Slow to the Pace of Grace

I heard this phrase in a sermon when I lived in Washington state and it resonated with me. 

I was taught as a child that doing tasks was important and a possible way to win favor.  I was also taught that my best would never be good enough; therefore, I have no worth.  Sorry, I had an evil step-father named Dick.

Because of my childhood training, I have spent my adulthood doing.  And what I did was never enough so I could never slow down or stop. 

The pastor said Christians need to slow to the pace of grace.  We need to make time in our busy lives to do what God prompts when he prompts. 

His example was the Good Samaritan in Luke 10.  A traveler was beaten and robbed by thieves, and left naked beside the road.  The Samaritan was traveling but was filled with compassion when he saw the beaten man.  The Samaritan cleaned and bandaged the injured man’s wounds.  He put him on his animal and carried him to an inn.  The following morning, he gave the innkeeper some money and asked him to take care of the man, explaining he would return for the injured man. 

My first instinct is to say, “What? Who has time or money for that?”  And yet, that is exactly what Jesus expects from Christians. 

We need to get our priorities right.  In today’s world, businesses are pushing their employees to do more and more and more with less and less and less.  Sometimes, as Christians, we’re conflicted because we have multiple goals and we’re not sure which should come first.  But God tells us that his priority is more important than the world’s. 

“The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever.”

1 John 2:17

We need to stop doing what we think is most important and do what God is asking.  He will bless us if we obey him. 

As a Christian, the thing I desire most is to hear “Well done, good and faithful servant,” cross my Father’s lips. 

All I have to do is obey him and the most important command he gives me is to give people a glimpse of who he is by loving them in action. 

“Dear children, let’s not merely say that we love each other.  Let us show the truth by our actions.”

1 John 3:18. 

I can’t show love to anyone if I don’t slow down and give them my time and help when they need it.  

How I Escaped His Attack

I had agreed to work overtime to speed up when I could afford my own place. I had just finished my early shift and was due to start my regular shift shortly when a coworker told me my husband was there looking for me and wanted to talk to me. I agreed to go out back to talk to The Rock. The store was the central retailer in a strip mall. The parking was in the front of the various stores, but there was also pavement in the back which was never occupied by anyone. At the time, I was a cigarette smoker and that’s where we took our smoke breaks.

I go out back and we’re talking. The Rock is accusing me of having sex with the person I’m rooming with. I’m denying it again. Suddenly, the light goes out of his eyes, and he says “Well, I just came here to do this.” He pulls out a brand-new switchblade and opens it to reveal the 6” blade. He makes a stabbing motion toward my stomach and I put up my hand in defense: he cuts the tips of three of my fingers and I begin to bleed quite a bit.

I was hopping mad! Literally.

I lost my mind and started hopping in a circle, screaming at him, “You cut me! I can’t believe you cut me!” I was thinking about the woman they’d recently found dead in a secluded pond, killed by her angry lover in a domestic violence attack. I was thinking about the fact that he had an open switchblade in his hand. I was thinking if I ran, he would catch me before I got to safety. I was thinking that I was losing blood and starting to feel woozy.

A couple in a VW pull up to ask for directions and I ask them to call for help. They sped off.

I told him I needed medical attention. He offered to take me to the hospital. I didn’t want to get in the car with him. (Never let them move you to a different location.) I told him I was woozy and there was a pharmacy in the mall where we could purchase hydrogen peroxide and bandages. He agreed. We walked in together, got the items, waited in line for them, and paid for them. I couldn’t believe no one noticed my distress, the blood, or my wounds.

I told him my regular shift was starting soon and I needed to eat before it began. He offered to treat me to fast food across the street. I suggested we eat inside Montgomery Ward at their little diner. He agreed. We went inside, ordered, and sat down in a booth with our food. I sat there picking at my food, trying to respond to him in a way that wouldn’t create suspicion, while I was trying to figure out how to get away from him.

My supervisor comes in and approaches us. I’m thinking she’s looking for me because I’m late for my shift. Yay! She kneels next to us and starts making small talk. I’m wearing white flats which are splattered with blood and am sporting new bandages on three fingers. She doesn’t notice. While she’s talking to him, I interrupt to ask him if it’s okay if I go to the restroom. He agrees. I leave the table and head upstairs to the employee only bathrooms. He can’t get past the locked door. I go straight to Security and tell them what’s going on. They go detain him until the Air Force Security Police arrive to take him back to base.

“Over My Dead Body”

I was 15 years old and out to dinner with my family: mother Peony, step-father Dick, brother Adam, sisters Tammi and Rhonda.  We were at a Mexican restaurant set in our community’s small downtown. 

Our waitress had a beautiful tattoo and I couldn’t stop looking at it.  It was a beautiful flower nestled amid vines on the swell of her breast.  Gorgeous.  I announce that I wanted a tattoo when I got older. 

My mother announced, “Over my dead body! Or when you’re 18.”  (I used to think she was prudish because of these types of attitudes and comments.)

That gave me 3 years to think about what I wanted for my first tattoo. 

When I was 18 and away at Army training in Fort Gordon, Georgia, I walked to the local tattoo parlor on a Saturday morning and paid for my first tattoo.  It was $20 on my right buttock.  It was a black rosebud. 

It felt like my butt cheek had fallen asleep and was waking up with a million pins and needles in it.  I wore a one piece bathing suit and adjusted the leg hole so the artist could access the area I had chosen. 

A few months later and I’m home on leave.  I’ve met my first husband and we’re planning our wedding so my mother and I go shopping for a suitable dress.  We’re downtown again, in a fun little dress shop.  I’m in the very small, somewhat tatty dressing room.  My mom peeks over the top of the curtain and starts shrieking as she’s pointing.  I think I’m sharing space with a spider and I start spinning around looking for the little monster.  My mom finally blurts out, “What’s that?  On your body?” 

I realize she’s staring and pointing at my tattoo. 

That was many decades ago and I think I’m close to convincing her to get one with me. 

School is in Session

Here are some of the memories my nephews and I are making while they attend an  online charter school with me acting as their learning coach.

Bouncing

School is in session for 8 hours Tuesday through Friday with a one hour lunch break which means they’re here for 9 hours.  The boys are 7 and 10 years of age.  It’s unnatural to require children to sit still for 4 hour periods of time, so they get breaks.  The usually want to play WII on their breaks.  The 10 year old sits on the couch while playing.  The 7 year old stands and bounces throughout his break regardless of its length.  I’ve heard the 10 year old tell his little brother to just sit still for 10 seconds! 

Yes, this child can bounce non-stop for 30 minutes straight while playing WII and talking.  I raised a hyperactive son and I’ve never seen this level of constant movement before. 

Vocalizing

The 10 year old doesn’t move nearly as much as his brother; his thing is vocalizing.  He randomly sings snippets of songs he’s heard.  The other day I’m across the room assisting his little brother when I tune in to what the older brother is doing.  He’s singing nonsense words with clicks interspersed as if he’s been hanging out with African singers.  Random!

Stinking

Some days I wonder if they have early onset dementia.  One day early in this adventure, the older nephew was sitting at a small computer desk which is situated next to the doggy door.  We have a little Jack Russell, she’s sweet and quirky and old.  It was winter and the door was creating a draft.  Our dog was off somewhere in town with my husband.  My nephew shut the doggy door.  At the end of the day, I’m having him tidy up (he’s a Pigpen-not in appearance but in the level of chaos he leaves behind him) when I notice the doggy door is closed.  I confirmed it was okay to close it if he was cold and she wasn’t home.  I explained he just needed to remember to open it again before he left for the day.  He stated he understood and continued tidying up as it was the end of the school day.  The next morning, my little doggy left him a stinking mess just inside the doggy door, which he had not reopened for her.  The first thing my nephew did when he arrived was clean it up.  

