? How could I have known? I couldn’t breath, my air was catching on my throat with offense, embarrassing, oppressive stereotypes; identity crises; everything I'd ever heard did about women with pixie cuts. My friend gave me a hug, told me something affirming (I don't remember what), and headed toward her place. I ran home.  

The bathroom, the bathroom, he can’t see me, the bathroom.

There I was in the mirror; I didn't recognize myself. I stared at my sharp features, my red hair—I was a prepubescent Peter Pan.

“I’ll never leave again,” I whispered: a pin dropping in silence.

So naturally the bathroom became my Lost Boy’s hideout.

“Natalie, Natalie, come out of there. You look beautiful. Come out,” my husband coaxed.

“You haven’t even seen me yet!” I sniffed.

Desperate to convince me of my now-sleek magnetism, he proclaimed, “You’re definitely still attractive. And I promise you . . . your hair isn’t what makes you a girl.”

Trying to coax my out of my bunker, he placed a hot plate of dinner on the floor, slid it toward the crack underneath the door, and began to fan the delicious smell toward me as best he could.

Defeated by hunger, I slowly crawled out and wailed, “It’s a travesty! It’s gone, gone, gone. ” I cried. “Besides, you love short hair, and worse, you love me so your opinion doesn’t count! You're biased.”

Everyone, but my husband it seemed, knew that femininity and beauty were daintily clothed in luscious locks. Then (the sick self-consciousness still shames me) the cordial compliments, those razored words meant to fill the awkward silence of judgment, swiftly came.

“Oh . . . how brave . . . I would never be able to do something like that! Do you like it?”

“Oh . . . I could never pull a pixie cut off, but . . . you have the, uhh, face shape and, uhh, the confidence for it.”

“Oh . . . you cut your hair! Are you planning on growing it out?”

My lost beauty burnt my cheeks to flush. My discovered shame froze my eyes to the floor. Even our male friends who, along with my husband, would say, “Oh my gosh! You look amazing!” or “Oh wow! Your hair is gone! It looks awesome!” could only give me a moments smile. They're sincerity just couldn't peel away my exposed self-consciousness; I was too busy lapping up a fallacious paradigm.

Four days later, towards the end of my suffering, I remembered a beautiful woman with a beautiful pixie cut who had smiled at me without saying anything as I had walked home from the fateful salon. I had looked at her knowing eyes and half smiled before returning to my panicked flight toward my bathroom. I hadn't given the encounter a second thought. But now, I wondered at her knowing eyes, her silent smile that had communicated so much. What did she know that I didn't know? I went straight to my Peter Pan lair. Looking in the mirror, I began examining myself feature by feature. My green eyes had a knowing depth, while my well-proportioned face was smooth. One eye crinkled more when I smiled and my neck was more slender than I had realized. I stared. And I stared. I was . . . lovely. I had never noticed it so distinctly; after all, I’d been shrouded by a veil of hair. I hadn't realized it in my panic, but I had been quietly initiated me into the secret society of short-haired ladies with one knowing look and one silent smile.

Snip! My self-consciousness was severed. Hair or no hair, I was lovely. In fact, without my hair I was stunning. No scissor snip or shaping gel could define me by arbitrary stereotypes. Secret society of short-haired ladies, I’m here.  

A Personal Essay on Love and Loneliness

Photo by Wesley Eller; https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

This essay is an expansion of my earlier imitation essay and post, "Fill me with Loneliness, Drink it as Love."

The Reality of Love as the Potential for Loneliness

It fills every silent corner and rolls across each room like the booming ticks of a small mantle clock. Frightening, pervasive, indelible, and ever-stalking the peace of solitude. How is it possible that nobody else notices it? It must be just me. If I'd not grown up in the cacophonous hubbub of pattering feet, wrestling limbs, and chattering voices, or if I had simply taken more time when I had time, I wouldn't feel it either.

It highlights the pictures of family members I haven't seen in months. It feeds off of white noise making my situation more obvious. It dredges up memories that I wish weren't so distant. It paints brilliant hypotheticals that I can only imagine I'm missing.

It isn't homesickness; the place I grew up is only the canvas of my contented existence. It is more than that. It distances me from familiar faces, close conversations, family jokes, company. Hard times, yellowed memories, happy times, youthful escapades. It proves to me that acclimating to a location is not nearly as powerful as acclimating to a soul.

It's loneliness, and I am really good at it.

