The day is past...

...and I still can't seem to pick my butt up off the floor.

There's just not another time of year when I think about my mom more.  I wonder sometimes if she even thinks about me.

About a year ago, an old acquaintance from back home told me that my will often tell people she has two sons.  She doesn't say two sons and a daughter, just two sons. 

That makes me wonder how she could so easily write me off.  Does she just want to avoid any uncomfortable conversation about why I only live two hours away, but she never sees me?  Or is it just that easy to turn her back on someone she gave birth to?

My husband often tells me that people with a traumatic past have the hardest time letting things go.  Maybe he is right, even though it makes me angry every time he says it.  But maybe it's because there is so much that keeps us from being able to understand what has been done to us. 

Good grief, it isn't like I don't have ample opportunity to discuss this with someone to help make sense of it.  Most weeks, I am in counseling or therapy at least 3-4 times.  I'm convinced that those helping me struggle to explain things they also cannot understand.

I have watched ladies in our church pursue women who are less mature in their faith or just entering new phases of life.  They go after those young ladies in loving ways because they care.  Even when they get told politely to bug off, they still pursue.  I would think that a mother would work much the same. 

I would think a mother would want to always lovingly remind their daughter that they are there for them.  Even when the daughter pushes away, I would think their love runs deep enough that they never stop pursuing.

It's hard to not have that and impossible to understand why I don't. 

For the past many, many years, all I wanted to do was be a mother.  It's hard to understand how someone who was given that ability would neglect it so.

I don't know what to do, that desire just won't leave me....

Me and a Cookie

I woke up this morning incredibly anxious for the day to end, no surprise.  The one thing I couldn't get out of my head was a photo my grandma had taken on my 17th birthday.  I searched and searched until I finally found it!  I found a couple others I'd like to share too.  They probably encapsulate the 4 only good birthday memories I have.

You'll have to excuse the poor photos.

This was my 4th or 5th birthday with all of my little friends.  Oh, and my brother who is 18 months younger than me.  He's the cute little boy on the right side edge with the curly hair.  The kids were all children of family friends.  I lived and breathed Sesame Street, hence the cookie monster cake.  I remember the cake because it was chocolate.  Even then, I didn't like chocolate cake.  It's such a sweet, innocent photo.  It makes me sad to know now what was going on in my life even that early.



This one is from my 16th birthday.  Not your typical birthday picture.  My junior prom fell on the eve of my 16th birthday with activities ending the day of.  The young man I went to prom with is probably the most talented actor/singer I have ever personally known.  He is still acting and singing in Chicago and I'm so proud of him.  I was born at 3:27 am.  He sang to me at the exact minute of my birthday.  Pretty cool!  I don't know many other 16 year-olds that get serenaded like that.

I'm skipping a couple years.  This is from my 19th birthday.  My grandma tried her best to make birthdays good for me.  You have to keep in mind that my grandma was highly dysfunctional too in her own ways.  However, because she wasn't directly abusive, she was a safer person for me to be around.  She always made each of us a cake on our birthday.  My dad always used this as another form of birthday torture.  Yet, grandma always managed to get a picture of us and the cake before that would happen. 

I might look happier here by design.  I had just moved out of my parent's house and had already met the man who would later become my husband.  You might notice something funny about the cake.  Besides the fact that it is pink with green writing, it also says Happy Birthday Jo Jo.  My family never called me by my first name.  Mostly, they called me Jo Jo.  That has stuck!  Last time I saw my nieces and nephews, they still called me Aunt Jo.  I was so accustomed to having to leave the cake at my grandparent's house, that I didn't eat or take this one home either...even though I lived alone.  Some things stick with you a long time!



Here it is!  This is the picture that I woke up thinking about.  This was from my 17th birthday.  Remember me saying that my dad used my grandma's cakes as a form of torture?  On my 16th birthday, she had made me a chocolate cake, which my dad made me sit and eat the whole thing and making me very sick.  Not wanting to live through that again, I asked my grandma to not bake a cake for my 17th.  To which she begrudgingly agreed, even though she knew what happened every year.  (I told you she was dysfunctional.  She did things just to anger my dad.)

While grocery shopping with her...yep, that's how cool I was, spending my birthday grocery shopping with my grandma...we found this cookie.  Our grocery store had just then added a bakery.  It's hard to see, but there are two chocolate chip cookies, with a big scoop of pastry cream in the middle and red hots to make a face in the side of the cookie.