Shining

I left the boys at the table and went to the restroom.  Right after I flushed, I noticed something shining in the bottom of the toilet bowl.  A large paperclip.  I asked which nephew had deposited it in the toilet.  Both claimed to have no knowledge initially.  Eventually, the younger nephew told me he had.  I explained he would need to retrieve it after class was over for the day.  I gave him a glove and a towel and he retrieved it.  When I told my mom what had happened, she asked him if that’s what is wrong with one of her toilets too. 

Fidgeting

The 7 year old moves constantly even when seated.  Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.  Lean forward, lean back, lean over for a hug.  Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.  He was sitting next to the wall and nearly pulled the WIFI modem off the wall while wiggling.  He has no idea he’s doing it and I’m not inclined to harangue him throughout the day by telling him to sit still repeatedly.  Again, I think it’s unnatural.  I prefer active to lazy.  I moved his older brother to the seat by the wall and explained he needed to exit the chair on the side away from the wall.  Physically, he’s much calmer than his younger brother; however, he’s managed to knock the power strip off the wall and reset the WIFI by bumping into them unintentionally. 

I hope there are many more memories to be made with these two. 

My First Library Card

I’ve always loved to read. 

My mother read to me while I was still in the womb.  She heard or read that by doing that, she would teach her child to love reading.  It worked for me. 

I don’t remember my exact age, but I do remember when I was allowed to get my first library card.  I was so excited!  My mom had been taking me to the library, but now I could walk to the library on my own and check out books with the help of the librarian. 

I felt so grown up!

I wasn’t allowed to choose a book from any section of the library, but I had access to as much as I could read. 

I was voracious. 

I visited the library frequently and read many, many books. 

The books opened up the whole world to me.  I could read about other cultures.  I could read about other countries.  I could read about subjects that piqued my curiosity. 

Books became a way for me to escape the reality of my abusive step-father Dick.  I would become so entranced in a book, he could stand right next to the chair I was sitting in and I wouldn’t hear him talking to me. 

I love to sit in the stacks and peruse the book covers for interesting titles.  Then I pare down my choices to a few select for me to take home and savor.  I can spend hours in the library.   

I’ve lived all over the country and had library cards everywhere I’ve lived.  In Georgia, I had no money so reading was inexpensive entertainment.  I read about Egyptian President Nasser and the Suez Canal.  When I lived in California, the library was an inexpensive source of entertainment for myself and my sons.  I enjoyed Stephen King, Aldous Huxley, and Nevada Barr,  We also read many African folktales including some narrated by James Earl Jones.   When I lived in Nebraska, I found books that taught me how to can produce from my garden.  When I lived in Washington state, I loved to wander the beautiful libraries looking for random reading material.  Since returning to Arizona, I’ve mostly read books to increase my knowledge about different topics, rather than purely for pleasure.  Unfortunately, my vertigo makes it very difficult to:  get to the library, see clearly enough to read, stay focused long enough to get past a page or two, and retain any new information learned.  Oh well.  I had a really good, really long run at one of my most favorite things to do. 

Thanks Mom.  Thanks for walking me up the stairs to the library entrance and allowing me to get my first library card.  Thanks for trusting me enough to allow me to walk myself to the library often.  Thank you for a gift of reading that I’ve cherished. 

The Common Denominator

I was at another 12-step meeting.  I’d already been to one that day and now I was double-dipping. 

My husband had asked if he could use my car to go watch a soccer game his friends were playing in.  I agreed.  He didn’t come home for 3 days.  We only had one car between us, so I was stranded all weekend. 

He didn’t call me until he was out of money and had no gasoline to get back home from the casino, which was hours away. 

I sent him just enough cash by Western Union to get home (not like in the past when he had padded the amount he needed so he could go back in and gamble some more).  He had my car and I needed it to get to work. 

I was hurt.  I cried all weekend.  We’d been through this before and I was realizing I couldn’t trust him.  He’s a gambler and a liar. 

I didn’t know if I could be in a relationship with someone I couldn’t trust, (More on this later.) so I was freaking out. 

I didn’t really know the people at this second meeting but I was desperate.  I poured my heart out.  I cried.  I was distraught. 

Afterward, a woman asked me if I’d like to have coffee.  I did. 

We sat and talked.  I told her the sordid details of my three prior marriages and divorces.  I told her all about the issues my ex-husbands had.  She asked me, “What’s the common denominator?” 

I kept on telling her about the shortcomings of my exes.  I’d heard her question but only in the edges of my conscience because it didn’t make sense.  They had problems.  I didn’t. 

She asked again, just as quietly, “What’s the common denominator?”

I stopped.  Dumbstruck.  I sheepishly responded, “I am.”

For the first time in my life, I looked at my marriages objectively and realized I was the common denominator.  I chose each of those partners. 

This was a pivotal point in my recovery because I started taking accountability for my part, the part I can change. 

I realized that each of my chosen partners had addiction issues of some kind:  alcohol, drugs and gambling. 

I loved addicts.  I hated addicts.  I was comfortable with these relationships as I’d lived them my entire life.  I was miserable and wanted something different and better. 

I kept going back and as a result I’m no longer the person I used to be.  I make better choices.  . 

Referrals Clerk Incompetent

Over the last year, my husband and I have needed a lot of referrals.  I now have major frustrations over the process.  Every time I call the doctor’s office, they tell me it’s “in process” or they’re waiting on the insurance company.  Most recently, the insurance company told me the doctor’s office simply needs to fax the referral to the clinic they’re referring to as the insurance company only needs to pre-approve procedures.  The specialists consistently tell me they didn’t receive the referral so they can’t make an appointment. 

My husband has had multiple ER trips since March 2018 for kidney infections and he’s been on antibiotics numerous times.  It took months before our “doctor” put in a referral to a urologist even though my husband has a rebuilt bladder and was complaining about feeling like he had an infection.  The local hospital urology clinic had two providers, both claim his case is too complex for them.  My husband got a referral to a doctor in the next town who said he could handle my husband’s case then won’t because he doesn’t take his new insurance. I called the doctor’s office and advised we would prefer a urologist in the next state over as it is less than 2 hours away from our home and a straight, easy drive.  The doctor’s office sent his referral to a doctor who is 3 hours away from our home and in the mountains where it’s snowing. 

Early January my husband was having another bout with a bladder infection.  He was miserable: puking, clammy, unable to eat or drink or keep his pain medications down.  He was in tears.  I was enraged.  I called his doctor’s office and explained he needs a referral to a urologist, podiatrist, and some kind of referral for the pain in his shoulder and back.  I explained to the person who answered the phone that this is becoming a mental health crisis because Miss Melissa is not doing her job correctly and my husband is not receiving the care he needs.  I explained he DOES NOT need a referral for pain management as he’s already being seen by a doctor for that.  (Twice I’ve explained he needs a referral for diagnostics for the new pain in his shoulders and back.  I explained the metal rods in his back have shifted.  I explained if he’s referred to another pain management doctor he can be fired-TWICE they ignored me and sent pain management referrals.)

Miss Melissa hadn’t returned my calls but when I called and she was there, the receptionist patched me through.  Miss Melissa told me she was confused and had left a message-true.  She also claimed to have left a message advising a referral had been processed and my husband just needed to call to schedule an appointment.  That was a lie. 

Miss Melissa argued with me about what the insurance company said and told me the referral has to be approved by the insurer.  I asked her why they would lie to me.  She finally agreed to fax the referrals to the specialists the same day, then she didn’t do it. 

I called and left a message for Miss Melissa’s boss advising she either needs to be fired or retrained (I’ve never done this before in my life).  I’ve also left 3 messages for her boss asking for a call back and not once has she called back. 

My husband has an appointment with a podiatrist coming up but he went through his pain management doctor to get x-rays ordered to diagnose what’s going on with his shoulder and back. 

