Big Hands

The past two weeks have brought a whirlwind of traveling and stirred up a restlessness that has settled into the depths of me.  I cannot shake the feeling that I need God to change something in my life or inside me so I can move forward.  It is possible I need the big hands of God to reach down and open the door of the cage I'm sitting in.

Faith that will happen eludes me and I have to remind myself of another time God moved in big ways.  Ways which were so noticeable that it was undeniably God who was responsible.

Maybe the most recent was through our accident.  It wasn't until the case was closed in court and through insurance that I felt I could share more openly about it.  Not that I had anything to hide, but I think I first needed to see if God would show up in the last hour or not.  Hey, I'm not afraid to admit my sinning heart tests God.

On May 27, 2011, we set off fumigators in our house to kill off spiders that our remodel had irritated and attracted.  Since we had to be out of the house for three hours, dropped off the cat at a friend's house, loaded up all three dogs and headed to Sedalia to our favorite home improvement store. 

Headed down 50 Hwy, Kent was driving and I split my focus between the dogs and texting or facebook.  I was completely oblivious to the road ahead of us.  I wasn't worried about anything.  Kent was driving and he always takes care of me. 

I remember being on facebook and hearing Kent say, "Oh No!"  I remember hearing that sound your brake pedal makes when you slam on it, followed by the loud crunch of metal hitting metal.  The next few seconds were a blur, which quickly ended with me watching us headed for a ditch full of water.  I had enough time to brace my hands on the dash as we landed in the ditch and water splashed over the truck.

Immediately, my head started to sting in a painful way and I wanted out!  Kent had blood on his forehead and was frantically searching for phones and paperwork.  My door wouldn't open and it is a good thing because I later saw that is where the water was coming in the truck.  I checked on the dogs, who were all ok but scared. 

After I crawled out of the truck, a man checked my eyes to make sure there was no obvious injury.  The next 30 minutes would include being checked by EMTs, questioned by an officer and taking in all that happened.

An older man had stopped in the middle of the fast lane to turn.  Kent had switched to that lane to avoid hitting another car who turned the opposite direction.  He did not have time to slow down.  Realistically, he was going to hit one or the other.  It was a dangerous corner on a 65 mph highway with no turn lanes. 

My husband has amazing driving skills, but I believe God worked through him that day.  Kent only hit the corner of the car, but hard enough to flip the car over on it's top.  We went across another lane of traffic without hitting other cars.  We landed in the ditch with the drivers door opening just barely onto solid ground.

The man in the car was ok, shaken up, bruised and sore.  Kent had a scratch on his head which we are almost certain happened when our cockapoo jumped from the front seat to the back.  Kent was sore for a while, but said bracing the steering wheel had given him a little security.  None of the dogs were injured. 

Since this conversation is one-sided, I can admit I was not wearing my seat belt without fear of being shamed which people were quick to push on me afterward.  During the first impact, my head hit the windshield.  During the second impact, my head hit the sealing and my body was shook up. 

It has taken me a while to feel like the effects of the concussion are going away.  I think the mental effects will last a while longer.  To hear a brake pedal being mashed to the floor has never been more traumatic. 

Several doctors visits and days later, the problems were just beginning.  The insurance company was a huge problem for us.  They could not get the needed paperwork to process our claim and to date, they have never talked through the accident with Kent.  The lack of follow through with Kent led to his ticket being deemed non-disputable. 

The insurance company did contact us two months later to state that the medical bills for the other man were about to exceed our limits.  Since he was still being cared for with nagging whiplash injuries, we were told that our out-of-pocket portion could be up to $50,000. 

The ambulance ride for him was $34,000.  Medical bills for his two hours of being checked out at the hospital were $27,000.  Doctor bills for reading tests and dismissal were $31,000.  The day of the accident medical care resulted in over $92,000, pushing our $100,000 accident limit.  By the time he visited his primary care and received treatment at the VA, there was an excess of what our insurance would cover.

Because Kent's ticket was deemed non-disputable, he would have to appear for court in September.  We had hired a lawyer, but he was unable to change this.  Kent would have to go to court for improper use of a motor vehicle in inclement weather resulting in major loss.  The possible outcome on that ticket for that particular county was up to $5,000 in fine and court cost, possible community service and loss of driver's license with mandatory driving school.

Here is how we saw the big hands of God do more than we thought possible and at times when we had almost given up.

1.  The other gentleman walked out of the hospital and we all were alive.  It was a miracle that we all survived.
2.  Injured, I too was still alive.  My body stayed in the truck and it landed in just the right spot that kept water from getting deep inside the truck.
3.  The dogs were not injured. 
4.  Our insurance company settled under our limit with the man.  He and his son are Christians, offering much compassion and mercy for us.  They were the ones who negotiated with the hospital and doctors to lower the medical bills.
5.  In court, Kent's ticket was changed to an improper registration of a motor vehicle which was not a moving violation.  The ticket was a minimal fee.
6.  Through all of this, we began to see our church as family as they cared for us through all of this.

Through every step of that accident, I can look back and see the ways God protected, intervened, softened hearts and made the impossible be ever so possible and real.

I hang onto that today as I sit here knowing God will need to show up again because I am sitting face to face with the impossible. 

Too Afraid to Grow Up

My decision to become a Christian was followed by at least a year of complete frustration.  When I decide to fully embrace something, I want to...no, I need to know everything about it.  That knowledge is what makes me feel successful.  If you know anything about the bible, then you know you know very little.  You can read the bible over and over, but find that there is still more to learn. 

Many times I heard new Christians referred to as "babies."  I think about 2 Corinthians 5:17, Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.  A baby is a new creation.  A baby knows nothing and depends on all the grown-ups to teach and model the correct ways to live.  I think that is the same picture of a new Christian.

Even though it took a while, I finally accepted that I was just a baby in the big Christian world.  It was ok to not know the bible stories people referred to and to be completely lost in bible studies.  Over the past year, I have learned that the unique obstacles of my life have kept me in the "baby" phase of Christianity a while longer than other newer Christians.

Over the past month, I have started to notice things about myself.  I think they are comparable to the moments when a baby realizes they can crawl around and are no longer dependent on their parents for mobility.  Yes, I have been experiencing those moments when I see that I have some knowledge and am not fully dependent on those around me for everything.  Yes, I have learned to crawl. 

Maybe I knew this a while ago or maybe I had just thought about crawling and decided it was too scary. 

That is right, I am afraid to admit I am growing up.  All I have known in life is that once you grow up, you get abandoned.  You get left to do and learn everything by yourself.  That is a scary way to live.  It is reasonable for me to think that if I admit that my faith is growing, then I will be abandoned to then wrestle through life alone. 

It is exciting to figure out that I'm not stuck in that "baby" phase any longer.  For me, it's one of those....man this is so exciting I feel like I need to celebrate another birthday this year....exciting kind of times.  You won't find me doing that though because of my fear of being left high and dry to finish growing up all alone.

So, maybe for now I can just be a toddler for a while.  That seems a lot less scary.  Yes, for now I think I'll stay a toddler until I have that moment when I realize it's time to walk instead of crawl.

Should've Been a Cowboy

Not that I want to disappoint you, but this isn't going to be a tribute to country music.   It's not an announcement that I will be trading in my flip flops for a pair of boots and learning to heard cattle or lasso a pig.

And, it's definitely not going to be an admission to a deep-seeded gender confusion issue...although it might seem like it.  If you have heard my rant about this season of DWTS, then you would know where I stand on that subject.  If you haven't, then I'd be happy crawl back on that soapbox another time for you.