You might also notice the smile and hint of animation.  This is probably the only picture from my childhood that shows either.  I think the smile was truly because I knew I wouldn't have a cake to be tortured over.  I had a treat that was mine, all mine.  It's a rare gem from the giant mountain of photos I have. 

This picture makes me smile when I think about it and even more when I see it.  It makes me sad too.  It doesn't reflect how my life really was at the time, which is probably why it makes me happy and sad.  It seems to reflect a moment of my life that was how it should have been.  Again...maybe that's why it's both happy and sad.

There you have it...the only good birthday memories I have from 19 and younger.  The memories still plague me with sadness, knowing that the happiest of times were so few and still so full of difficulty.

Mailbox

As I grabbed the mail from the box this afternoon, I realized it held more than just my Southern Living magazine and advertisements.  I realized I held more than just excitement over the magazine.

It was the continuous disappointment that snaked it's way out of the box and punched me in the gut.

I have been walking to the mailbox everyday with the subconscious thoughts that somewhere among the junk and bills, I would find something from home...a birthday card from anyone in my family.

Even though I haven't spoken to or had contact with my immediate family in nearly five years.  And even after all this time, I still long to have some tangible, healthy contact from them.

There is no real reason for me to ever get my hopes up that this will happen.  Honestly, it didn't happen much before all contact with them stopped.

For two years prior to cutting contact, nobody had given my birthday much thought.  I got a phone call or two from one of my brothers a few days late.  However, it would be several weeks before my mom acknowledged my birthday. 

I have to believe that any woman who gives birth to a child would remember that day forever.  How could they not?  I don't think she forgot, I think she just didn't care.  I know she didn't care.

My mom has never been into celebrating my birthday.  By not into it, I mean she usually watched whatever horrific thing my dad was doing to me and never did anything special.  She sent a couple cards after I was married, but usually weeks to months late.

Nobody else in my family has ever really sent cards on my birthday.  I had a sister-in-law once who usually would send a card with pictures of my niece and nephew.  That sister-in-law was smarter than anyone gave her credit for and got out of the family....but that's another blog post for another time.

So, I have no real reason to expect something from them.  But that does little to squelch what I think is a natural desire.  I wish that desire would die in me so that I am not constantly disappointed.  If I could change it, I would.

At least I only have one more day to walk to the mailbox to be let down.  I'm not sure my broken heart could take much more.  I've said it before and I'm sure I will say it again...I don't understand why they never wanted me.

My Plan

Why is it that when you tell people you've lived through something traumatic, their response is "God must have big plans for you!"

Is it because they truly believe that to be true or is it just a generic answer that they give?  I tend to think it's a generic response that they use in their own mind to justify and redeem what you have been through so that they can better understand it....even though they probably can't.

I hear it so often, that I've developed quite a blase response.  How do they know?  If God had a big plan for me, why would He be withholding it?  Why would a God who loves me withhold something good from me, especially when it's something that makes me feel so terribly bad?

You see why such a simple statement could do little to build my confidence in a God who supposedly loves me? 

I don't think that this week has much to do with how I am feeling today.  In fact, the way I feel might actually be driving me to have a more emotionally trying week and why I'm having an even more difficult time with my birthday.

If you have kids, have a job, have grand kids, have people who rely on you, you probably have a good idea where you will be needed and a general idea of what you will be doing.  You know before your feet hit the floor or inhale a deep breath of fresh morning air, that you will be needed in some way that day.

Think about how you would feel to not wake up with those purposes everyday.  I think it's fair to say you might feel a little useless.

That is how I feel every single day.  I wake up not thinking, but knowing that I don't have any real driving reason to put my feet on the floor or take that first deep breath of the day. 

There is nobody who depends on me, nobody who needs me, nobody who really expects anything from me on a regular basis.  I have no place where I contribute anything of any value.  My uselessness is my reality.

If I were to disappear today, there would be nobody deeply affected outside of my husband who would feel the loss of my presence at home.  Sure, many people might acknowledge my previous existence, but deeply affected....no.

Really, this isn't a life that I can look at and believe that God has big plans.