After an ER visit, I called my doctor’s office and requested a referral to a urologist and a gastroenterologist.  The referral for the urologist was sent to a clinic 3 hours away.  Apparently Miss Melissa thinks my husband and I have interchangeable health needs.  I’m still trying to make contact with the gastroenterologist as they didn’t have my referral from my doctor’s office the first time I called. 

Yesterday, my husband received a letter from the “referral clerk” at the offices of our primary care physician reporting that his referral for Neurosurgery had been sent.  My husband has not been advised by any doctor that he needs a referral for Neurosurgery, so this letter is unexpected.  I have been seeing a neurologist since November of last year, so more than 3 months.  It would seem Miss Melissa has erred again and I needed the referral more than 3 months ago. 

We’re considering switching doctors but what we’re hearing again and again is it’s like this in most doctor’s offices in this community. 

Shame on you for treating people as if you don’t care if they suffer or survive!

Journaling for Answers and Insight

One of the most beneficial things I learned to do in 12-step programs has been journaling.  When I first started attending 12-step meetings I was really sick emotionally, spiritually and intellectually. 

As I started learning a new way of thinking and behaving, I realized I had some really big decisions in front of me and I didn’t know how to make the decisions I needed to make.  I’d always believed I was a decisive person.  I was immobilized by fear.  I didn’t want to make the wrong decisions.

My sponsor had me journal through it.  Now, I’d heard of journal-writing before, and I loved to read and write.  However, I always thought there were more important things pressing for my time.  Writing was a luxury. 

I wanted to improve my life and what I’d done previously hadn’t turned out well.  So, I followed my sponsor’s advice and wrote about the topic until my last line was “I have nothing more to say about this subject.” 

She told me the answers to my questions were inside my head, I just needed to sort through all the thoughts and information to get to it.  She was right. 

I started making decisions with confidence and didn’t look back. 

I completed an inventory and shared it with someone I trusted.  I asked God to remove my character defects.  I made amends to people I’d harmed, as appropriate. 

I’ve continued to journal each day.  I reflect on the last 24 hours and write down a few things of note, so that later I can review my entries to determine if there are any new areas I need to ask God to help me with; and if I’ve harmed anyone, I can make immediate amends instead of waiting for my next inventory.   

I’ve realized that this blog is a type of journaling.  The big difference is that I’m sharing some very intimate thoughts with whoever decides to read this.

Do you journal?  Have you ever used journaling to work through a problem to find your solution?  

My Firstborn

I went to the doctor on base because I kept having stomach pains.  He asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  He diagnosed an ulcer and prescribed a liquid.  The pain got worse so I went back.  The female doctor asked if I could be pregnant.  I said I could but it’s not likely.  She did a pregnancy test and called me with the results. 

Doctor:  “You’re pregnant.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me:  “No, I’m not.”

Doctor:  “Yes, you are.”

Me: 

I was not expecting to be pregnant.  I’d had sex once recently.  I was at a place where I disliked men and believed I was so broken from past abuse that I’d be a horrible mother.  I’d been reading and knew that victims of child abuse often become abusers themselves.  I didn’t want to hurt an innocent child.  So, I scheduled an appointment for an abortion and that clinic is the only place that offered me a military discount. 

My brother Adam argued that I’d be a good mom.  He said I’d been a great older sister and I could use those same tools with my own child.  He assured me I’d be nothing like my step-father Dick. 

I decided to carry the baby full-term and once I’d made that decision, I knew I’d raise the child myself.

I had morning sickness bad!  Bananas made me hurl.  I’d be sick, sick, sick and then a window of opportunity would open.

I ate and ate and ate and ate.  I would go to the chow hall for breakfast and load my plate with a little bit of everything:  pancakes, eggs, grits, bacon, sausage, and potatoes.  Then, I’d pour a little catsup on the potatoes and pour syrup over everything.  Salt and pepper to top it off.  I ate every morsel. 

For most of my pregnancy I referred to my baby as she.  I had the name Jewel Sue picked out.  About a month prior to my due date, I started referring to the baby as he and I didn’t even notice; a coworker pointed it out.  I said, yeah, it’s a boy. 

It was two weeks prior to my due date: my neighbor invited me over for dinner.  She had made steak, potatoes, and carrots.  Yum!  I ate it all.  We decided to go get ice cream for dessert.  I ordered a banana split and finished every drop. 

We went home and my contractions began.  My neighbor took me to the hospital.  They tried to send me home because I was early and it was my first.  I refused to leave.  I walked the halls.  My labor kept progressing.  I began vomiting one layer of food at a time, in reverse order:  ice cream, potatoes, carrots and meat.

I had previously stated I wanted to have my baby naturally, without painkillers.  Whoo boy!  The pain was intense and I begged for drugs but the nurse wouldn’t give me any. 

I was terrified I was going to die (my mom had a kidney issue and didn’t come home right away when my brother was born) and blurted out I hadn’t signed my will. 

The doctor finally arrived and asked the nurse if my waters had broke.  The nurse asked me, I told her they didn’t before they put me on the bed but after that, I didn’t know.  They checked, not broken.  The doctor put a hook like device inside, twisted and pulled, whoosh! 

My baby immediately dropped into the birth canal and began to make his appearance.  The doctor ordered painkillers.  Out popped my baby boy and he was beautiful.  They said he had baby pneumonia from breathing in the meconium.  I thought meconium had potential for a name.  Then they had me push out the placenta.  It was gorgeous with all these iridescent colors shot through it. 

I slept.  I slept for 5 hours.  I woke up and was a bit panicked:  where was my baby?

He was asleep too.  He woke up a little bit later and I nursed him.  He was perfect:  ten incredibly skinny and long fingers and toes, big feet, a full head of big, brown curls on his head.

He was in the hospital for 5 days because he had aspirated his meconium and was jaundiced.  I learned to swaddle him and change his diaper.  He latched on and ate with an appetite. 

I named him Fergus Anthony Reed and we began a lifelong relationship which I have NEVER regretted.

A year after I gave birth, I weighed 97 pounds and was 18 pounds less than when I got pregnant with him.  I should weigh at least 115:  I ate and ate and ate but he ate more than I could take in.   

No Wonder Older People Are Cranky!

My husband and I were in reasonably good health up until March 2018.  We’re both in our 50s.  My husband has been a paraplegic since he was 19 when his spine was crushed and he has been on pain management for many years. 

March of last year, my husband began having some really scary health issues.  He would wake in the middle of the night, short of breath, with chest pains, clammy and vomiting.  We’ve taken him to the local emergency room on multiple occasions and we’ve taken him to the Mayo Clinic.  No one has given us a diagnosis and he continues to have these attacks. 

He had a tooth infection.  He has a hiatal hernia.  He has metal rods in his back which aren’t in the correct place anymore.  His left shoulder has been hurting for years.  He’s frequently in pain despite being on pain medication for chronic pain.  His right hip hurts.  His low back hurts.  He continues to have bladder infections.  He has high blood pressure and diabetes.  He’s overweight.  He has complained of foot pain for years and his feet are frequently cold and almost always discolored to the point of being nearly black at times. 

August of last year, I suddenly had vertigo and have had it virtually daily since.  I desperately tried to identify a cause and solution so I could keep my job.  Four months after onset, I had to resign my position as I no longer could afford my health insurance premiums and still didn’t have a cause.  I still have no idea how to resolve the problem. 

We’ve had to wait months to get referrals to specialists.  We’ve gone through all the testing our Nurse Practitioner ordered.  I’ve done a lot of research online and have come to appointments well prepared with details about symptoms.  I even came with a list of possible medications to share with her. 

It almost seems like our “Primary Care Physician” who’s a nurse practitioner is clueless about what’s causing our symptoms and either doesn’t care enough or doesn’t have the time to try to figure it out and is waiting for it to resolve itself or for us to find a solution. 

It almost seems like the insurance companies are waiting as long as possible to give authorization for referrals, in the hope that we won’t need them when it resolves itself, we’ll give up on getting the medical help we need, or we’ll die.  Any of those scenarios means they don’t have to pay for diagnostic testing. 