Where does it come from? I'll tell you where it comes from. Everywhere. From the fact that Spencer is working late tonight, unable to help chase it away. From the fact that I just got off a phone call with words that couldn't be spoken in person. From empty evenings brimming with homework instead of siblings' orchestra concerts, soccer games, first words, and story time—I tell myself that it's okay, I'll make up lost time, I won't be so busy and isolated for much longer. It comes from having responsibilities that I can't ignore till I'm abandoned by any company because I first abandoned them. It comes from sitting silently wishing someone would knock on the door, going to sleep alone, waking alone, walking alone, thinking alone.

It comes when I realize that my siblings are growing up and I'm not there. When "Hey, it's Natalie!" becomes a frequent reference to a calling device instead of my face. When me coming home is an occasion and not the everyday. It comes when I remember that my five-year-old brother cried in a corner outside the temple because he thought my wedding meant he'd never see me again. I held him and whispered promises; I prayed because I felt the gaps of time chasing me down. It comes when another brother tries not to cry when I leave, or a sister clutches me saying, "call me, we'll figure out what to talk about." When I say I'll teach her to crochet someday, or I'll read him Harry Potter, that I'll teach her French, we'll analyze Lord of the Rings, talk about boys, play frisbee, go on walks, go shopping, go to a movie, go on a double date, practice yoga, learn to draw, stargaze from the roof, roast s'mores, or sit and do nothing.

Oh wait, I don't have time to do nothing, no matter how important, I'm too busy being laboriously lonely.

Sometimes I am a well of loneliness. I can dig into my soul like deep earth and etch out the regrets of all that I'm missing. But, loneliness is surprisingly similar to love. And, though I'm good at loneliness, the imprint on my being while a void to me, houses love for others. I fill up my cavity with water to share. Each voicemail, each letter, each picture might fill me with loneliness, but I drink it as love. Some youngest siblings may tell you that they were always alone or that their older siblings didn't care. Not my siblings. Phone calls and letters. Skype and short visits. Ongoing texts full of riddles, ongoing conversations full of to-be-continued. And how do you think I feel about that?

Give you one guess.

~~~❋~~~

Till experienced, loneliness and love are quite different. But, in fact, they are nearly the same, causal even. I began to understand the correlation by understanding how I love and how I am lonely. When I love someone, my physical and emotional state shifts. I seem to create a pocket in my heart like a labeled cubby hole in a preschool classroom.

Every person I love has a cubby hole, and each is labeled with the colors and qualities of their existence. The more time love spans, the more knick knacks go into their cubby hole. You would think my heart would fill up, but it doesn’t. It just expands. Thus love potentially begets loneliness exponentially. The more expanded my heart, the more likely someone will be missing, and I will be left empty. It’s really just probability, as the reality of love increases so does the potential for loneliness, even though that sounds relatively impersonal considering the emotional energy and intimate connection involved in such a process.

I’ve often wondered if loving less may be the antidote to such loneliness. And I suppose it could work. But is it worth it? In order to answer such a question, we must remember that being alone and loneliness are distinctly different. After all, if loneliness were simply a matter of being alone, we could all just surround ourselves with strangers, and breathe easily in a crowd. But it is not that simple. And it never will be. Not until we stop loving selectively will we be able to cease being selectively lonely. Because not everyone thinks like Spencer, not everyone jokes like Tanner, and not everyone listens like Mom. Not anyone can gurgle like Ryan, not anyone can giggle like McKenzie, not anyone can hug like Jason.

The real issue is not what but who. If what we were doing were as important as who we were doing it with, then missing, distant, or separated love wouldn’t hurt. In fact, loneliness would cease being discrete from being alone. After all, if shopping were the same with Brittney as without her, then why would she need to be there. But it isn’t. And now I rarely shop; it’s too lonely. If watching old movies was as fun with Dad as without him, then I would watch them without feeling painfully nostalgic. But it isn’t, so every old film is a decision to feel a taste of loneliness.

~~~❋~~~

It was a clear, salty morning. The ocean sunrise was peeking around every crevice of the drawn curtains, and the roar of the ocean tide was measuring my breath. Why had I woken up? Looking at the side dresser, I saw my phone’s lit screen. One voicemail, one missed call. Making sure Spencer was still asleep, I crawled out of bed in the dim light and walked to the curtain. Stealing into its folds, the sunrise broke across my irises as beautifully as it burst from the horizon. Then Jason was suddenly speaking across the miles . . .