The older I get, the more I notice a difference between myself and other women.  It's as if my "girly" gene was left out, underdeveloped or possibly malfunctioned along the way.  Sure, I have found a sprinkling of women throughout my lifetime who I could identify with on one or maybe two of my oddities, but never one who was a match on my non-girly checklist.

Most of the time, I am more comfortable sitting with couples or groups that tend to be a majority of men.  It isn't because of an attraction to them, but they communicate on a level I identify with easily. 

First of all, their communication tends to be short and to the point.  My simple, ADD mind appreciates those style of communication.  They don't tend to spend a lot of time discussing feelings or girly things, which is ok by me.   Their conversations are often less people or gossip driven and more driven by the passion in their life.  When the topic of conversation is their particular passion, then they spewing resource of detail on it.

Admittedly, I enjoy sports.  I would rather watch a hockey or football game than go shopping.   If you ask me about a sport, I'll tell you who my favorite team is which is probably one I've liked since I was a kid.  Ask me about the playoffs and I'll probably know who is playing and have an opinion on who will win.  Now don't ever expect me to talk about soccer cause that's one I can't get into.  

I have found women who enjoy watching or playing sports.  But I have never found one who enjoys it to the degree I do.  I may seem timid, but not when it comes to bantering over my favorite teams.  Many of the men I know enjoy a healthy season of fantasy football.  Here is where I would like to point out that the good ole boys groups come into play, but I won't.  Instead, I will say I am convinced that they do not allow women to compete because they couldn't handle being beaten by a woman.  Enough said!  Seriously though...my fantasy football team is 4-1 and leading the league by well over 100 points.

Men tend to have mechanical conversations.  That isn't the type of conversation but the subject.  When I was a kid, I would be more likely to pick up a hot wheel than a barbie doll.  When my brothers really upset me, I would disassemble their toys until they would be nice to me and then I would reassemble them. 

I am content listening to men talk about tearing something apart and rebuilding or fixing it.  In fact, I find my husband's work with plane parts incredibly interesting.  Since he rarely reads my blog, it's safe to admit that.  I find it absolutely amazing that he tears into plane engines and refurbs fan blades and then those things fly overhead every single day.  Now when he is talking, I must hide all interest so that he isn't prone to talking all the time about it. 

Not only do I dislike shopping, I don't get all excited over a new purse or shoes.  My closet is full of black, brown and blue with just a smattering of light girly colors.  I don't care what I look like as long as I am comfortable.  You could take my makeup and hairspray away from me and I would survive without a massive breakdown.

My favorite colors are blue and green but I tell everyone pink.  I say pink not as a lie, but trying to convince even myself that there is a girly girl in somewhere inside me.

I don't cry much at all and certainly would never cry over a fluffy bunny or a baby.  Baby's are precious little people to me, but I don't get all oogly over them.  Seeing another person cry doesn't ignite tears of my own.  Have you ever watched a group of women listening to a sad story or watching a sad movie?  They cry in unison.  That's ok, I'm not hating on them.  That's just not in me. 

All joking aside, I think I spent much of my childhood wanting to be a boy.  In my life, boys weren't as abused.  I also had this idea that if I had been a boy, I would be able to defend myself.  Cause boys are tough, right?  Maybe it was because I thought if I could be a boy and play a sport, then I would somehow be acceptable to my parents.  That is probably what caused my refusal to carry a purse until I was in my 30s.  Even now I'm not sure why I do.

Looking at all the evidence and I've only mentioned a few things, I would like to consider myself just a well-rounded person.  But maybe the bigger picture is that I can be less "girly" and still be a girl.  MAYBE it's more about accepting who you are and not making life altering decisions to make the physical appearance match part of what is inside.  Just a thought!

Gifts Are So Much Better

Every once in a while, I need to remind myself of the gifts God has blessed given me.  Wading through the mounds of destruction that I seem to always be doing, it is easy to lose sight of the good things in my life.  When I say things, I mean people. 

To say I have gotten myself into a higher than average number of dysfunctional relationships is an understatement.  That is why it is easy to give God credit for all the relationships currently in my life which are good and healthy.  And it is fair to say that I have had a difficult time embracing the church body as family.

I think I have made it very clear that I have no relationships within my family of origin.  That's right, not any contact with them.  What is worse is that only now, in my mid-30s, am I learning what healthy families and what normal parent and sibling relationships look like.

God gave me two brothers by blood.  My relationships with them have never been anything close to what I have seen as healthy or normal.  There has been abuse and strain because of growing up in an abusive home.  It is fair to say that I have lived a long time without knowing what it was like to have a brother.

Growing in faith, I have learned the difference between God given and God gifted.  And, yes...there is a difference.  It reminds me of James 1:17, Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.



I have been gifted with an amazing brother in Christ.  Whenever I share my thoughts about this with anyone, it brings tears of joy and now is no exception.  Tears of joy aren't yet that familiar to me, but I know them when they come.

There is so much I could say about this person.  My husband and I both consider him to be one of the most genuine and caring people we have ever met. 

He is encouraging and usually at times when we need it the most.  He is an excellent teacher, who is patient and is always willing to answer questions.  He has a sense of humor, but also gets my husband's dry humor which hardly anybody gets.  His friendship is valued by my husband but he sets a Christian example for Kent which makes a noticeable difference in his life.

He has a wonderful wife who is caring and warm.  Her smile is contagious and such a blessing to know.  I have seen her go through some difficult times and is an inspiration to me when I see how deep her faith is during those times.  She was the first person to ever point me to the body of Christ when I so desperately miss having a family.  I am so thankful for her as well.

Without going into a lot of detail, I can say this person has walked along side Kent and I both through some incredibly painful times and circumstances. He has been there for us when we needed to talk or just needed someone to treat as if we were any other person, putting aside the oddities of our lives. He has helped us in so many way, too numerous to count.


It is possible that God knew I would need to see and live with real examples of brother or sister-like relationships for me to fully understand the depths of the dysfunction I stepped out of by leaving my family behind.  Only in comparing an unhealthy relationship to a healthy one truly opens my eyes to what God intended for me or wants for me now.

I am so thankful for the gifts God has given me.  It is a gift I pray I never take for granted and I always remember the profound effect it has had on my life.  I hope I am always grateful for all he has done and how he has allowed God to use him in mine and my husband's life. 

Holding Hands

You know that old saying, "Don't judge a book by it's cover."?   I am guessing most people do.  It seems to be one of those things that every person hears as a child.

I am sure it is meant to teach all of us to not judge others and leads to the lesson that what's on the inside isn't necessarily what's on the outside.  This maybe just a random thought, but if we are all taught that then where did we learn to ignore it?

At some time or another, I am sure we all have looked at something or someone and made a quick determination about that subject/object which was based solely on what it looked like.  I know I have and do often. 

For years, I wouldn't eat mustard.  Why?  Because it had the consistency, smell and color of something I once saw in a baby diaper.  After my husband finally broke my resistance and forced me to try mustard.  I loved it, couldn't believe I'd waited so long to try it and now use it on everything.

It is easy to dismiss things or people when they don't look a certain way.  I know some of it is done for self protection.  I will be the first to admit that I often superficially categorize a certain type of person so that they are kept at a safe distance and I am set up to be hurt by them. 

It is just as easy to make stereotypical assumptions about a person because of the way they dress, what they drive, what you have heard about them, what you don't know about them or a myriad of other things. 

This past weekend, I found myself guilty of just that and reminded of how much I dislike having it done to me.