I know my husband and I are at our wits’ end some days.  We are hurting, scared, tired, depressed and unhappy. 

No wonder older people are cranky!

God is Love

I was so surprised to read “God is love” in the bible. 

I believed God was this all-powerful being who created mankind and then tormented his creation for his pleasure.  I thought God believed I was evil and unlovable and that he was just waiting for me to die so he could judge me and send me to hell for eternity. 

I believed I could fix this if I could just show God some success in my life at following his directions. 

I experienced Christians as better-than-me do-gooders who had perfect lives.  I felt shut down when I tried to share my real struggles.  I heard them saying my faith and obedience weren’t good enough.  I believed they were reinforcing my brokenness with their judgment. 

I finally God desperate enough to try something different and I went to a 12-step program where most of the people were at some stage of growth and healing.  These were a loving people and they welcomed me with love. 

I went back to church and found myself welcomed with loving embraces by the female leader of the singles’ group.  She knew I was living with a man, but she left that up to God and loved me where I was. 

When God invited me to surrender; I did no without hesitation or reservation. 

It was amazing. 

Then I started reading my bible and praying every day. 

People always talk about the love chapter in 1 Corinthians 13, love is this, love is not that, blah, blah, blah, human love.  Human love had failed me, that chapter left me feeling disappointed. 

I came across 1 John and sprinkled throughout the pages are explanations of God’s love, our love toward him, and how he wants us to love each other.  I’d read these verses before but my eyes and heart were closed, they didn’t make sense.  Now they do. 

Dear Father, I pray anyone who reads these verses does so with their eyes and hearts open.  I pray they understand the depth of your love for us.  I pray they understand what you’re asking them to do.  I pray they will see through Satan’s lies about love as he tries to take a beautiful truth about you and distort it to separate us from you and your love and mercy.  In Jesus’ precious name.  Amen

“God is love.  Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.”       1 John 4:16

“This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.”                        1 John 3:16

“Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”            1 John 4:8

“Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar.”     1 John 4:20

“Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.”

                                 1 John 3:18

God loves us and wants a relationship with us.  God designed us to love others and to be in relationship with them.  Satan tries to convince us that God doesn’t really love us and that we can have love and relationships that are better than God’s plan for us. 

Don’t be deceived. 

“He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding to the truth, for there is no truth in him.  When he lies, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies.”                           John 8:44

God and Satan want two different outcomes for you. 

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”       John 10:10

God wants you to spend eternity with him in heaven.  Satan wants you to keep him company in hell for eternity. 

I would love to hear from you.  Let’s share our master’s (God and Jesus’) joy with each other!

I Didn’t Love Him Enough to Go to Prison for Him

I was trying to find ways to cope. I had numbed myself emotionally and had become adept at twisting the tables on The Rock verbally. He would start an argument and I would end it by saying the meanest things (true or false didn’t matter) I could think of and causing him to cry.

One day, my supervisor asked me how things were going at home. She asked if he’d physically attacked me since the last time I’d talked to her about it. I told her he hadn’t touched me but was going out drinking regularly. I told her I had started keeping a kitchen knife under my pillow in case he came home in the middle of the night and started to assault me. She told me if I used the kitchen knife I would go to prison for murder because it showed premeditation by having it under my pillow instead of leaving him now.

Well, I didn’t want to go to prison. I did love The Rock, but I had no idea how to show him love or be the wife he wanted or how to build a successful marriage.  I didn’t want to go to prison for him.

The next time he was sent away on a mission, I moved out. I didn’t have much financial resource, so I was staying on the floor at a friend’s economy apartment. This friend would have married me and taken care of me in a heartbeat, but I wasn’t interested. He was a perfect gentleman. My intent was to get my own place with my next paycheck.

The Rock returned and found my note explaining I was leaving. He was furious. He began calling and trying to find me. I spoke with him and told him I wasn’t coming back. He wanted to know where I was staying. I wouldn’t tell him. I believe he followed me from work to the apartment and then he accused me of having sex with my friend. I denied his allegations.

“Mending the Soul” Book Review

An important part of my relationship with God is connecting with Him each morning. I read out of a daily 12-step inspirational book, and out of whatever book I’m studying (either the Bible, a bible study book, or a topical book by a Christian author), and I pray. If I don’t start my day on this solid grounding, I’ve pretty much screwed myself. I’ll end up behaving in a way I’m not proud of or I’ll have to endure something alone when I could’ve had help from my Father.

Anyway.

I’ve been reading “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy. He and his wife are the founders of Mending the Soul Ministries.

This is an excellent book. I recommend it to anyone who has survived abuse or works with people who are abuse survivors.

I don’t remember how the book came to be on my radar. I may have read about it in another book or I may have had friends who were reading it and talked about it on Facebook. Either way, the book made it into my bible study material.

I’m a survivor of childhood abuse at the hands of my step-father Dick. I spent decades trying to heal myself. I didn’t trust God because I thought he was like Dick. My life was a hot mess when an atheist friend suggested a 12-step program. God used that program to begin healing me and our relationship. He continues to improve me.

I know a lot of people at various stages in their healing process and I have a lot of compassion for them. This book seemed like a good fit for me.

The book outlines what abuse is and how it colors our perception of God. It describes abusers and their families. It discusses the extent of abuse and the origins. The author also talks about how abuse affects the lives of abuse survivors. He also goes into detail about how to seek healing and how to help others on their journey to recovery.

I’ve read a lot of self-help books over the years and received a substantial amount of counseling. This is the first book I’ve read that discusses abuse within the Christian community honestly. He doesn’t dismiss counseling, he explains how to help abuse survivors in a spiritually sound way that will help rather than further traumatize them.

There were some specific areas of interest for me, including: guilt versus shame, feeling like it was my fault, minimization, repressed memories, learning from the past, wrestling with God, how God feels about abusers, and forgiveness.

I plan to discuss this in greater detail and would love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

Snow Day

Well, this is almost unheard of.  The forecast snow storm actually arrived.  My mother doesn’t like to drive in snow, so she had forewarned me there was impending inclement weather.   

Early this morning, she sent me a link to local traffic information which showed many road closures due to snow.  The city had already closed its offices for the day.  My brother works for the state and they hadn’t closed.  I let my brother know his boys could spend the day with me and was trying to decide whether or not they were going to have school at my house.  (The youngest has been doing his school at my mom’s for the last week and a half due to behavior issues which meant they needed to be kept apart.)  I began getting ready for their arrival.

An hour later, my mom sent a group text to my brother and I and our out-of-state sisters of her yard with five inches of snow and still falling.  I followed up with a photo from my front door.  My fun sister Tammi suggested we make snow angels.  I advised I do not want to touch the snow: I only like the way it looks.  My brother reported his boys were up at 6 am playing in the snow in his yard.  They did make snow angels.  He announced his office was closed for the day. 

Yay!  Now the boys get a real snow day to play!  I notified their online charter school.  Ours is an odd situation since they’re attending class online but not at my brother’s home.  We’ll have to catch up, but it’s worth it to have a rare day to play in this white stuff we almost never get. 

My brother added photos of his yard to the group message. 

I’m thinking I get a snow day too!  Hopefully.  My husband is horking (the sound he makes when he’s puking and nothing is coming up).  I’m thinking I’ll work on writing my blog and watch some scary flicks, maybe catch a few episodes of “Designated Survivor”. 

Three hours later, my mom reports her power is out.  Yikes!  We’ve already had two brown-outs, so I turn off what I don’t need.  I play nurse to my husband (I’m not very good at it): made him peppermint tea and oatmeal but he can’t hold anything down, brought him things he asked for and checked in on him while he slept.

I did watch two episodes of my series and two scary movies. I worked on my blog and actually enjoyed it instead of feeling like it was a chore.  I haven’t gotten dressed.  I ate homemade tuna salad on homemade bread for lunch (both made earlier in the week).  I snacked a bit here and there.  Our power never went out.  Yay!