“Uh, (heavy sigh) umm . . . How ahre you in hawiee? I . . . I saw all your pictchures on facebook with you and spencer and spencer’s mom and spencer’s family, so bye! . . . love you! . . .”

The voicemail continued. Jason, being five years old, had forgotten to hang up the phone. A few of my siblings spoke indiscernible words, then . . .

“It’s in the morning guys!? It’s in the morning? Yep, she’s in the morning. (a pause) Oh.”

I was quiet. Hidden in the sunlit curtains, I played the message a few more times. The horizon hadn’t changed, but suddenly the vanishing point seemed to swallow a little boy I couldn’t reach, a little voice I couldn’t ooh and ahh with, and little eyes I couldn’t show my horizon.  

~~~❋~~~

Voicemails, pictures, letters, I anticipate and hope for every single one. But then they come and with each only a piece of the person I love. I can reach only a piece. And so I reach; I keep reaching.

~~~❋~~~

Each person has an essence, an impression of sorts that they emanate when they are present. I feel this spiritual impression when I speak to people. It can’t be just any words or any spoken sound. It must be real conversing. When I sit with someone and converse till there is everything left to say, I feel their impression.

The impression may be the color of sound; I remember when I first decided upon the color of a friend’s voice—evergreen with olive tints. I’ve now found voices of many colors: the gold of Christmas bells, lavender tinged with violet edges, steel blue with feathered touches of light heather grey. Yes, I remember the colors of human voices, yes, that’s why I love voicemails, and yes, I miss them when they’re gone.

Impressions build upon familiarity, knowing why a friend smiles, a brother jokes, a sister giggles, or a mother cries. Impressions deepen with trust, lengthen with memories. Impressions create loneliness; impressions create love.

~~~❋~~~

I remember the first time I realized that I would leave someday and be left with only impressions.

As the moon shone through the partially curtained window, its cold light tumbled across my covers in rippling patterns. Three beds, lined in a row, holding three sleepy girls.

McKenzie?

Hmm . . .

Are you awake?

Yeah.

Can you imagine that someday we’ll be married, leave home, no longer share a room with each other, no longer be with each other all the time?

Yeah, kind of, not really. Seems a long way off.

Forever away. . . How will it be?

Happy and sad I suppose.

Do you think we’ll remember tonight, talking about our futures?

Probably.

Do you think we’ll be happy?

Yes, Natalie.  

Laying and talking as a fourteen-year-old, I thought the day for looking back couldn’t come. I was frozen under a moon that would wax and wane before my eyes, but I didn’t feel the world turning. I felt still. I would never leave, I was happy here. Little did I know that I would remember, so very clearly: It will be lovely but as lonely as the moon.

~~~❋~~~

“Time for our fifteen minutes, darling.”

Rolling out of bed, it was nearly a running joke that now began the fifteen minutes that Spencer and I had before we went our separate ways to classes and work, only to have me go to sleep alone always waiting to wake up again with him beside me, to begin again our fifteen minutes. A running joke, we called it. Too bad it really wasn’t funny.

For nearly a month we saw each other every day for fifteen minutes. Sometimes I bitterly remembered the last words of a letter Spencer had written me the night before our wedding, “Je t’aime. I will always have fifteen minutes for you.” How prophetic.

I was newly married, and I’d never been lonelier. I’d heard many unmarried people joke that their married friends wouldn’t need them anymore once they lived with their one best friend. It was such a lie; I was unprepared for how much of a lie it was. Two is few when you are used to six. And silence becomes company. Living, palpable company. It breathes in the corners of nearly empty rooms, in hours that stretch on and white noise that no longer comforts.

Crowds don’t comfort anymore either. I call it selective loneliness. When I’m lonely, I instinctively feel for the person I am lonely for. I search for their impression; so often, it isn’t there.

~~~❋~~~

I remember the first time I came home from college. My youngest brother at the time was four-year-old Jason. When I’d left he’d been so young that I was afraid he wouldn’t remember me. As I drove up my street and saw the lights inside the window, my breath caught in my throat. I opened the car door and walked towards my home. I’d barely taken two steps when the front door flew open and Jason flew out of the surrounding light squealing “Natalie! You ah home!” He jumped in my arms and in stunned relief, I began to cry. In moments, twelve-year-old Tanner was hugging me, and fifteen-year-old Brittney was fighting for room. McKenzie, though nineteen, was squealing proudly. And my mom and dad were laughing, just laughing.

It was perfect. The gaps of time passed seemed to stitch back together leaving seamless harmony.