Yes, there is a very real part of this that comes from my past.  I was made to believe that my life had no value and everyone would have been better off if I had never been born.  Those things were said and proven so many times for so many years, that I cannot easily drop those thoughts and walk away.  But this is much more. 

All day, I have mentally scoured my life to find one little shiny nugget hiding in a dark corner and I just couldn't. 

Each time I try to do, give, or be a resource for an individual or group of people, I am usually rejected.  I'm not ragging on church, but that's one place I've felt this.  I have volunteered to help in so many places and been turned away.  Each time I've reached out to a fellow Christian who was hurting or offered to help during a time of need, I've been rejected.  I'm not sure why, but it happens that way all the time.

If my past somehow makes me more equipped to carry out some big God plan, then I'm failing.  How can I possibly use what I've been through when I don't have a way to do that?

One thing I know is true and that nothing is hidden from God.  I can logically deduce that God obviously knows how big of a struggle this is for me.  I know He knows just how far down my feelings of uselessness push me into the hole of darkness. 

Maybe there isn't some big plan.  Maybe those people are wrong.  People misuse Jeremiah 29:11 as proof that God has big plans for people like me.  When in reality, the verse says that He knows the plans for us.  Not that they are big plans; not that they are plans to use your past trauma; not that the plans are even good.  Just that He knows the plans.

What if this is all there is to my life?  No end in sight of day after day of going through the motions and pretending that everything will somehow make sense someday.  What if this is the big plan?  What if the plan for my life is for it to be a short one?  What if the plan for my life is that I am supposed to be this disgusted with life?  What if my life doesn't have any value and God's just waiting for the right time for it to be over? 

If God knows everything already, He knows my plan, then who's to say that this is the way it's just supposed to be.

I think God probably already knows how our lives will end, regardless of what we plan.  I also think I'm tired of the deep breath in the morning that quickly turns into a big sigh.

Mondayyyyy

I knew I didn't have the physical or emotional energy to juggle anything additional this week and I was right.

The way my day started should have been an indicator of how today would go.  It started by being woke up by a dog nearly barfing in my face.  Not the best alarm clock!  No to mention, I usually sleep a little later on Mondays and don't head into the church office until lunch. 

Once I was ready, the first order of business was to call our insurance agent.  Our mortgage company had sent a letter, received this weekend, that informed us our insurance had been cancelled.  He was happy to confirm that letter was correct, until I reminded him that two months ago he said he would take care of the problem.  By lunch time, he had rectified the problem and we now have coverage again.  However, he failed miserably to apologize for his mistake and left me with more work to do in finding a new company.

There really wasn't anything specific during the biggest portion of my day that was necessarily bad.  I think it was mostly little irritations.  Not being able to find what I needed.  Things missing that were in the right place last week.  Internet that wouldn't work great. Forgot my lunch. All of my electronics were dead and needed charged.  You know, the little irritants that add up.

I usually have a psychology appointment every Tuesday.  This week, it was on Monday.  That really threw me off.  I normally don't want to go and dislike it, but being on a different day certainly intensified those feelings.

Most of the time, I genuinely believe there is little value in the time or money spent at the psychologist's office.  Today was much the same.  What I really hate is someone trying to force you to talk about something you don't want to.  Good grief, no wonder I can't leave that crap in the past.

And speaking of crap, I walked into a bunch of it when I got home.  Literally!

My dog, who rarely causes any problems while I am gone during the day, decided to be quite a menace today.  Do you know how hard it is to see dog poop on a dark hardwood floor?  Well, hard to see, but easy to step in.  Oh and I didn't just step in it once, but twice. 

In trying to clean up the mess, I headed to the bathroom where I found that the same dog had unloaded the trash and knocked over the toilet paper holder.  Double whammy for her!  She and her co-conspirator had left me a fine layer of fresh tissue snow all over the green floor.  What fun for me!

Heading back into the kitchen, I found a two-liter of pop that had been played with and thankfully not punctured.  Evidently, I'm the only person in the house who can put groceries away.  Oh I digress...

By 5 pm, I was in my pjs and had far surpassed pissed off.  I really don't have what it takes to deal with any more days like this.  I'm not sure I have what it takes to even chance having another day like this.  Off to eat ice cream...yes, that's the healthiest choice I can make right now. Anything else would be a relief for me, but piss everyone else off.