I saw two cars drive past during the morning.  A little before noon, two more vehicles drove past.  The pickup stopped at a stop sign, then tried to turn right, couldn’t do it without sliding and skidding until he got some traction again.  Heard sirens approach and stop about a block away around mid-afternoon.  Have seen a few more vehicles drive past late in the afternoon.  It has stopped snowing.  The air temperature has increased to the point that it’s melting now. 

My mom reported their power was back on about five hours after it went out.  Mom and Dad had breakfast in their camper and listened to the news on their radio.  They’re fine and grateful. 

My family prayed for my husband and he got a good two hour nap.  He’s still not feeling well but at least he’s rested for the moment. 

I fed our little dog and she began whining because she wanted to be let into the side yard.  I let her out but she wouldn’t step off the covered concrete into the snow.  Pansy!  

School Dreams

I’ve had the most vivid dreams throughout my life and often remember them.  I enjoy most of my dreams, so I will lay in bed some mornings trying to remember them.  I believe dreams are a way for the mind to figure out how to cope or solve problems.  I dream in color.  Some of my dreams are repetitious. 

Here are three dreams I’ve had repeatedly about school. 

The first dream is about a tall, thin, white man who’s driving a model-T Ford.  The car is black and basic.  The top is down.  It has a lot of clearance between the ground and the chassis.  The man who’s driving the car reminds me of President Lincoln due to his build and attire.  He occasionally gets out of the car, runs around it and gets back in. 

The entire dream has the feel of a black and white silent movie without the dialogue screens or the herky-jerky motion of the camera. 

I’m dressed up and headed for school but the car keeps chasing me.  I fall down (I’m clumsy.) and the car runs over me.  I’m terrified I’ll die when the car runs over me but the clearance is so high, it doesn’t hurt me. 

I dreamed this over and over as a child.  My mother and my youngest son have both had dreams with a similar theme; only the cars and drivers were different. 

A second dream I had around the same time was that it was my first day of school, ever.  In actuality, I believe it was the first time I was going to be riding the bus to school.  In my dream, I was all dressed up and ready for school when I walked out of my home.  When I begin to step up into the bus, I realize I’m stark naked!  Horrors!

This one happened for a short period of time.

The third dream started when I was a bit older.  I would dream I was on my way to the bus stop when one of two things happened.  One, I would forget something important at home and have to run back to get it or I would see the bus arriving at the bus stop early.  In either scenario, I ended up missing the bus.  Then, I would run to the next bus stop to try to get ahead of the bus and not miss it entirely.  Often, I would see the bus arrive at stop after stop, then drive away, with me running at full speed, frantically trying to catch it!  I dreamed this again and again until I obtained my driver’s license and purchased my first car.

One of the things dreams one and three taught me was that I could somewhat control the ending of my dreams by thinking about a different way to handle the problem while I was lying awake in between the dreams.  I would then fall back asleep and dream it again, and dream the ending differently.  

An Attitude of Gratitude

Where do I start? 

When I was in the Army National Guard, one of the call and response deals we did went like this:

     Sergeant:  “Company!  You all need an attitude check.”

To which we would respond:

     Company:  “Aw shit, fuck you, man.”

I have no idea why I like foul language so much.  I feel like they convey a deeper emotion than a more civilized choice.  It’s like, your feelings are so intense, you have to swear. 

I loved that I had been instructed by someone with more rank than I to say this phrase.  It tickles me. 

I’m so very grateful for the sense of humor God created me with.  Laughter is my main coping mechanism.  As a child, I loved to make my mom laugh.  I’d come home from school and regale her with stories chock full of humor. 

Oh and we’re a bunch of sarcastically funny people, my family.  I’ve been told the Greek root of sarcasm means to “tear flesh”. 

I have no idea how much of my life I was so focused on the negativity in my life that I totally missed out on many, tiny moments worthy of gratitude. 

After I started my recovery, I remember the first moment of gratitude to take me by surprise was seeing a tiny butterfly flitting about, sharing its exquisite beauty with me. 

What makes it really funny is I previously considered myself a positive, glass is half full kind of gal. 

Right. 

I find that if I start telling God what I appreciate and am grateful for, my focus shifts from the problems in my life to all the good in my life.  And in the reverse, if I let my thoughts and energy weigh on my problems; I don’t even notice my blessings. 

I can make a choice to improve my life by simply refocusing on the good until it becomes a habit. 

I’m going to face problems throughout my life on Earth, it will be easier if I do it with a grateful heart. 

I have much to be grateful for:  a loving husband for whom I have an enormous amount of love and respect, loving parents, loving siblings, two wonderful sons, seven amazing grandchildren, food, transportation, clothing, home, friends, eternal life, a unique relationship with my Heavenly Father and Creator. 

Yeah, I’m much happier when I exercise an attitude of gratitude. 

I Was a Mixed-up Mess

We went to counseling with a Baptist minister. He told me everything was my fault because I wasn’t honoring my husband like the bible says I must, so my husband can do anything he wants. He is the head of the house and it’s my Christian duty to obey my husband. End of story.

He was sent on frequent temporary duty missions and was away from home a lot. We had a phone in the house, but I didn’t want to tell my mom the truth about what was going on. She and my evil step-father Dick were getting divorced; he abandoned her and his children and left town, so she was struggling financially. I didn’t want to be another burden to her. I entertained my husband’s “friends” while he was away. I did it because I was unhappy, abused by my own husband, trapped and angry. I did it. It was sinful and wrong. It was hurtful. I never admitted another affair. I loved him, but I had no idea how to be married. I had no idea how to have a conversation with him. I had no decent relationship skills. I tried but I was sorely lacking. So was my husband.

I worked in domestics at Montgomery Ward in Melbourne, Florida. I had a supervisor I really liked. She invited me to dinner at her home when my husband was away on duty. I met her husband and enjoyed a lovely meal. Then, she told me her husband wanted to get into the swinger lifestyle and they were wondering if either I or myself and my husband would like to join them in threesomes or foursomes. I declined. Later when she and I spoke privately, I explained to her it wasn’t a lifestyle I was interested in, at all. She apologized and told me her husband was unhappy in the marriage and pressuring her to invite her friends to join them in the bedroom.

Obviously, she and I confided in each other. I had told her about the physical abuse The Rock was often subjecting me to, and she was encouraging me to leave him. I felt trapped. I was raised to believe good girls were virgins when they married (I was not, thanks to my step-father). I thought of myself as a Christian and Christians don’t get divorced. I didn’t think I had anywhere to go, even though my mother would have welcomed me home. I was a mixed-up mess.

My Pity Pot

I’m feeling so overwhelmed by my emotions right now.  I’m exhausted.  I cry at the drop of the hat.  I become frustrated in the blink of an eye.  I’m distraught. 

I want to curl up in a ball under a thick, warm blanket and cry until I have no tears left.  I’m so sad about the current state of my life.

Vertigo has stolen my ability to work, my income, my independence, my ability to get my own groceries, my ability to get in my car and drive myself to the library, the bank, or to lunch with a friend. 

I’m worn out from the symptoms.  I’m tired of fighting with my primary care “physician” to get the referrals my husband and I need.  I’m tired of hearing “it’s normal” in regards to tests when nothing in my life is normal any more.  I’m bored to tears but too tired to figure out something to do. 

Wah, wah, wah.  I need to just cry this out.  

I want to feel good again.  I don’t have any bread or pizza that my nephews like left in the house.  I can’t go to the grocery store myself to purchase more.  I can’t bake any more homemade bread because I don’t have any yeast and can’t drive myself to the store.  I could order grocery pickup but can’t use my SNAP card for that and don’t have any income right now.  I want to read a good book but can’t get to the library and the daily headaches make reading and concentrating difficult.  I would love to scrapbook some photos but don’t have anywhere to do it in my home.  I’d love to spend a day hunting but by the time I’ve loaded us up, I’m so dizzy I need to take medication but the medication knocks me out for 24 hours and it’s really hard to look for game when you’re asleep.