~~~❋~~~

Whenever I go home I promise to put off the shackles of busy-ness. They coil around me while in my everyday, but when I go home, I relinquish them for a time, if only a short time. My favorite trips home are when life is too crazy for my family to slow down much. It means I can blend back in like I still belong. It means I can run to basketball games where little boys run in packs, or soccer games where older boys dazzle the field with newly-learned skills. I always hope for an orchestra concert, double date, or sewing project.

But even so, the best moments are when the past is recreated through long dinner conversations, rampant witticisms and jokes, or brushing hair during girl talk. Playing games, watching old movies, taking Sunday walks, visiting old haunts. Sometimes I feel like it will never end, the perfect fit I feel around those I love. But, each time I leave, crossing the canyon-spanning bridge in one breath, ten prayers, and a hundred tears, I hope that I’ll be back soon enough to blend in again, for the cycle of busy-ness to fall away, and the gaps of time to stitch back together again.  

~~~❋~~~

Loneliness is more than being alone. And it’s true, the more people I love, the more potential I have for loneliness. But in the lonely moments, when I ask, “Why must I be so lonely?” I know it is because I have loved. And when I ask “Is the loneliness worth it?”

Well, you know the answer.

~Natalie Cherie

An Ocean in a Rain Drop: The Art of Imitation

Sketch on Dance

Photo by Heather; https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/2.0/

Original

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. . . .

Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854)

Imitation

I stepped onto the floor because I wished to dance knowingly, to front only the expressions which I found in myself, and see if I could not learn what my catharsis had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not been seen. I did not wish to walk what was not dance, dancing is so dear; nor did I wish to relinquish my movement, unless I must dance in stillness. I wanted to dance intensely and suck all the meaning from my deepest expression, to dance so passionately and Martha Graham-like as to put to rout all that say life is not dance, to call the world my audience, to drive dance into the limbs of all people, and reduce it to its simplest movements, and, if it proved to be finite, why then to get the whole and authentic finiteness of it, and present its finiteness to the world; or if it were infinite, to comprehend it by experiment, and be able to give a corporeal chronicle of humanity on my next stage. . . . ~~~END~~~

Sketch on Thinking

Photo by Leon Ephraim; Unsplash

Original

More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts. Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described: from delight to wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance. It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.

Robert Frost, “The Figure a Poem Makes” (1939)

Imitation

Many a time I might have surrendered my mind to musing if it had contained the profundity such thoughts were taken for by my maturing faculties. Profundity and eloquence are what I ask of my capacity. For myself the profundity need be no more than the simplicity of a well-wrought insight, synthesizing the elements I have explained: truth and implication. Its foundation is the same as for revelation. Like a ray of light breaking across the murky horizon, the insight must light the path of its own potential. An insight may be examined and contemplated once it is in being, but may not be compelled into being. Its most sublime influence will remain in its continuous presence and sudden illumination on the comprehending mind. Ponder such insight innumerable times: it will endlessly maintain its epiphanic moment as a dew drop on a parched petal. Insight can never lose its initial significance that once broke upon the mind, whether in stages or suddenness, as it dawned.    ~~~END~~~

Sketch on Young, Fleeting Happiness and Depression

Photo by Morgan Sessions; Unsplash

Original

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way — in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities (1859)

Imitation

It was the brightest of days, it was the darkest of days, it was the season of happiness, it was the season of despair, it was the period of sensation, it was the period of indifference, it was the age of Motivation, it was the age of Depression, it was the spring of potential, it was the winter of dreams, we had all of life to live, we had nothing by which to live, we were all going straight to success, we were all going straight to poverty and failure—to make my point, the time was so much like the everyday, that some of us busiest participants decided to simply make due, for better or for worse, in the ignorant absolute of not knowing what other comparisons life could deliver. ~~~END~~~

Sketch on Children's Perspective and Fantasy

Photo by Jonas Nilsson Lee; Unsplash 

Original

“Come to my house,” I said to the beggar. “There you can find food to eat and a bed in which to sleep.”

“I never sleep,” he replied.

I was quite sure then that he was not a real beggar. I told him that I had to go home and he offered to keep my company. As we walked along the snow-covered streets he asked me if I was ever afraid of the dark.

“Yes, I am,” I said. I wanted to add that I was afraid of him, too, but I felt he knew that already.

“You mustn’t be afraid of the dark,” he said, gently grasping my arm and making me shudder. “Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. The tragedy of man is that he doesn’t know how to distinguish between day and night. He says things at night that should only be said by day.”

Wiesel, Elie. Dawn. New York: Hill and Wang (2006). Print.

Imitation

“Come to my house,” I said to the little girl. “There you can have parents and a nice room in which to live.”

“I don’t have a house,” she replied.

I was quite sure then that she was not a real little girl. I told her that I did have a house and needed to return to it. She offered to walk me to the edge of the wood. As we walked along the moss covered paths she asked me if I was ever afraid of being lost.

“Yes, I am,” I said. I wished I could add that I was afraid of her not belonging anywhere, too, but I felt she knew that already.

“You musn’t be afraid of being lost,” she said, lightly flicking my hair and making me smile. “The woods are safer than a house; it is better for living and playing and believing. In the woods everything is more free, more possible. The echo of safety that is chanted in the walls of houses take on binding and restraining quality when spoken in the woods. The folly of parents is that they don’t know how to distinguish between fear and safety, freedom and habit. They teach fear in houses that would never be believed in the woods.