A large, burly older man crawled off his bike, walked in the diner sporting his riding chaps and leather gloves.  He had a scraggly, gray beard and looked weathered and hard.  In walked a women behind him, not much smaller but with a little less facial hair.  They looked like the type who with a wrong look or implied insult would start a bar room brawl.  They sat at the table beside us, as I prepared myself for the filthy language and insults which would surely fly from their mouths. 

Not that I was eavesdropping, but we were close enough to hear them talk.  Much to my surprise, they were soft spoken.  They were discussing a ride they were considering which benefited children.  After they had eaten, they shared a sweet moment together and a moment that I was privileged to see.  The man grabbed his wife's hand, professed his love to her and nearly reduced me to tears. 

It was a sweet moment, but I think the tears were more from my own guilt.  I had judged them based on what they looked like.  It was a reminder of how easily I can be proven wrong when I take just a brief second to put aside my own assumptions and observe the person.

The tears I cry today as I write this are over my own struggles with this.  I obviously and admittedly struggle with judging a book by it's cover, but it hurts so deeply when others do that to me.

I think it is easy for people to make the assumption that I am lazy because I am a bigger person.  I know that I have been labeled as crazy or incompetent because of the issues I deal with daily.  People often assume that I am standoffish because I tend to be introverted or even scared in a group of people.  It is probably easy to assume I am dumb because I don't read much or don't have some fancy degree. 

I could tell you none of those things are true, but that wouldn't  likely change the stereotype or assumption.  It would take one of those moments of seeing the real me to change your mind.

I leave you with a challenge...set aside what you think is true about someone you don't know well or even one you do and look for that moment when they are offering to show you who they really are. 

Standing on the Other Side

Since blogosphere is, for the most part, a one way conversation I have no idea what your beliefs, morals or background might be.  If you are a Christian, I have no idea what your story is or how you came to the decison to believe what you believe.  The only story I know is my own.

When I became a Christian, I didn't instantly change all my beliefs.  My heart was instantly changed and softened so that I could begin to change the things I believed which were not in line with the Bible.

There is one subject that my heart has always battled with and I have waivered on what is right and wrong.  I also don't discuss my feelings about this with fellow Christians for fear of the scorn that even if not spoken would be seen on those sitting across from me. 

With that said, I would like to say that I am not sure exactly where I stand on the topic of abortion. 

I know what the bible says because I have sat through five sanctity of life Sundays at my church.  I have heard the testimonies of those who have had abortions, survived abortions or survived because God softened the heart of the mother who was about to abort them.

I have several friends who either work or volunteer at pregnancy crisis centers.  Their goal is to prevent abortions, giving the mother or parents another option.

What few people know about me is that late in high school and early in college, I gathered with other Right to Lifers on the steps of the Kansas state capital building and protested abortions.  I did that many, many times.  I protested outside the abortion clinic in Wichita.  It was never violent, but a protest all the same.

When I got into college and considered what I would do if I got pregnant, I did begin to waiver and even change my thoughts on abortion.  When I started watching friends getting  pregnant from one night stands or using abortion as a form of birth control, it became just another "no big deal" thing.

It was not a subject that really had any affect on my life until I started hearing it being talked about at church.  That's when I began to examine how I really felt on the subject.

What I found is that where I stand on this, even as a Christian, doesn't line up with those around me.

My two brothers and myself were products of a mom who didn't want kids and a dad who only wanted children to have someone to abuse. (this isn't an exageration either)  If my mom had gone through with an abortion with each of us, there would have been three less messed up people in this world.

It is my background that makes me believe that if someone doesn't think they can be a good parent or they know they are so messed up that they will inevitably pass that on to a child, then I do believe they should have the option to abort.  If that parent is so messed up on drugs or has an anger problem that is going to potentially be life threatening to the child, I believe abortion should be an option.

I know that people are quick to say, there is always adoption.  Have you looked at the adoption process and laws in the US lately?  It's messy!!!!  I have also seen the ugly side of adoptions where the child is left with a long term sense of abandonment.  That isn't to say that I haven't heard many beautiful stories of adoption where everyone is happy and the child lives a healthy life.

This is a difficult thing to admit.  Like I said, nearly every person I know has a strong, opposing view on this subject.  And...I won't say that I won't ever change where I stand on this subject.  Remember, I did say that becoming a Christian softened my heart to begin changing what I believe.

Here I Am Again

If you have read more than one of my blog posts, you could make the assumption that I am bipolar or manic depressive but I'm not.  Some people have accused me of being intently negative and I don't believe that to be true either.  Maybe it is because I am no longer afraid to say what is true.  That's an improvement over not being able to do that for over 30 years.

So here I sit again today, just me and my thoughts.  I have to admit, it's not good either. 

A couple days ago, a friend asked me a question that has stuck with me.  Calling this person a friend might be a stretch.  She has been through some tough times with a mentally ill family member, which I believe led to her putting me on the spot.

She asked me how I lived with myself knowing that I continuously hurt those around me.  She followed that with asking how do accept that fact that someday I will likely snap and put everyone in danger.  Her last and most damaging statement was that I am always responsible for my actions even if I have no control over them.

I could be angry, but I can't.  I have to look at this for what it is.  Someone being honest with me.

She is right.  I do hurt those around me.  In fact, I hurt those who care the most.  It isn't on purpose, it just happens that way.

Even I have great compassion for my husband.  I hurt him the most and he is my main caregiver.   He sacrifices for me.  He constantly forgives me.  He gets tired and beat down from having the weight of his life and my life riding on his shoulders non-stop.

How do I live with that?  Honestly, I don't think I can.  I have tried to live with that, always excusing myself by saying it wasn't in my control. 

I know I haven't been completely open in this blog with what my actual issue is and I'm probably not going to be now either.  What I will say is that it is not a short-term problem and something that will never go away.

That is what makes the big picture even darker for me.  I don't have children.  I have a spouse that I make miserable.  I hurt those who get close to me.  It's too hard to take repsonsibility for things I have no control over in my life.  I can't live with the idea that someday I could snap and hurt those around me even more.

I can't live with it.

I can't live with myself.

I can't live with any of it anymore.

This is pure, unedited honesty.  This is not a cry for help, I don't need it.  Here I am alone, sitting on rock bottom again.  This is where I will stay so that those around me will not be hurt by me ever again.

A Morning in the Kitchen

Some people think in the bathroom, some people think while driving and some people think in the shower.  Me?  I think in the kitchen.

As I clean and cook this morning, three things keep rolling around my head and weighing heavy on my heart.  The first is about a brother and probably not what you expect.  I think I'll save that for a blog post all of it's own.  The second is about when you are out of sight of people, they often forget about you.  I often compare it with how people treat God and the Bible when they aren't in church.  Again, another blog for another time.

The third is probably the hardest of the three to digest and that is my desire to have a mother.

Keep in mind, I have spent my entire life not wanting a mother figure in my life.  Of course, that is because of what my mother represented to me.  So, I do see this as positive growth in me.  It is also important to point out here that while I believe I am healthier without contact with my family, I am not the one who stopped contact with my mom.  The day I told her I was being the baptized with the last time I spoke to her.  She hung up the phone, never called again and turned her back on me.

Since I didn't lead a Beaver Cleaver life, it's no surprise that my mom was no June.  She represents everything a mother should not be.  My mom was not only guilty of allowing my dad to hurt us, she was also an abuser in the sickest sense of the word and grossly neglectful.  Although I have good reason to believe she grew up in abuse herself, I do not believe that excuses her for her actions or lack of with us.