I’d love to have lunch out with a friend but I’m unable to drive myself and I hate asking because what if they say yes when they really want to say no?  I’d love to invite a friend over for coffee but what if I’m too dizzy to concentrate well enough to engage in a conversation? 

I don’t want to cry, really I don’t.  I can’t stand pessimistic people who can’t see the positive in life, but at the moment.  I got nothing nice to say and I’m just going to sit here on my pity pot and cry awhile. 

I’ll write when I’m capable but I’m no longer promising to try to do it daily.  I can’t meet that goal. 

Not My Will, But Yours

For decades, I acted like I was God. I acted like I knew just what every person I loved needed from God. I had no idea what I needed, but I was confident I could fix anyone else; if they just listened to me.

When I prayed, I would go on and on about what they needed to change. I would ask God to give them patience or wisdom. I would ask God to fix what I perceived as their sins and/or shortcomings.

Bah hah hah!

I wonder what God thinks about my haughtiness! This is my basic sin. I set myself up in the position of God in my own life, and then the lives of the people who were closest to me.

If you shared a prayer request with me, I’d evaluate and judge, then start asking for what I believed was needed.

A 12-step program taught me to “Let Go and Let God.” It took some time, but eventually I added to the saying because it makes even more sense to me: “Let Go and Let God be God”.

I’m not God.

I must remind myself of this frequently because it’s easy for me to slip back into old, bad habits.

In Matthew 6:9, Jesus teaches us how to pray to God. We’re to ask for his will, not ours. So why was I giving God a laundry list of my will? Sinful pride. Blame shifting. A desire to control.

It’s funny how hard this simple thing is to do. People ask me to pray for specific things for specific people. When we do that, we’re putting limits on God. He can do and imagine so much more than we can! Stop telling God what to do! Get out of his way.

LORD God, you are incredible, always surprising me, always loving me. Thank you for all your creation, for the weird animals and the funny bugs. Thank you for your spectacular sunsets. I pray for your will to be done LORD, not mine. I pray you will keep me humble. LORD, thank you for providing for all the needs of my family and I ask that you continue to provide what we need, food, shelter, clothing, and relationships. LORD forgive me for the sins I’ve committed against you today. Please continue to remove my shortcomings as you give me the courage to face them. LORD, thank you for loving me in just the way I need. Please continue to protect me and my loved ones from Satan’s attacks. In your son Jesus’ name. Amen. Amen.

This Too Shall Pass

Worn out.

I’m worn out from a month of being a Learning Coach to two young men who don’t seem to care about anything but having fun in the moment. 

They started the week out with no overdue lessons.  Both wasted so much time this week arguing with me and cutting up with each other that they now have overdue lessons and have homework this weekend. 

I’m at a loss for words. 

I was supposed to ride around the desert mountains looking for javalina yesterday.  By the time the truck was loaded up, I was dizzy and nauseous.  I took a promethazine for the nausea; first time I’d taken the full dose.  Ugh!

I couldn’t keep my eyes opened and ended up crawling into the back seat to nap while my husband and brother-in-law looked for them. 

I thought I’d be okay by noon.  I woke up just long enough to eat a portion of Lemon Pepper tuna and a half dozen crackers. 

I slept all day on a too narrow seat with no support for my head or back.  I was cold all day because I had no blanket and the windows weren’t rolled up. 

I had some Ruffles for dinner. 

I told my husband I wasn’t joining him today and went back to sleep. 

I woke up to say goodbye this morning, rolled over and went back to sleep. 

I got up a little before noon today. 

I watched a couple of documentaries about food. 

I decided I’m sick of feeling sick after I eat and I’m, going vegan. 

I spent hours looking for vegan recipes to try on myself and my husband. 

Recipes are tucked away now and I’m planning to have fast food for dinner, when my husband returns. 

She Was a Doozy!

Where to begin?

I’ve had many jobs: babysitting, Dairy Queen, gas station, McDonald’s, county treasurer’s office, yogurt shop, Army National Guard, convenience store, Montgomery Ward, regular Air Force, bagging groceries, waitressing, and a major insurance company. I stayed at the insurance company 19 years. I left because I was returning to my hometown to marry and it wasn’t possible to transfer.

I’ve never been fired from a job. I’ve always exceeded the expectations of my supervisors. I’ve had many, many supervisors. Some were great, some weren’t. I figured out what each of them wanted and how to get along with all of them. Except one. The last one. Oh, and she was a doozy!

Her name is Shenehneh Booker. She’s a beautiful, intense, opinionated, vocal, intelligent, passionate woman. She spent the first year telling me what to do, do this, do that, do this, do that. Yes, I was learning how to do things, but I had no understanding of why I was doing it or how it fit into the grand scheme of what we were supposed to be doing. Protecting children.

I’m passionate about children. They are vulnerable and should be protected. They are our future. I was a child once and no one saved me from my step-father Dick. I wish someone had. I’ve been wanting to do something like this since my early 20s.

She seemed to enjoy making other people look small. She would reprimand and ridicule people in public. She would call you into her office, shut the door, get so close your knees were almost touching, then tell you how angry she was about a mistake you’d made. She would tell you how no one was going to have your back if you made a mistake. She would come to your desk and berate you for not doing whatever was currently the thing she wanted from you most. Other people told me she called them stupid and told them they’d never succeed. Other people told me to beware. Other people told me she would choose a victim and then systematically ruin them. I chose to hope for the best.

I was disappointed.

She was the only person who complained about my efforts and my results. Every other person had nothing but positive notes and encouragement for me.

Too many children, not enough time. Too many time-sensitive criteria, not enough time. Too vague training, not enough time. Too many late reports, not enough time. Too many unasked questions, not enough time. Too little help and change, not enough time.

I often wondered if we were doing more harm than good. Sometimes it was evident that intervention was needed. The gray areas seemed to outnumber the black and white.

I would wake up in the middle of the night wondering if a particular child was okay or if I needed to do something more. I would wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach in knots and my heart in my throat; physically sick at the thought of what I had seen and what might happen next and that I had to get up in a few hours and do it all over again.

I had to do it. I believe God brought me to this position. I believe I was obedient to Him. I believe He taught me a lot about myself and others. I believe he put me in situations where I was able to love others on His behalf. I believe if I hadn’t done it, I’d always have regretted it and wished I’d had the opportunity.

All my childhood, I heard how stupid and ugly and worthless I was. I believed it. I spent most of my adulthood trying to heal myself. I couldn’t. I learned to trust God through a 12-step program. I’m surrendered to God. God has healed me. I have serenity, a full range of emotions, the ability to have a loving intimate relationship, healthy boundaries with my family and friend, hope and positivity, gratefulness, and joy.

I no longer live in denial.

Shenehneh is abusing her direct reports verbally and emotionally. She has created an unsafe work environment. She enjoys demeaning and hurting vulnerable adults. She provoked the same emotional and physical responses in me that I felt as a child being abused by my step-dad. She told me to take better emotional care of myself and mocked my recovery on one hand, while verbally attacking me on the other.

I lasted a year and a half, much longer than the average. I did my job to the best of my abilities and training. I treated everyone with respect. I treated myself with love, honesty, kindness, and respect. I did not allow another person’s actions to cause me to lower my personal standards.

I’m Not an Effing Chair!

***WARNING: There is cursing in this one.***

It was early days in my 12 step meetings. I had gone from tentatively attending one each week; to attending multiple meetings a week on several different nights of the week. It may have been during a time when I was so desperate for change and serenity, that I was attending multiple meetings on the same day.

One person kept saying the same thing at meeting after meeting. (Over time, I realized I’m a slow learner when it comes to major insights into myself and God frequently uses at least three various avenues to teach me something or to get my attention.) I thought what he was saying was cute but not real helpful. Here’s the gist of it, “Just because someone calls you a chair, doesn’t make you a chair.”