~~~END~~~

My philosophy in regards to style, rhetoric, reading, and writing:

I have discovered that I can try on a thousand new voices and still be authentically me. I have decided that it is okay to know I have a style and to know I am very good at it. But, it is also okay to go beyond myself and forge a new path. Read, write, read. Write, read, write. It is a vast interrelated, even interminable process. I am a one voice in a thousand, and we each have a thousand voices. It is an ocean in a rain drop.

~Natalie Cherie

Choosing Redemption: A Journal Entry

Photo by Christ Tolworthy

Tonight we went to The Count of Monte Cristo. Spencer had managed to get tickets for $4.00, and I was very excited. When I pulled on a maxi skirt and a woolen scarf, I felt ready to watch a tragic musical. I first read The Count of Monte Cristo in High School. I didn't see the film adaptation until five years later and was shocked to find such drastically different endings. With each in mind, I still hadn't decided which version I found more moving. Was is more important to show the ruinous results of revenge, or man's miraculous capacity for redemption? I didn't know.

The De Jong was dark and the pit began to emanate orchestral music. As the actors danced around the stage and sang song after song, I grew nervous. The show was beautiful, the singing was stunning, the graphics projected behind were innovative, and the effect was great. But, as Edmond Dantes sank lower and lower, I just knew they couldn't let him stay there. It didn't matter that he had decided to hate, that he had decided to remain unmoved by his once-true-love's pleas, that he was everything his original perpetrators were, the story would force him to be redeemed. I promise I'm not morbid, unforgiving, or even a lover of sad endings, I just couldn't see how a man who had determined his choices and destiny would suddenly have a change of heart in the course of a song. (Oh wait . . . it's a musical and heart-changing songs are a blissful convention.)

Sitting in my chair, I slowly began to hunch over and mutter under my breath as the life-changing moment came. He would suddenly have an epiphany, conveniently after he'd gotten all his revenge, and still repent in time to get the girl. Spencer, watching me become more and more frustrated and my frame more and more contorted with disgust, just chuckled under his breath. But it wasn't funny! They were straight up doing it wrong!

After leaving the theater I stood off towards a side wall, waiting for Spencer to finish giving guidance to a fellow stage managing employee. I was really frustrated. The performance had been beautiful, the bows all tied. But it just didn't sit right. Why would we, as an audience, demand that a story be adapted to allow a main character sudden redemption? Why did we think it was okay to change the story just so he could have both his revenge and the love of his life? I was disturbed with myself. Did I really have such a problem letting a man repent?

I'm sad to say I still don't know the answer. I can guarantee from a literary perspective that Alexandre Dumas did not intend to have his self-ruined character suddenly redeemed by viewers or readers who couldn't take a realistic ending. What is the purpose of such characters as Anna Karenina, Edmond Dantes, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Dorian Gray, or even the Ancient Mariner from the poem, if their stories are nipped and tucked to be pleasant and devoid of consequences? When we remove consequences from our stories, we rob our stories of their power to display consequential reality. The problem is not that Edmond Dantes was redeemed; the problem is that The Count of Monte Cristo chose not to be redeemed. Themes such as the consequences of agency and the transformative effect of our choices morph into the cycle of vice, quick repentance, and a removal of responsibility.

All men may be redeemed; not all men will choose redemption. So what are we really looking for: a happy ending that highlights redemption, or fictional support that we may choose sin and still be redeemed?

~Natalie Cherie