The last four years have afforded me the opportunity to see what healthy mother and daughter relationships look like.  Gradually, I have begun to long for that type of relationship and I think it has become a new normal for me.  I believe that desire to have a mother figure is a normal, healthy longing of a woman's heart.

It isn't that I don't have confidence in Psalm 27:10.  I do, however, lack faith that God has provided sufficient humanly replacements to help ease the pain.

Not having a mother in my life leaves me with a daily sense of loss and in many ways.

I find myself asking, "Who do I talk to about this?" or "Who do I share this with?" or "Who do I ask?" or "Who is going to encourage me?"  And realize, there is nobody.  At least not in a motherly way...

When I got married, I couldn't fix a can of soup.  Now, I write my own recipes or alter those of famous chefs to make them better.  I would love to be able to call up my mom and say hey guess what I did...but I can't.  I would love to hear just once, "You've come a long way and I'm glad you are my daughter."

There are things that go on health wise that I wish I could call my mom and ask her if she had ever experienced anything similar.  But I can't.  I am left to manage my own anxiety and usually over things that resolve them self after a day.  Just once, I'd like to hear, "It's ok, it will go away soon" or "Maybe you should get that checked out, how about I go with you to the doctor."

Kent and I don't argue a lot and when we do, the subject is usually gone long before the fight is over.  I want to be able to call someone to be consoled, corrected or just to vent, knowing they will always direct me back to the love I have for him.

When good things happen, I would love to be able to call someone just to share.  Whether I go through tough times or times of joy, I want to share that with a mom. 

I see women who have absent mothers or mothers who have passed.  Some of them feel the same way I do.  Most of them have been given the gift of a surrogate mother.  Some have fathers who have taken the role in their life that the mother can't fill.

I wonder sometimes why God has never chosen to cross my path with someone who could help heal the broken heart my mom has caused me.  Am I not a worthy enough daughter?  Am I some how flawed beyond what any motherly figure could love?  My broken heart and crushed spirit believe no because the longing to be loved is so strong in me.  But, my analytical, realistic mind believe yes because I have a track record of loneliness to prove it.

Right now, right this moment...I am living in one of those periods when I want to run to my mom crying, feel safe in her arms, hear her say, "It's ok, everything is going to be fine. We might not understand all that is going on, but I will never leave you." 

Sadly, this has never happened and never will.  This is just a void I have to accept.  Acceptance of truth doesn't mean the pain is any less.

Ode to Garage Sale

I spent the last three days having a garage sale.  There are a few things I learned or was reminded of throughout the sale.

1.  A garage sale is NOT, I repeat NOT, a get rich scheme.  That idea is a total scam.  You didn't want the junk, why would anyone else?

2.  Looking around at the items littered with orange, yellow, and pink tags all priced under a dollar, you may feel a sudden surge of depression come over you.  Things you had to have at the very minute they were new and spent hundreds of dollars on are now sitting with dust on them waiting for some sucker to buy them for a $1.

3.  You will never earn as much money as you feel necessary to make it "worth" the time. 

4.  Large groups of grannys are dangerous.  They walk around huddled together and providing a block for all tables.  This allows them to steal little items as they walk around.

5.  NEVER put undergarments out for sale.  This one is just a given.

6.  If undergarments do get put out by accident, remove them immediately.  Not removing them can lead to permanent mental scarring.  Such trauma is caused when a little old lady in a sundress puts a bra on over her clothes dancing around, showing everyone, walking down the street to show the husband and then asking if there were undies to match.  Maybe worse than the mental picture that shall remain with me for some time is having to throw away said undergarment after her failure to purchase because she "didn't have big enough cans."

7.  Just because you put a price tag on it that clearly states $3, doesn't mean it is clear to everyone.  I don't mean those who wheel and deal, I'll get to those in a minute.  I mean people really do see $3 and read it as $1.50.

8.  Even if you price things to sell, that price will never be low enough.  I am all about getting the best deal possible.  But how does anyone determine that a particular item is just $1 too high?  To make this even less understandable is when the person pays.  The item was priced $5, they only want to pay $4 but pay with $5.  OCD maybe?

9.  There is nothing more endearing than seeing someone pick up one of your shirts off the table and exclaim, "This is way too big for me. Whoever wore that is super fat."  Be still my beating heart!

10.  Regardless of what you look like at 8 am and without make-up, there will always be some skanky, semi-stoned/drunken man who wants to know if you too are for sale.  Always a good time to grab the hubby and the best reason to never run a sale alone.

11.  It is an opportunity to meet your neighbors.  I use opportunity loosely.  We did get to know one set of neighbors a lot better, while others weren't even friendly enough to introduce themselves.  And...last time I checked, it wasn't their undergarments I was trying to sell.

12.  At least one child will choose your house to decide they can no longer contain themselves, requiring you to allow a stranger in the house to use the restroom.

13.  If the money wasn't already dirty enough, you can count on having more than one person sneeze on you or sneeze and then hand you money.  Hand sanitizer is a must have!

14.  There will be several old men who want to know if they can buy all the things your husband would never sell, like tools and fishing equipment.

15.  More than one item is going to get picked up by the person who is super excited to buy it, then immediately dropped.  The person then returns the item to it's place, deciding they don't want a broken item.

16.  If you put a cute little dog out to be petted, your sales will increase.

17.  Never start setting up before daylight.  Some creepy man will sneak up behind you and want interrupt the set up.  Nevermind the fact that he is a retired old man who could have come two hours later.

18.  Always take down the signage immediately after the sale.  Failure to do so will result in a creeper knocking on the door upset that they some how missed your sale when it was actually open.

19.  Be prepared for complete rudeness.  Garage sales seem to bring out the nastiest side of people.  Seriously, we nearly had to call the police.

20.  Play Christian music and see how many people respond.

21.  You will have at least half a dozen instances where you are over run my Spanish only speaking Mexicans.  You will recognize them when they pull up in a small, 4-door car which normally seats 5 people and 13 adults and 7 kids will crawl out.  They will chatter about things you cannot understand and make the safe assumption that they are making fun of you or your junk. 

22.  At least one child each hour will be so upset that they cannot have the toy they just broke, that they will let out a blood curdling squeal causing neighbors to peak out windows.

I'm sure there was more, but goodness....I just couldn't write them all down.

The first day, we had excitement of fire trucks, ambulances and cop cars.  A neighbors deck was on fire.  That night while we were sleeping, we had a water line break in our front yard. Friday afternoon, we had a little domestic violence in our front yard.  Saturday, I had a man yell at me when I told him he could not smoke in my garage.

Yep....I have seen the last of my garage saling days for some time to come.

Tiger Lilies

My favorite flower, even though I am incredibly allergic to them, is the Tiger Lily.  I have loved the flowers for as long as I can remember. 

About 8 years ago, I was searching for photos of the lilies online when I found a story.  I read it several times and now cannot find it.  I remember it very well.

A beautiful, young lady was beginning her dating years.  She enjoyed the company of her suitors and was happy to have a different one each night of the week.  Her habits were designed to allow her the privilege of dating, but protect her from getting close to any of them.  Her entire life, she had been told and shown that she was unlovable.  In her heart, she knew she could never allow herself to fall in love with any man because he too would find her unlovable and break her heart. 

When one of the suitors would become enchanted with her beauty and sweet charm, she would quickly leave them behind.  In the middle of the night, she would leave a tiger Lily and note on the young man's front porch.  The next morning, the young man would find in the note a simple explanation.  The flower will remain beautiful longer than you shall love me.

The story goes on to say the young lady died alone with the tiger Lily by her side.  Sad, isn't it?