And it finally hit me!

Just because my evil step-father called me stupid, ugly, unlovable, lacking in common sense, etcetera, did not make it true! All those years (and I’m talking decades) had passed, he had passed on, and I was still hearing his voice in my head saying those awful things to me.

I went home and thought about it. Was there any truth to the things he’d say about me? No. I got a three by five index card and a colorful marker and I wrote “I’m Not a Fucking Chair!” I taped the card to my bathroom mirror where I’d see it every day when I brushed my teeth.

I left it there for a year. Long enough for it to sink into my being. I rarely hear his voice anymore, but when I do, I respond to my step-dad like this, “I’m not a fucking chair and I never was.”

We Want a Different Outcome

I’m spending a lot of time with my nephews while they do schoolwork for their online charter school. It’s a blessing. They are 7 and 10 years old. They were not succeeding in a traditional brick and mortar school. I’m disabled due to vertigo and unable to work. I don’t have to run around chasing them, so it’s working out well.

I keep remembering my brother Adam at the age of 10. He would sit at our huge picnic-style dining room table working on his math homework. He would have tears streaming down his face. No matter how much time he spent working on it, it wasn’t good enough.

I don’t know why he was unsuccessful at picking up math concepts. I couldn’t see inside his mind. Did he have dyslexia? Were the numbers jumbled up? Did he miss a simpler concept prior to this, and therefore didn’t have the basics to support more complicated concepts? I don’t know.

My step-father Dick’s approach was to ridicule my brother. Ridicule is not quite right. He tormented my brother Adam. He told my brother he was stupid and wouldn’t amount to anything. He would pressure him to stop looking at the paper and just answer the question already. Dick told Adam he was lazy and that’s why he couldn’t do it, if he just put in the effort… It would go on and on.

All this from a man who dropped out of elementary school. He was uneducated and sounded like it. He was constantly using words he didn’t understand inappropriately.

I have no memories of trying to help Adam with his homework and I don’t know why. I could have tried to help him when Dick wasn’t around.

To try to help in the midst of Dick grinding Adam down verbally? No way! That would be putting a target on yourself and saying to Dick, “Me next! Be mean and hateful to me next!” We’d each had enough of that to last a lifetime.

I really wish I’d been able to do more to protect my siblings from Dick.

My 10-year-old nephew Nathan is struggling with math right now. He’s so frustrated and hopeless when it comes to schoolwork. I’ve had to explain to him that I love him, and I’m not trying to trick him or make him look stupid. He expects to be mistreated by me because I’m in the role of teacher. I continue to tell him I’m confident his grades can improve because they don’t currently reflect what he’s capable of doing. I DO NOT want to add to his frustrations. I don’t want to add to his negative self-talk.

He’s a great kid with an awesome sense of humor and a desire to please people. He loves his little brother fiercely.

I would like to help build his confidence in his ability to succeed. I’d like to step back and figure out why he isn’t getting it, so we can fill the gaps in his current education and continue to learn. I would like to encourage him to pursue learning new information about stuff that interests him.

Pray for me as I interact with this precious young man. Pray that I’ll do no harm to him in my imperfection. Pray that I’ll have eyes to see what he needs most each day.

I do NOT want to see the same defeat in Nathan’s eyes, which I witnessed in his father’s eyes.

The Princess and the Pea

I woke up Saturday morning feeling like I needed to pee right now! So, I did. 30 seconds later, I felt the urge again. So, I did. (I’m getting older.) And again. I realize something is off and I’ve had urinary tract infections (UTIs) before and even two kidney stones over the years. I ask my husband to pick me up some cranberry juice before he heads out on his adventures for the day.

I’m thinking if I’ve got a UTI and I’ve caught it early, the juice will do the trick to eradicate it. However, I remember the urologist told me to avoid masking my symptoms with juice like I did with my second kidney stone (nasty infection).

I go about the day with minimal discomfort.

I was sick as a dog that night. I didn’t want to go to the emergency room because I wasn’t dressed, my hair was dirty, and it’s the emergency room. Oh yeah, and I was on my belly, on the floor, fighting my way through and praying for the urge to push to stop. I was terrified I was going to push my insides out! I threw up. Eeeeew!

I woke up Sunday morning feeling okay. Just sore in every muscle in my body from the tension from the night before. The feeling I needed to pee was back. I drank more cranberry juice and water. I talked to my husband about my indecision about whether I should go to the ER or not. I showered. We both got ready, just in case. I felt a pain on the left side of my stomach area and was starting to feel pain in my left flank. I knew tests would be needed to confirm if it’s a stone and that can’t be done at Urgent Care. I knew I’d have to call early the next morning and wait on hold for more than an hour to find out if my doctor had a same day appointment and she wouldn’t be able to do the tests needed to confirm if it’s a stone. I definitely remember the pain I experienced with the first two stones and would rather not repeat. I’d rather give birth to another child. I opted to go to the emergency room.

The admitting nurse was so thoughtful when she arranged a room where I wouldn’t be seeing people pass through the hall, as that could have triggered my vertigo. While waiting, I drank 16 ounces of water so I could produce about 3 ounces of urine for testing. I was wheeled into radiology for a CT scan of my abdomen and gave me a warm blanket before returning me to the ER. The doctor came in and did an examination and asked quite a few questions. He asked if I’ve been diagnosed with diverticulitis (I have but am asymptomatic). He asked if I’ve had a colonoscopy (3 years ago when they told me about the diverticulitis). He asked if I have high blood pressure (no). High cholesterol (I take fish oil and niacin)? He left and returned a bit later to tell me there’s a lot of blood in my urine, I have a 4mm kidney stone in the ureter just above the bladder, there’s a cyst on my kidney, and the juncture of my small and large intestines appears to be thickening. He prescribed Flomax and Ibuprofen. The Flomax is to loosen things up in there so the stone can hopefully pass. He told me to follow up with the urologist.

A baby green pea is approximately 5mm. This stone is 4mm and covered in pointy spikes like a goathead thorn.

I’m taking the Flomax and I picked up some over-the-counter Azo for the urgency. The Azo made my urine very, very, very yellow! Cheerful.

I will be calling my doctor to request referrals for the urologist and gastroenterologist later today. Experience tells me to expect it to be months before I’ll be seen by either.

I’ll keep you updated.

Choked Unconscious

The Rock and I had fun together. He continued to drink with his friends after work. We would go bowling together. He began borrowing money from his friends and each pay period he would borrow more. We were falling further and further behind. I was in the Florida National Guard but only received a small paycheck for one weekend of training each month. I went to work at a convenience store to supplement his income. He didn’t like it but didn’t complain too much as long as I was bringing money in. His mother was “borrowing” money from us which I didn’t appreciate since I’d been to her home and knew she had a lot more than we did.

My cooking got better, and we had everyone over for Thanksgiving dinner (Shake ‘N Bake). He started going out more and more often without me. I could tell something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. I was doing the laundry when I pulled a photo of a pretty blonde in a bikini out of his shirt pocket. I didn’t say a word when I handed it to him. He immediately stated, “It’s not what you think.”

We went to a birthday party in a dormitory for a friend of my husband. There were tons of people there. I was on the balcony smoking a cigarette and admiring the night sky when another female guest joined me, and we started chatting. Eventually she hit on me. I giggled and told her I was married, not interested. Every so often, some new person in my life will get it in their head that I’m gay and it always strikes me as funny. I don’t think I’m butch. I’m heterosexual. Anyway, on the way home, The Rock and I were laughing and talking about the conversations we had separately during the evening. When I told him about this exchange, he became enraged and accused me of WANTING TO SLEEP with her. What? I didn’t want to and how in the world can you accuse someone of WANTING to do something! Absurd. We parked in front of our quarters, walked across the grassy lawn, he opened the front door (we’re loudly arguing all the way in) and let me enter first. He put his hands around my throat from behind and I began gasping for air. He made accusations in my ear as he was choking me. I woke up the next morning in a heap, on the floor, in front of the front door.