The Week

Ack!  It's finally here. I have several dreaded weeks of the year and this is one of them.

A couple weeks from now, hopefully I'll be able to look back at this week and only see a blur.  It can't possibly be a surprise that I hate it so much given all I've shared.  Sadly, I haven't even shared the worst.

This week, more than any other, I have that nagging thought..."Why was I even born?"  For as far back as I can remember, I have always wished April 26th had never happened.  I know that comes from year after year of being told that I should have never been born.

After sitting here for the past four hours with one birthday memory after another creeping through my head, I know that question is looming again this year.  Why? Why was I born? 

My parents didn't want me.  In fact, most of my family didn't want me.  They still don't want me.  It's been over five years since I've had any substantial contact with any of my family.  I didn't hatefully sever ties with any of them.  I didn't make a formal statement that I would never contact them again.  They just never contacted me again.  It's an easy conclusion that they still don't want me.

My birthday is one of those times when it's incredibly apparent that they never have cared.  I have three grandparents, two parents, two brothers, one sister-in-law, two nieces, two nephews, four uncles, four aunts, twelve cousins and numerous great-whatevers.  Outside of an ex-aunt, not one of them contacts me...ever!

So, if my family doesn't care and doesn't want me, why was I born?  I don't have kids and I'm more of a hindrance for my husband than a partner.  Really, I am someone he has to take care of, not live life with and I create a fair amount of worry for him.  I don't really make any significant contribution to anyone or anything.  I don't have a job and I spent most of my time feeling fairly useless.

It's an awful feeling, but it is all true.

As far back as junior high, I can remember attempting to end my life in one way or another during the week of my birthday each and every year.  That is how strong those feelings get in me.  Even last year was no exception. 

Two days after my birthday last year, I sat contemplating my own demise over a bottle of nail polish remover, a bottle of aspirin and a tube of super glue. 

Believe me, it isn't the way I want life to be at all.  I don't want it to be that way now either.  As the day gets closer, I can't help but feel like this year is going to be much the same.  I just hate it!

Box of Kittens

As my husband watched one of his cop drama shows tonight, I heard a quote that sent me over the edge.

"Nobody is always bad or always good. Everyone has some good and bad in them."

Even though it was just a show, I believe that is a statement most people would find true.  The majority of the general population is naive enough to believe that everybody has some good in them.

There has NEVER been and will NEVER be a time when I will ever tell you there was anything good in my dad.  If you have ever read any of my other posts regarding my dad, I suppose you could have been naive enough to believe somewhere in his dysfunction there was something good.

Well...you'd be WRONG!

He is an evil, rotten bastard who lacks any hint of a redeeming quality.  That is not an overstatement. 

I keep going back to another birthday where he tormented me.

When I was in second grade, I kept asking my parents for a kitten for my birthday.  At the age of 8, all I wanted was something to love me and knew I could find that in a kitten.  Of course I would think the love of a kitten would be sufficient, I was 8.

At 8 years-old, I didn't understand how cats reproduced or that a momma cat in our neighborhood was about to nest in our garage and give birth to a litter of kittens.  I just knew my birthday was coming and I wanted a kitten.

When my dad got home on the day of my birthday, he walked in the door carrying what looked like a package.  He handed me a shoe box and told me to open it.  Much to my surprise, there were three tiny kittens in the box. 

I immediately sat on the floor in total amazement.  I so clearly remember that overwhelming love I had for these kittens.  I know I was in a bit of disbelief that I had actually gotten what I wanted.  Not only had a gotten a kitten, but I got three!  I petted and held and loved all of the kittens.  I was instantly bonded to these little creatures.

After what seemed like an hour with the kittens, my dad took the box from me.  He put the lid on the box, wrapping it with tape.  Although I was horribly upset, I knew they would be ok.  There was a big hole in the side of the box.  It wasn't big enough for them to crawl out, but plenty big enough for them to get air.

My dad took me and my box of kittens outside.  I was sure he was going to show me where they would be staying in the garage.

He had me hold the hole in the box up against a pipe on his truck.  Being 8 years-old, I'm sure I had no clue what he was doing.  He turned on the truck and turned it off after a few minutes.  He came back to where I stood holding the box and removed the tape from it. 

Again, I remember so clearly what he said.  "Take your cats and go play."