If you know anything about me, you can probably guess that I identified with her symbol.  Tiger lilies, at best, will last one week.  At one time, I believed I was unlovable.  I believed the beautiful flower would outlast anyone who thought they loved me.

I was so convinced of this, even after being married for five years, I had them tattooed on my back.  No, it was not meant to be a "tramp stamp" as some people call them.  I wanted to be permanently marked with a symbol of truth...that nobody could ever love me. 

Several years later, I have a somewhat different outlook on that tattoo. 

I am not pretentious like many people I know.  I do not look at people with tattoos and think less of them.  I would never get a tattoo on my face, arms or really anywhere where anyone could see it.  But I certainly won't judge those who do as some kind of freak.  In fact, I often forget I have one.

Since 2007, I have taken the time to think about tattoos and what the bible says about them.  I think a lot of people use 1 Corinthians 3:16-17 out of context to say tattoos are wrong.  Leviticus 19:28 is very clear on them.  I have asked the "tattoo" question of several seasoned Christians and even some who work in ministry.  The only conclusion I came to was that there are different opinions on how to interpret what the bible says on them.  In blogosphere, there is debate on whether they are right or wrong biblically.  I did get mine before I was a Christian and I am not sure I would make the same decision today.

That being said, I am not regretful of having one nor ashamed. 

The truth is that the tattoo is significant even now.  It holds a couple of reminders for me.  In the human world, I can be unlovable.  People can decide they can't or won't love me for who I am.  It is probable that any human could hurt me by not loving me.  That is truth in the simplest form.

But now I know another truth.  The truth is that I could add a line above my tattoo that says, "Before August 3, 2007, I believed I was unlovable." With another line underneath that says, "But I was never unlovable in the eyes of God." 

To anyone who knows me, I may truly be unlovable (and I often believe that still).  But God always loves me.  Regardless of the tattoo.  Regardless of what I believe.

And so my story goes...The flower will wither and die long before the eternal love of God.

Rotten Crabs

If you have ever watched The Deadliest Catch, you might know a thing about rotten crabs.  A dead, diseased or rotten crab can permeate an entire tank, killing all the good crab and costing the fishermen a lot of money.

It only takes one bad crab to ruin thousands of good crab.  The fishermen are at the mercy of the crab.  They often do not know one bad crab has killed their haul until they are docked and anxiously awaiting all the money they will receive for the crab.  When they find all their dead crab, they are upset, disappointed and angry. 

While I have not spoken with any of those fishermen in person, I can only guess that most of them use those emotions to spur them into being more aggressive in their next venture.  But what would happen if each time they brought in a boat full of crab, all the crab were dead?  Do you think it would take 2, 5, 10, 20 times of having one rotten crab ruin all the good ones to make the fisherman give up?

The rotten crab is what I keep going back to when I think about some recent experiences.

It should be no surprise with my love of music that I love being in choir.  Last year, someone and something bigger than me stood in the way of me participating in the church choir.  It was heart wrenching to say the least, but I kept hope that a new year would bring a renewed opportunity.

This year came rolling in with a lot less standing in my way.  I would still have to overcome huge amounts of anxiety and rely on others to help me along the way. 

In August, I was able to start practicing with the choir.  Regardless of the hurdle, somebody was there to help me overcome.  Although my anxiety would keep me sidelined on Sunday mornings.  I would now begin to notice what I thought might be a rotten crab creeping into my tank, but I would ignore it and hope for the best outcome anyway.

With several people encouraging me, I was able to participate with the choir this past Sunday morning.  My knees were shaking, my voice was trembling, my throat was dry and I was sweating from the nervousness alone.  But...I made it through!

I made it with only a possibility that maybe a sickly crab had gotten in my tank and absolutely hopeful it would have no affect on the rest of the crab.

After the service was over, a precious member of our church came up to give me even more encouragement for singing with the choir.  And right there, without any warning or ability to stop it, the rotten crab was permeating my waters.

Without any thought or respect, another person insulted my anxiety-ridden effort to be a part of the choir.  That feeling of overcoming I had got to feel for an hour was ripped from me.  I was crushed.

There I was, standing with a tank full of dead crab...disappointed, hurt and angry. 

If this was my first tank of dead crab, I think I could return with a more aggressive desire to bring home my next tank of crab.  But the truth is...this isn't my 1st or 2nd or even my 10th.  I give up!  I guess I just don't have what it takes to stop the rotten crabs from permeating the waters and I certainly don't have the energy to haul home one more tank of dead crab.

All in a Song

Ok, so I had a moment this morning.  I could say an "ah ha" moment, but I won't.  I tend to have a very odd opinion of the "ah ha" moment.  I hear people say they have them and I find myself feeling sorry for them.  I have those moments everyday.  The moment when you learn something big that you previously hadn't known and possibly even big enough to be life altering.  My opinion is that if you aren't having those moments everyday, then your life has grown stagnant and you aren't learning something new each day.

Oh boy...let me not get sidetracked!

I believe I have said this before, but it deserves repeating.  Music is a powerful resource in my life.  That's the simplest way to say it.

On several occasions, friends have told me the song "Blessings" by Laura Story reminded them of me.  One friend was even so sweet as to email me the lyrics.  Maybe the lines in the chorus "What if a thousand sleepless nights, are what it takes to know you're near?" reminds them of me.  Maybe it is the lines "What if  trials of this life, are Your mercies in disguise?"  I suppose either could be possible since most people who know me could easily apply those lines to me.

The line least impactful was "What if your healing comes through tears?"  It would be a rarity for anyone to have seen me in tears.  From 1993 - 2007, I think I could count on one hand the number of times I had cried.  I certainly couldn't see anyway this line was true.

I love the song and listen to it often.  Today was a completely different experience.  It was as if the melody was playing, but the only line I heard was "What if your healing comes through tears?"  Long after the song was over, the line was dancing over every other thought I was having.  Why was this one line blaring through my internal megaphones?

My life was lived up until August 2007 as if my past did not exist.  On August 4th, I watched my mom humiliate my niece in front of me by showing me her tiny and severely bruised legs.  My niece cowered down in shame while my mom laughed hysterically.   The dam which safely held my past at bay abruptly broke. 

I began to watch, feel and hear a life playing in front of me that was horrific.  The stories were unreal and the little girl in them was me.  I knew the girl was me because this horror show felt real, as if I were living it just as it was happening.  I would much later learn what I was experiencing were flashbacks.   Flashbacks are a very real part of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or PTSD for short.

Not only did my dam break which contained my past, my dry as desert eyes became flowing rivers.  I cried for days.  Up to that point in my life, I don't think I had any memory of ever crying this much.  I would cry all day, all night, and wake up crying. 

Just three days after the dam broke, I headed to the church counselor believing she would get these tears to stop and I'd be on my way back to a blissfully ignorant life where the past didn't exist again.  That didn't happen!!!

"What if your healing comes through tears?" 

The dam burst so the tears came.  The tears came so I began a journey.  The journey came so I could begin to heal.  Had the tears not come, I might have missed the journey to healing.   And there was my moment.  My tears hadn't brought the healing, but instead brought me to the starting point of healing.  That, my friends, is a moment of clarity and understand; learning and worth remembering.

Uh Cussin' N' Swearin' (it's not what you think)

Lately, I have been thinking about some of the stranger and least harmful people in my past.  When I think about them, I often wonder why they crossed my path as well as think about the impact they had on me.

When I worked with severely disabled adults, I had the priveledge of getting to know a man named Albert.  Albert was a client and a very unique one at that. 