How Could a Loving God Allow This?

I understand why people ask this question.  I asked this question repeatedly, as a child. I was being victimized at the hands of my step-dad Dick.

Here’s the answer: 

The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness.  Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.                                 2 Peter 3:9

God hasn’t returned because he’s giving us more time to get right with him. He wants every single one of us to spend eternity with him in heaven. Heaven will be the perfect place so many of us long for now.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.       Revelation 21:4

When God created Earth and everything in it, it was perfect. Man was perfect too. God created Adam and Eve and they lived in the Garden of Eden. They were naked but they felt no shame. They didn’t have to work to satisfy their needs. There was no pain. It didn’t last long because Satan twisted God’s words. Adam and Eve both chose to disobey God (sin) and ate the fruit God told them not to eat. Each subsequent human has had to decide whether to obey God.

Everything that’s wrong with the world is a result of our individual choices to sin.

Yes, God could have created mankind without the ability to sin. However, without the ability to choose, we become robots without the ability to have a relationship with another. That’s what God wants. A personal, individual relationship with each of his children.

I’m not going to lie.

I still wish I hadn’t gone through the bad parts of my childhood. I wish I hadn’t been so broken when I entered adulthood. I wish life was fair. I wish no child anywhere was ever cold, hungry, abused, hurt or hopeless. I don’t completely understand God’s plan, just a small portion. I fall into the trap of believing I would do things different (better) if I were God. And that’s just it! I’m not God. It’s sinful to put myself (or attempt to) above God. I’m a part of his creation. I have limits. I can’t see the future, I haven’t existed outside of time, I don’t know everything.

God is God and I trust him!

I also struggle at times. What if my step-father Dick is in heaven when I get there? Ugh! I don’t want him to be. I want him to be punished. Yet he may be and that’s between him and God. He may have repented of his sins before he died.

I’ve made some pretty awful mistakes (sins) in life. I’ve hurt people. What if they don’t want me to be in heaven when they get there? What if God listened to us and made his decisions about their eternal destination based on what we want? I might not be welcome. God knows our hearts in ways no one else can. I’m glad he’s the one who has the final say about my eternal home.

I choose to obey him in this area too. When I struggle with a desire to punish those who’ve sinned against me, I ask God to fix that shortcoming in me.

Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,” says the Lord.                     Romans 12:19

No Picky Eaters Here

So, this mama doesn’t play the picky eater game. I didn’t learn to cook until after I got pregnant with my first child. I started off trying to eat well while I was pregnant with him and I began to try recipes in my own kitchen. When my baby Fergus was ready for food, I started making his baby food.

Easy really, don’t introduce too many new food items at a time because you want to be able to recognize and identify any food allergies. Second, don’t add spices as babies’ tummies aren’t ready yet.

As he got older, I tried more and more recipes. I didn’t want my child eating a bunch of pre-packaged stuff over which I had no control over its quality. Every time I tried something new, I required him to try one bite. That became my rule, if it’s the first time you’ve been offered it, try a bite. If you don’t like it, that’s fine, politely explain you don’t like it and you won’t be required to take more.

When my son was around five years old, the next-door neighbor and her husband separated and began divorce proceedings, they had a little girl who ran the roost. Her mother was always feeding her canned raviolis, and macaroni and cheese. Her mother said the little girl wouldn’t eat anything else. I suggested to Stormy (the little girl’s mother) that perhaps she should start implementing rules now, so her child didn’t grow to be a teen who didn’t think any rules applied to her. Stormy disagreed.

She asked me to babysit her child so she could go out on a date. I told her I’d love to watch her little girl and I explained I would not be fixing something special for her. I told Stormy I would serve her a plate of the same food I was feeding my son and if she didn’t eat it, that was her choice. Skipping one meal would not injure her child. She apparently didn’t believe me because she brought raviolis when she brought her daughter over.

When it was dinnertime, I placed a plate in front of her with a few bites of fish, some mashed potatoes, and some peas. She said she didn’t want it. She wanted raviolis. I explained I wasn’t going to make raviolis but there was a plate of food in front of her. I asked her to try the food. She refused. She cried for a while. I stood my ground. Eventually, she got hungry enough to try the food. Surprise! She liked it and asked for more, which I gave to her.

This is the avenue I’m taking with my nephews. They haven’t encountered a person who won’t fix them whatever they want. (Grandmas are allowed to feed their grandbabies anything they want.)

Don’t get me wrong, if I know you don’t like cilantro, I’m not going to add it to the meal I invite you over to share with me. I love to feed the people I love. I love to cater to them in a loving way. It’s my belief that it’s a good thing to try different foods and cuisines. Variety is the spice of life. All things in moderation.

Having said that, I’m kind of a picky eater. I don’t like cooked salmon, but I love salmon sushi. I don’t like Spam or brisket, too salty. I don’t care for the taste of lamb. I don’t like dove. I don’t like the texture or taste of steak. I don’t want to eat anything that looks like it did when it was alive, so no fish with the scales on and the eyeballs in. Eeeew! I like fish if it’s not too fishy. I don’t like mussels. I don’t care for the taste, smell or feel of chitterlings. I don’t care for eggplant, but I wish I did because they’re beautiful. I can’t stand Brussel sprouts, but cabbage is good: bok choy is even better. Black eyed peas taste like dirt.

Things I like include chicken and pork. Javalina is delicious when cooked right and it’s not that hard! I like deer that’s not too gamey and if it is, I just blend it with beef. Elk meat is delicious! I like rabbit and goose. Lobster soaked in butter in Boston is yummy. I love rockfish. I love potatoes, peas, carrots, green beans, beets and asparagus. Spinach and kale are yummy, but I can’t have much because I get kidney stones.

I’m so proud of my nephews. They are very opinionated about what they do and don’t like. They have been great sports about trying new dishes Aunt Maria offers them. Sometimes they take a bite and politely decline. Other times, they try it and ask for more and more.

A Piece of Western History

There is a small town within field trip range of the town I grew up in. It’s nestled in the hills and you must brave a narrow, windy road to get there. Okay, okay, there are two other directions you can approach from, which are not as scary as the twisty road one. However, the twisty road has the added benefit of having stone stairs that lead up one side of the road to a tiny pond with gold fish in it.

There was a mine in the area, not active when I was a child. In 1915, more than $10 million in gold was discovered by two miners. By the 1960s, the town was nearly a ghost town. It’s now a tourist attraction. There’s still a mine but it doesn’t run all the time; only when it makes economic sense to do so.

Wild burros roam the streets and you can purchase food to feed them. When I was younger, you could feed them carrots; however, they now have a type of diabetes and are only fed special pellets. When my youngest was just a few years old, we bought some carrots and were walking around town when a burrow attempted to take the carrots right out of the backpack he was carrying. The burros are descended from animals turned loose by prospectors. The animals are ranging further and further away; and they eat everything right down to the roots. They’re also dangerous to indigenous animals in the area. They also travel onto the highways and are struck by unsuspecting drivers. Local sportsmen are not allowed to hunt them.

I had to take my children to see this tourist town because it’s a part of my history and I’m part of its history. You see, the hotel has a second story which has been closed off to tourists because it’s no longer structurally sound; however, when I was in grade school, I visited this establishment and sent them a thank you note a few days later. My thank you was hung on the wall upstairs and the next handful of times I visited; there was my letter.

The hotel has cold, delicious sarsaparilla soda. The menu is all American and you can even get burro ears (homemade potato chips). The restaurant is always packed and there’s usually live music. There are dollar bills tacked to every available surface from thousands of diners over the years.

Today, when I visit, I like to have photos taken with my ass (my much-loved husband) and any family brave enough to join us.