Walking away, I still didn't know what had happened.  I'm sure my excitement over having kittens way outweighed any questions about what he had done.  But that wouldn't last very long.

As I got to the garage and opened the lid of the box, I saw my little kittens laying there.  They were lifeless and limp.  I petted them, held them and loved on them, but nothing happened.  The rambunctious, squirmy kittens I had held 20 minutes earlier had the life taken out of them, leaving me heartbroken and confused.

What had happened to them?

I cried as the reality of their demise set into my little head and heart. 

My dad, the same one who had seemingly made an 8 year-old's dream come true, was now standing over me with belt in hand. 

As he swung his belt across my arms and back, he kept mumbling about how mean of a little girl I was to kill a bunch of kittens.  I was getting in trouble, big trouble, for killing these sweet babies.  I loved them so much and yet, was so upset that I had hurt them.

It wasn't until years later that I really grasped what had happened.  Though from that day on, I never asked for another pet and was fearful to love anything for a long time.  For a long time, I feared that having a pet or loving anything would cause it to die.  When I figured out that it wasn't me, I still lived with fear.  It was more a fear that my dad would kill a pet or anything I loved.

I don't believe it is just an opinion, I believe it is truth to say that this man was and is evil.  He isn't good sometimes and bad sometimes...he's bad all the time.  I don't think he has anything in him that can ever be good enough to equal it all out.

I'm really not ashamed to admit that I am filled with nothing but hatred towards this man.  In fact, I think the bible even supports that hatred.  Romans 12:9 says love must be sincere, hate what is evil and cling to what is good. 

He is evil and I hate him!

Butterfly Kisses

Have you ever heard that song by Bob Carlisle, Butterfly Kisses?  If you haven't, take a few minutes to listen, read the lyrics and think about them.


This was a very popular song to play at weddings when I got married years ago.  I think you can understand why.  It is a song that seems to encapsulate everything that a father should feel as their little girl grows up.  I think a woman's wedding day is probably the most significant in the handing off of responsibility from the father to the husband and why this song has been used so often.

I know you can't possibly be surprised that I did not use this song at my wedding.  In fact, I don't care much for it.  I don't even care much for butterflies.  They aren't a decoration you will find much of in my home and I don't have much love for them as a symbol of anything.

The song is probably a polar opposite of the true story behind the title of this blog post.

As the most dreaded day of the year inches closer, I am swamped with one horrific birthday memory after another.  Yes, I HATE my birthday and not because I don't want to get older like a lot of other women. 

On my 16th birthday, I got this gift from my dad.

The picture is new, but the gift is the very one I received nearly 21 years ago.  It looks like a harmless gift.  In fact, if you have read any of my posts about my dad, you might even think this was an amazing gift and begin to believe he did, somewhere in his cold, dark heart, have some redeeming quality.

This necklace and earrings set was presented to me on my 16th birthday in a small, shiny, blue box.  My mom, brothers and brother's friends were all gathered around to see what my dad had bought for me.  This was the only time I remember him ever actually purchasing a gift for me, a rarity indeed.

He insisted that I give him a kiss before receiving the gift.  If we were a moderately healthy family with even a mediocre moral compass, I am sure this would have been an acceptable activity.  A kiss on the cheek to show appreciation wouldn't seem that much of a stretch in most families.

With a crowd of people, I was hesitant to do as asked.  After much pressure, I did as requested and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, even though I was completely embarrassed.

A second before I was able to do that, he turned his head causing me to plant a kiss on his lips.  Unintentional on my part, completely planned on his.  He slapped me across the face as if I had intentionally acted inappropriately.

I was incredibly embarrassed by what had happened and by being hit in front of everyone at the house.  I went straight to my room, my dad a foot step behind. 

He beat me repeatedly with his belt before throwing the box down on the floor and leaving. 

It probably took me weeks to months before finally opening the box to find the necklace and earrings.

I can assure you that they weren't worth the beating.  Yet, I lived with the assurance that if I hadn't done as he requested, I would have been beaten anyway.  It was another no win situation for me, as I often found myself in as a kid.  And, let's not forget that even at 16, I was still just a kid.

Even after all this time, I still have the necklace and earrings.  Neither have been worn.  I cannot even tell you why I kept them.  It isn't like I need a physical reminder of what a bad guy my dad is, I have enough of that with memories alone.  It isn't because they were such a special sweet 16 gift either.  They weren't anything I had asked for or expected.  They certainly aren't anything I would wear today either.