Albert was incredibly intelligent and brutally honest.  He was about 25 years older than me, but was child-like in nearly every area of life.  It was never hard to pick Albert out of a crowd.  He was over 6 foot tall and always wore his pants hiked up about mid chest.  We tried to get him to wear pants at waist level, but that wasn't his comfort level.  It didn't look comfortable to me, but who am I to judge, right?

When Albert would talk, he curled his hands and held them close to his chest or about belt buckle high.  He spoke super fast, almost too fast for the average person to understand.  Albert had this wierd and funny way of adding to everyday words or mashing words together that usually included a made up word.  For instance, he would add the word "aukins" to many of his phrases. 

If you asked Albert what his name was (which was actually Albert Kimzey), he would say "Albert KrimeyZyem Aukins."  If you asked him what he did that day, he would say "Watched DavidZYem Uh Cussin' N' Swearin' an' actin' uh baden." If I asked him what he wanted for dinner he would say, "Sketti and cheese aukins Moca aukins."  It looks funny, but I always understood every word.

At this job, I worked with men who were blind, deaf, had severe behavior disorders and had HIV, Hepatitis and other communicable diseases.  Looking back, I can honestly say that Albert was a joy to work with at this job.  He was patient, rarely had behavioral problems and was the most compliant client.

It has taken many years, but I think I understand why Albert crossed my path.  With all the turmoil at that job, I believe working with Albert helped soften my heart toward people with disabilities. 

I had lots of reasons to dislike people with disabilities given what that job put me through.  I was pushed down a flight of stairs and broke my nose.  I was chased down by a naked man and stabbed in the leg with a butter knife.  I was bitten many times and exposed to lots of diseases...just to name a few.  But knowing Albert kept me from disliking them and even allowed me to embrace them as people, caring deeply about how they were treated in society.

Now I finally get the big picture!  My heart was prepared 17 years ago to accept myself.  Being diagnosed with a somewhat uncommon mental disorder, I tend to believe I am different and in a less than human way.  But when I remember Albert KrimeyZYem, I am reminded that a disability doesn't define me or somehow make me sub human.  And a mental disorder should never preclude me from receiving love or acceptance.

I have no idea where Albert is today, but what he unknowingly taught me will live with me forever.

Feet on the Floor, Song in My Head

There is only one thing I love more than waking up to snow on the ground...waking up with a song in my head.  I especially love it when the song is one I love to sing as opposed to one of my husband's Ozzy tunes.

The past few months, the song I wake up with the most is Glorious Day by Casting Crowns.  Keep in mind, I don't wake up to an alarm clock.  Soooo....I would like to think those songs are planted in my head as a way to start my day off great in hopes it might stay that way.

When I start picking apart the song, Glorious Day, it's so easy to understand why it is so uplifting. 

One day when Heaven was filled with His praises

One day when sin was as black as could be
Jesus came forth to be born of a Virgin
Dwelt among men, my example is He

What more could be said about these first lines?  It had to be a glorious day.  Another song writer once said how amazing it must have been, but it may have been so glorious that nobody could say a word.

Word became flesh and the light shined among us

His glory revealed

The idea of Jesus being fully man and people seeing God as man is so overwhelming.  Can you imagine having stood next to Jesus?  Even more overwhelming....can you imagine seeing those who ignored his glory or even shunned him and finally those who beat him?

Living He loved me, dying He saved me

And buried He carried my sins far away
Rising He justified freely forever
One day He's coming, oh, glorious day, oh, glorious day

The chorus is where I usually get stuck and stay.  He loved me. He died to save me. Living He loved me, dying He saved me.  That seems so simple, but so deep. One day He's coming again...how amazing that day will be.

For me and given my past, the idea that God loves me that much is more than I can understand.  Yet, it's something I want hold onto and plant deep inside of me so that I never lose it. 

This picture of His sacrifice is almost unbelievable in a human sense.  Do you really know anyone who would honestly die to save you?  Do you know anyone who would not only die to save you, but also die to save that man sitting in prison who has raped and beaten and killed?  I don't!  I'm not sure I would either.  I like to think my husband would die to save me.  I don't think I know one person who would die for that man in prison or my dad or that gun-toting thug who's about to rob a bank.

To me, this shows a love for us that is bigger and more concrete than any we could ever experience on earth.

There's so much more I could say about this one song.  I'll save that for another day.  Off to bed I go...hoping tomorrow morning will bring a beautiful song.  Hoping that even if only for a moment, I will be be reminded that living He loves me and dying He saved me....oh glorious day!

When I Grow Up...

Growing up, I remember having two dreams of what I wanted to be.  I wanted to be the mayor of our little town or a writer.  I didn't have dreams about getting married and having lots of kids.  I didn't have dreams of being a princess.  I am sure that somehow made mayor or writer obvious choices for the non-a-typical kid.

The mayor thing obviously never worked out.  I was very interested in politics very early in life.  I watched Oliver North testify in hearings.  I watched every Presidential address I could .  I would privately critique the mayor of my small town on the decisions he made.  By the time I was 16, I was sure I could do a much better job.  This was probably the least rational thought I had at 16 and there are probably 2,500 people that are lucky this dream stayed a dream.

I did follow my writing dream for about eight years.  My experience began my junior year in high school newspaper class.  Without question, I excelled beyond what I thought capable.  My senior year, I was Editor-in-Chief of the high school newspaper, on the yearbook staff and a photographer.  That lead to the scholarship that would take me to community college.  There I would spend a year as a sports editor and photographer with occasional chances to write feature stories and opinion columns.  I was honored for a feature photograph during college.

During my senior year in high school and into my first year of college, I would work as a sport reporter for a local newspaper.  I would travel with local teams, taking photos and writing.  On Fridays, I would man the phones, taking stats, scores and quotes from local coaches during football and basketball seasons.

From 1993 to 1998, I would work as a sports reporter, photographer and typesetter for my hometown newspaper.  During that time, I would also do freelance photography and reporting for several newspapers in my region. 

During that stretch of time from 1993 to 1998, I worked a full time job at all times and usually a number of part time jobs in addition to the newspaper job.  I'm not sure I can remember them all, but here we go:
*  Caregiver in assisted living elderly home
*  Support assistant for disable adults
*  Dishwasher in nursing home kitchen
*  Gas station attendant
*  Teaching assistant for an autistic child and several other children 2nd to 5th grade

I don't think any of those jobs were quite as enjoyable as the newspaper jobs.  I'm not sure if I learned that writing didn't pay well or I strayed from that love, but I got far, far away from it.

After moving to Lee's Summit, I worked for a month at a pediatric dentist before I began a job at a marketing company.  I worked into management an independent telephone directory marketing company.  From there, I went to the eye clinic where I would work for the next 10 years and wearing a long list of hats.  Again...so far from the dreams I had as a child.

For the past year and a half, I have been volunteering in the church office.  I suppose I haven't lost my desire or dream to write, I just live it out in the form of blogging. 

I don't know what the future holds, but I know my resume holds a list of experiences that would qualify me for various jobs.  While I don't think I ever want to work as a reporter again, I don't know that I will ever find any job which gives me the same type of gratification as writing and living out the dream I had as a child.

From A Distance

Yes, a beautiful song which is way over used at funerals.  But...that's not where I am going this time.

Last week, the oldest of my brothers turned 35 years old.  As I  often do, I try not to think about the day because of the pain it brings.  That's how I tend to deal with all family birthdays, holidays or other significant events.  It's not always a successful way to deal with it, but the one I try the most.

The truth is that the pain gets harder and harder each year.  The truth is I miss my brothers, nieces, nephews and sister-in-law so much.  The youngest of my nephews does not know who I am and I do not know him. 