If this were the worst birthday experience I had in the past 36 years, I would still have a reason to dislike my birthday.  Unfortunately, it's just one of 36 and I have vivid memories of so many of them being much worse than this.  Even as an adult, I have struggled to have a good birthday because there has always been a certain level of outside, dysfunctional interference. 

Maybe this year could start a new trend, so that I'm not constantly wishing I had never been born....but I've wished that for a long without any luck!

Family Done Right

As I sit here in central Indiana tonight, my plan was to walk you through this unique shopping experience that I had today.  It was wild and crazy and certainly deserves a post all of it's own.  But not tonight.

Sitting on the edge of an air mattress, I find myself very overwhelmed.  Yes, I'm still on sensory overload from the past two days, but this is different.  My eyes are swelling and tears are sure to follow as I examine exactly what it is that I am feeling.

There is a sadness, a continuous longing to be home.  The truth is that I miss it.  I miss my husband and I miss my dogs.  I love them all so much and it's hard being away from them.  Sometimes, I think these times are meant to happen so I don't become complacent and forget how much I love them and need them in my life.

In an odd way, the other thing I find myself feeling is grief.  It isn't so much a hugely sad grief, but one that is full of gratitude.

Ok, without a doubt, there was nothing functionally normal about my family.  My reality was that family couldn't stand to be around each other, acted hateful toward each other, never showed genuine love, was loud and obnoxious, and really could have been mistaken for a gang of hated enemies.  I promise you, I have seen multiple fist fights, bloody noses and police at family reunions. 

You could easily say that I've seen family done really, really wrong.

This weekend is the first time that I've spent extended time with a Christian family.  Day and night, eating and sleeping in the same house with and just living life for multiple days along side a real, grounded in faith family.

Let me tell you, I've seen something very special....almost surreal.

I am with a friend, her daughter, grand daughter and the daughter's best friend.  We all have been welcomed and made to feel at home by my friend's in-laws.  Since I come from a family where in-laws are more like outlaws and given my experience with my in-laws, it's almost unnatural to see in-laws be so loving and gracious. 

Last night for dinner, the in-laws, the gang of Missouri gals and my friend's mother, sister and grandpa all joined us for dinner.  That's right, you read that right.  My friend had her in-laws, mom, sister, grandpa, daughter, grand daughter and two friends all around the table, enjoying pizza.  And get this, they weren't just enjoying pizza...they were enjoying each other even more. 

There was smiling, gut-splitting laughing, funny stories, bantering and a complete void of anything negative.  The evening was like living in a family-friendly twilight zone for me.  I kept thinking; when is somebody going to get mad and walk out?; when are they going to start fighting or throwing punches?

I realized fairly quick that this was a family done right.  Now, I didn't say done perfect, but done right. 

Listening and observing, I could see, hear and feel the genuine love they have for one another.  Sure, it is the marriage of my friends who brings these two families together.  But, it's obviously something much bigger that brings them together as one family. 

When you observe how these families operate and function altogether, you understand what that big something is...it's God.  The way they lead God-centered lives is so apparent in how they live, but completely, overwhelmingly obvious in how they love each other and the people who come into their lives.

Given so many of my experiences with people in and out of church, I wondered if any one's life really, truly reflected the way they presented themselves at church or even one-on-one.  I have absolutely seen that this weekend. 

So, as I get ready for the second half of this crazy, long weekend, I leave you with three thoughts:

1.  Yes, absence really does make the heart grow fonder.  For me, I am reminded that I do love parts of my life and I am connected to them in real ways.
2.  Family done wrong, is just that...wrong.  Just because something is a certain way, doesn't mean it's right.  It also doesn't mean that you can't ever see it done right.  It's also ok to grieve when all you've ever known is family done wrong.
3.  Family can be done right, not perfect...but right.  It isn't a person, place or thing that can bring people together in harmony.  I believe it's only God who can do that and when He does....well...it's just heartwarming, overwhelmingly, beautiful and you can't help but want to be a part of it.

His Little Sailor

Most husbands come up with cute nicknames for their wives.  Some of my friends are called "Sweetie" or "Baby" or "Babydoll."  I won't lie, on occasion, my husband will call me babydoll.  Truthfully, the one he uses the most is "His Little Sailor."