Over four years of distance from all of them has been necessary for my own health, but it's come with a huge price.  Nothing could possibly make this pain less, not anything that would be good for me.

As I reflected on my brother's birthday last week, I made two observations.  Without the past four years of growing, these observations would not have been possible.

The first is that the distance between us does not mean I cannot love them.  I can hurt when I hurt, provided I know when that happens.  I can rejoice when they do.  And, I can love them deeply.  Distance in miles and relationship does not dictate that I cannot love them still.  I can even love them regardless of how they feel about me.

The second and most important observation I made was the reality of what heaven has to offer with respect to those family members.  If each of them comes to a point in life where they choose to accept Christ, then the distance is only a wordly temporary. 

That distance which is so painful now is only temporary during our time on earth.  I began to grasp just how important their eternal life is to me.  This idea that I they too could have eternal life with Christ has given me a new passion to pray for their salvation. 

No birthday card, Christmas gift, or trinket I could send them in the mail could ever compare to the gift of salvation.  So, I will be praying for that for each of them. 

That doesn't take any of the pain away.  It only means I have accepted that my pain over this is only a wordly temporary.

10 Years Later

I have listened to others talk about where they were on September 11, 2001 with great emotion.  I don't know that I remember that day with great emotion. Even though I was 26 years old and an adult, I don't think the emotion was overwhelming for me.

At a relatively new job, I heard a blurb on our little radio that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center.  In a little bit of shock, I shared with my co-workers.  An older lady told me not to worry about it because that had happened before and it wasn't that big of a deal.  Not long after, I heard the music stop mid song and the announcer said another plane had hit the other building. 

Now, finally, I was able to get the attention of my co-workers.  I ran home, grabbed a small tv and came back to work.  Most of our patients would cancel that day and we would watch on antenae the news all day long. 

I suppose that most of the day was a blur.  It is possible that there was emotion mixed in the blur.  That night I went home to watch more tv.  And more tv reporting. And more tv reporting. It was on every station on tv and radio.  We were living and breathing to the beat of this surreal tragedy.

For a solid week, each night there was an overwhelming amount of information and even more speculation.  Each tv channel featured a different reporter in tears.  Late during the first night, a nearly voiceless Peter Jennings would finally strike a nerve in me.  He said that we, Americans, needed hug our kids, parents and spouses and to tell them how much we loved them.

Weeks and maybe even a couple months had passed before the emotion finally struck.  That emotion was fear.  As I listened to reporters talk about the damage which could be done by an attack on nuclear plants, a fear I had only felt once before came over me. 

There is a nuclear plant less than 50 miles from my hometown.  An estimated 200 mile radius of that nuclear plant could be in danger if attacked or compromised.  My fear, that someone was going to attack that nuclear plant putting my nieces and nephew in danger. 

This attack on our country, more so the hatred of our country, had now taken on a very personal meaning to me.  Only then did the impact of 9/11 hit me.  I sat quietly beside Kent while he slept.  That overwhelming fear finally took it's toll on me as well as my breath.  This is the first anxiety attack I remember having.

To date, there has not been an attack on nuclear plants in the US.  Could it happen? Absolutely!  Do I fear it like I used to? No!

It was during this time in life that I learned just how possible it was to love someone so deeply that I could live in fear for them.  I knew I loved my nieces and nephews, but I learned to love them even more.  Of course now I live a different reality.  God loves those children even more than I do.  The only fear I have to live with for them is that they will never come to know God.  But really....that is not a fear I have to live with either.  Just like with me, if God wants them to know Him then He will soften their hearts too.

I find myself with more emotion today over the events of 9/11/01, but that's another day's post.

Good Grief

One of the things I do very well is hiding and suppressing all forms of emotion which could cause crying.  But, I'm sitting here tonight unable to contain the tears.  After spending the entire evening in the kitchen, I really had no reason for crying.  Cooking and baking makes me happy, so the tears were unexpected.

Most of what is going on in my life is making me angry, not sad.  What sadness in my life was so overwhelming that I could only cry?

The past couple weeks, I have been organizing meals for a couple having a baby and had spent the evening cooking for a couple who recently had a baby. I had filled out cards today for a couple friends who just had babies or are having babies. I get online tonight and see updated pictures of babies.

Babies!  I have cried plenty because everyone around me seemed to be able to have babies.  This was incredibly different.

Kent and I tried our first few years of marriage to have a baby and failed.  As soon as we gave up, I found out I was pregnant with twins.  At about 12 weeks, I lost the first baby with a spontaneous miscarriage.  The second baby continued to grow and remain healthy.  We knew the baby was a boy.  I could feel our little miracle moving around and we were excited.  We had bought a stroller, toy box, clothes, blankets and found a baby bed.

Our little baby was due just a month after our 3rd anniversary.  At 23 weeks, I got very sick, not eating or drinking much for a week and thought I had a stomach bug.  Kent was out of town and I was worried that my dehydration would not good for the baby.  I headed to the hospital, thinking I would get fluids and meds and head back home. 

The details are still a blur to me once I got to the hospital.  What I do remember is the doctor saying he was so sorry and telling me that I should hold my baby boy just once.  After several hours and losing my baby boy, I drove myself home. 

My little boy, so tiny and lifeless in my arms, has remained a clear picture in my mind.  I have hated the doctor who insisted I hold him and at times have been thankful he did.  While we never decided on a name, I was fond of Tyler.  That five minutes of saying hello and goodbye to my baby boy was the shortest and yet longest five minutes of my life.  I love that baby boy in a way I cannot explain.

I'm not sure I really talked to anyone about what happened and certainly never felt any emotion over it.  I think the only thing I felt was empty.

The following year, I would go through another familiar experience.  I carried a baby girl for nearly 22 weeks.  The pregnancy was very high risk and ended after taking a nasty fall down half our stairs.  Again, I went through the loss alone while Kent was out of town.  Again....no emotions and no talking about it.

Three more times during the past 10 years, I would go through similar experiences all at 10 weeks or less.  No talking, no emotions.  By then, it was completely routine.  I never got my hopes up and ever held onto any hope of being a mother.

As I sit here, I know that overwhelming sense of sadness is the loss of each of those babies.  Each tear I cry is for each "mommy" I'll never hear and for each lullaby I'll never get to sing.  My heart is broken and I realized I have suffered great losses.  Those weren't just things, those were my babies...my children...my hope of grandchildren...my legacy.  I have suffered great loss and I am finally heartbroken.

I don't know why now I am finally feeling this loss.  I have enough going on in my life that I don't need to have an additional thing to feel emotion over right now.  I've asked many times tonight, "Really, God? Right now? Are you sure it has to be right now?" 

I suppose there is no good time to grieve losses like this.  Just as I suppose that there is nothing which helps this make sense.  With no hope now of ever having a child, I find it even harder to understand why this is my store and my heart is broken.

If Ever There Was....

a blog post that needed a neon flashing sign warning the reader of true feelings being expressed in colorful terms, this is it!  All joking aside, if you think this is going to be a poetic outline of how God is good to me or some lesson I've learned...then you might want to go surf the net for something else.

The number one point to all that I have to say, is this...I'm PISSED OFF!!!!!!

Let me clarify my feelings about this a little.  It has nothing to do with my lack of faith or belief in God.  I believe God knows how I feel.  AND...before anyone dare judge me or offer some half witted advice to "just hang in there, it'll get better", I'd invite you to take a walk in my shoes for a couple days.

First, I haven't had my keys or drivers license for nearly 18 months.  That means that I must rely on somebody else to get wherever I need to go.  That means that I am at the mercy of everyone around me to do things that I have to do.  Don't get me started on being able to do things I want to do or just feel like doing.  If I need a gallon of milk or a can of hairspray, I must find someone who can take me to get those things.  That tends to get difficult when I have a husband who works two jobs. 

And why does my husband work two jobs?  I haven't worked in over 18 months either.  No drivers license, no car keys equals no work for me.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me clarify something else.  I haven't lost my driving priveledges because I got a DUI or any trouble at all for that matter.  I'm a level headed, grown woman.  So why don't I drive? 

The truth is that for years and years I lived through unbelievable amounts of abuse.  I say unbelievable because out of all the people I have met who have abuse in their background, I've never heard anyone share anything remotely close to the horrific things I went through.  In fact, they are things that make the national news when they happen or you would only dream of seeing in horror movies. 

Because a bunch (and it is likely on the 100s) of assholes have decided to do horrific things to me throughout my entire life, I developed a shitty disorder.  I describe it that way because there is no cure, no medication and at times, it's like living in an alternate universe. 

Not only do I not drive or work, I get very little time alone.  And why?  Again, thanks to this shitty disorder, I am often a danger to myself.  If you know me personally or spend any time with me at all, don't freak out.  I'm not a danger to others.  Sadly, what a bunch of assholes did to me makes me want to take it out on myself and nobody else.  And if you think that I am a huge danger to myself, just know that I am monitored by those few people who are closest to me.  I live in a house where all glue, toxic liquids, knives, medications, and anything dangerous or ingestible are locked up.  That would fall into the list of things that makes my husband's life shitty having to live with someone like me.  But that's another blog post all together.

Another reason I'm pissed is because I live in this little bubble where few people even know what I go through on a daily basis.  A few more people are aware of the disorder and even people closest to me struggle to understand it.  Even I struggle to understand it.  I think it's easy to hate myself when I don't understand myself.

Why do I live in a little bubble?  For my own protection is what I say.  But really, I stay in it out of fear.  Let me tell you something. I lived in a bubble for over 30 years.  In that bubble, I told everyone that I grew up in a normal family and life was great.  Yes, that bubble was the bubble of bullshit. 

My bubble wasn't to protect me, it was to protect everyone who hurt me.  It was filled with shame and those words that I heard over and over..."you can't tell anyone or you will get in trouble."  See what I mean, it was bullshit.  It was shame.  It was lies.

The bubble now really is the same thing.  I stay in the bubble so nobody knows.  If nobody knows about my disorder, then they don't have to deal with it.  If nobody knows, I don't have to worry about them treating me differently.  If nobody knows, then I don't have to worry about being misunderstand. Again...another bubble of bullshit.

It's a bubble of hey I better keep this to myself so that nobody else has to deal with or accept something that is hard.  Staying in this bubble is again living with the shame of what someone else did to me.  I didn't cause this disorder.  I didn't want it and wouldn't wish it on anyone.  But I have to hide it now?  That's bullshit!!!!

Since I am primarily at church or home, those most likely to be told or find out are professing to be Christians.  God says in the bible to take care of those who are sick.  If someone can't handle a diagnosis (and yes, that's an admission that I am sick but not in a physical way), then why should the burden of that fall on my shoulders?  If a Christian cannot handle being around someone with an illness, mental or not, then that's between that person and God...NOT me.  That's a reflection of how they love people, not on how unlovable I am.

While I'm right there, I'd like to add that just because someone is sick doesn't give anyone a green light to take advantage of them.  If you've ever taken advantage of someone with a decreased mental capacity or incapable of taking care of themself, then shame on you.  I realize the majority of people haven't done this, but I've been on the receiving end of this and it only makes life even more jacked up.  For people who do hurt those who are already hurting or sick, then all I have for you is a giant middle finger.

I live in an isolated bubble because of what all the assholes have done to me, keep getting hurt physically, emotionally, and mentally, and I've had basic adult priveledges taken away from me for months and months.  Put yourself in my shoes and tell me you wouldn't be pissed off. 

I don't drink or do drugs, although I think that would dull the pain and pass the time.  I don't intentionally hurt others, even though the walls I put up to protect myself may make me seem like I do.  People have been pointing out to me for the past two months that I seem sad or depressed.  NO SHIT!  Looking at the big picture, being pissed off is all I have right now to express just how frustrated I am.

Time After Time

Throughout my life, no matter what circumstance I was going through, I could always find music that I could identify with or take something from that made me feel a little better.  I enjoyed listening to it. Loved singing to it. And, taught myself how to play it.  I've long since given up the dream of being able to continue teaching myself to play it.  But I still had to listen to and sing.

For me, the darker the time I am in the less music I listen to and lately...I've listened to none of it and I am silenced. It is hard to believe that something that has carried me through so many horrible and discouraging times is no longer of any help. 

As I began to think through my silence, I was reminded of a song that got me through many long nights. "Time After Time" by Cindy Lauper may not sound like the kind of song that stays with you for over 25 years, but it has.

In the early 80's, music videos were on every Friday and Saturday night.  I think that is where I heard the music the first time.  Even at that young elementary age, I listened to the words.  I don't know what the real meaning behind this song is, but I know what it said to me.  To me, this was about a person who would never turn their back on me.   Someone who cares about me so much that they would never walk away and never think about me again.  And, this opened the door to the thought that someone could be big and strong enough to take me out of the house I was in or protect me from being hurt.

I know this was my way of fantisizing about something which could never happen in the hell I was living in at the time. That really wasn't the part of this song that meant the most to me.

Without giving too much information, I can say that it was not uncommon for me to have to spend hours comforting two younger brothers.  I often saw in their faces the same fear and pain that I felt but tried to hide from them.  I always felt like I had to hide my fear and pain to give them hope that things would get better.

I remember holding my shaking, crying little brother in my arms one night.  I was all of 10 years old and doing my best to comfort a 5 year old who was fearful we might not live.  I needed him to know that I was not going to leave him and that I would never go too far away.  I needed him to feel the safety I could not.

As I held him tight, I sang the song to him.  I remember very clearly fighting tears back.  I too was fearful that this would never be true for him either. 

When I moved out of my parents house at 18, my brother went through a very angry phase.  I know he felt abandoned by me and understandably so.  I had left him when I had always promised not to.  Again, I found myself knowing I would never turn my back on him completely.

It has been over four years since I have talked to either of my brothers.  From a distance, I still sing this song for both of them.  Maybe not for what the song means, but what it meant for me.  I still want them protected and cared for above anything else.  Through the hurt and pain that has separated us, I still care deeply about them and only want the best for them.   My heart breaks for all that distances us and I weep for all that has been lost between us.

But.......They can still look and find me, time after time.  If they fall I'll be waiting, time after time.

Time After Time
Lying in my bed, I hear the clock ticks, and think of you
Caught up in circles, confusion is nothing new
Flash back, warm night, almost left behind
Suitcase of memories...
Time after

Sometimes you pictured me, I'm walking too far ahead
You're callin' to me, I can't hear what you've said
You said, "Go slow, I fall behind"
The second hand unwinds...

If you're lost, you can look and you will find me,
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you, I'll be waiting,
Time after time

I turn, my picture fades, and darkness has turned to grey
Watching through windows, you're wondering if I'm okay
Secrets, stolen, from deep inside,
The drum beats out of time...

If you're lost, you can look and you will find me,
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you, I'll be waiting,
Time after time


If you're lost, you can look and you will find me,
Time after time
If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting,
Time after time



Time after time...