Nope, it isn't because of a cute little story from when we were first dating.  I wish it were.  It isn't because I love boating, even though I do.

Yes, it is because of the filthy language that falls from my mouth all the time.  And believe me, I don't say that with any sense of pride.

Before I go any further, I have to acknowledge that there is a high percent of the foul language that is directly associated with the disorder I have.  (not turrets in case you were wondering)  That's not to dismiss the fact that I do use my fair share of cuss words.

I don't do it because I like it, it just happens.  Growing up in a home where four-letter words were capitalized, punctuated and flowed naturally like a gushing waterfall, I believe it is in an inherited behavior.

My family had no filter, no sense of right and wrong, so I'm sure it doesn't surprise you to know they had limited vocabulary outside of slang and swearing.  I mean good grief, my mom walked around naked and my grandparents were fine connoisseurs of raunchy, low-budget pornography.  Why would they ever feel compelled to limit their swearing around young, impressionable children? 

I obviously live my life much differently than my parents or grandparents, and well...pretty much my entire family.  I never tried smoking, which is almost as rampant in my family as abuse.  I was able to turn away from the drug and alcohol use, which has plagued so many in my family.  But this one, not so much.

I don't purposely swear, it just happens.  It isn't like I use it in every sentence, but definitely more than I would like.  You would think it would be a constant struggle to be mindful of my language in church, but interestingly enough, it's not. 

When I am in church, it doesn't seem to be a problem.  There is no effort that I have to intentionally make to keep from swearing in church.  It's not even that difficult to control when I am outside of church and around friends from church.  Now, I'm not saying that is because those around me use filthy language because they don't.  It's just not hard and it rarely happens.  In fact, I would say it happens only when there is a certain level of comfort with a person AND there is an increased amount of emotion regarding a particular subject being discussed.

I wonder sometimes why it can't be that easy to not use that language at home.  My husband lovingly corrects me or redirects me to another way to phrase what I am saying.  Sometimes that is helpful, others not so much. 

As we talked about a semi-unrelated topic today in bible study, I had two thoughts about  this and each one led me back to the work of the Holy Spirit in me.  I know, pick your mouth up off the ground...I said the work of the Holy Spirit in me.

The first is that I, and through no effort of my own, have developed a filter for church.  I obviously did not learn what was right or wrong in church from my family or until I started going to church five years ago.  It wasn't self-taught, how could it be?   It was the work of someone far more powerful than I to put in me how to act in church and how to have respect for a building and the people in it.

The other thing I realized is that while I am ashamed of the problem, the potty mouth, the ugliness of sin in my life that I really don't have any problem admitting that I'm not actively pursuing an end to...I don't have any shame in admitting that I have sin in my life to others.

There is no shame for me, no worries of judgement from others...even though I know some may be very judgemental when I do share a particular type of sin with them.  The fact is that we all have sin in our lives.  Nobody is sinless.  Honestly, admitting that I have an ugly sin in my life and hearing others admit they do to, well....it just makes me feel more a part of those around me than anything.  It normalizes a life that feels so abnormal most of the time. 

Truthfully, I have a long list of things that I need to work through before I ever get to that icky foul mouth of mine.  Until then, I will just enjoy knowing that God has brought me a long ways and still has a long way to go with me.  Oh yea, and I'll still be my husband's little sailor...for now.

Holiday

This probably won't sound like any other Christian on Easter Sunday, but then again...normal just doesn't seem to fit me.
As my friends flood facebook with comments of praise for a Savior who has risen, I find myself asking why?

It isn't that I don't understand the importance of the resurrection of Christ.  If Christ hadn't lived a sinless life, been sacrificed and resurrected, the bible would be only a story book carried through the ages and the idea of salvation would be just that.  So in case you are wondering, yes, I do believe in Christ and His life, death and resurrection.

What I struggle with is that so many of my Christian counterparts only celebrate this one day a year.  I have a similar thought about Christmas.  The birth of our Savior is celebrated by many on Christmas day and that day only.

If you look at the the entire life span of Christ, including how He exists in your current day life, then don't you have to consider birth, sinless life, sacrificed by death on the cross and resurrection?  Isn't THAT exactly what every aspect of being a Christian and salvation ultimately comes back to?

It is the entire life of Christ that makes our security in heaven possible.  The ENTIRE life of Christ is what Christians place all their hope in.

Each day you have breath; every time you are thankful for any blessing; whenever you pray; shouldn't you be filled with remembrance of Christ's entire life? 

For as much as I struggle with prayer and understanding faith, I can honestly say that the gift that Christ's life is to me is never overlooked when I consider salvation.  I don't need Christmas to remind me to be thankful for the birth of Christ.  I don't need Good Friday to remind me of the horrific death Christ endured because of sin, my sin.  I don't need Easter to remind me how wonderful it is that Christ conquered death. 

All of our religious holidays could be wiped off the calendar and I would still know, believe and be thankful for Christ's life. 

I'm not saying that I don't appreciate today and the enthusiasm I see in my Christian friends.  What I am saying is that their excitement over the life, death and resurrection of Christ should permeate their lives each day of the year instead of being confined by a calendar. 

A Big Weekend of a Little Crazy

We just returned home from a weekend trip away with the in-laws.  This would be where I would love to be able to say that it is the first of many, but it won't be.  It was probably the first and last.

This wasn't something we did often prior to the dementia diagnosis with my mother-in-law.  Her and I get along great while we are together, but not well enough to enjoy it.  She's never really appreciated me being married to her first born and I've never appreciated her desire to be over controlling and use guilt in her son's life.  I just call it fair and go on.

Now that her dementia is diagnosed and getting worse, it's even more difficult to spend time with her.  I am not saying that in a hateful or spiteful way.  Even my father-in-law gets frustrated.  This weekend was just a sampling of what life must be like for him daily and my heart aches for him.

Her obsessing began early in the week with multiple phone calls and emails asking when we would be leaving.  With a crazy schedule, we were only able to guess and hope to stick to it. 

She was insistent that we meet and eat at a favorite chicken place in Springfield.  Admittedly, it was difficult to go with the flow and let her call the shots.  With all the anxiety of the prep behind us, we met up at the restaurant.  It is a fried chicken place, a place where you go for down home comfort food and gobs of fried foods.  As was stated, "it's one of my favorite places to eat and we always stop there."  Not one of my favorite places, but who I am to keep someone from enjoying their favorite.

I noticed several times walking into the restaurant that my father-in-law spends a lot of time physically guiding her.  She seems to get lost if not.  After they spent time looking at the menu and asking what was good, I realized the claim of it being their favorite place to eat was far from true.  Needless to say, they both ordered chef salads....at a chicken place!

Onto Branson we went.  We spent the evening relaxing or trying to.  She spent the evening asking her husband for permission to make phone calls and constantly trying to feed us.  Even though there were only four of us, she had baked cupcakes, muffins, two kinds of cookies, and brought several kinds of prepacked cookies.

The next day, I realized how her once professional style dress had long since slipped away.  She wore a pink shirt, red high-water pants, bright pink shoes and socks that were an inch shorter than her pants.  To top that off, she transferred all items from her purse to a fanny pack.  She wore the fanny pack, not around her waist, but over her shoulder like a purse.

Through our day of shopping, she continuously stated that she wanted everyone to have fun and she didn't want to "bring anyone down."  At times, she acted like a child who had been beaten down and made to feel like they were the root cause of everything wrong in life.  She hasn't been treated that way, so it was difficult to hear this all day.

We spent a little time that afternoon and evening back in our condo, relaxing.  It was a repeat pattern of her asking for permission to do everything and trying to feed us.  I had the added fun of hearing her make not-so-nice comments about me when my husband was sleeping or walking the dogs. 

We tried to find an activity or show to go to that would be enjoyable for each of us.  Each suggestion was met by a quick, "I've already done that."  During a drive through town and talking more about all the shows, we figured out that she really hadn't done all of the things she thought she had. 

By Sunday, I think I was probably ready to go home more than anyone.  I felt like I needed to get away from there to get a break from my weekend.  She wore me out!

I hate feeling like that, but that was the truth.  I thought the best thing to do was to provide a way for my husband to spend time with his parents.  But wow, it's a lot of work trying to spend time with them.  From the demands to the quirky behavior, it wasn't much rest for either of us.  Definitely the last time for us for a long time anyway.