My Pets, My heart

Before I ever crawled out of bed this morning, I was already locked in a struggle that would set the tone for my day.  An acquaintance proclaimed boldly how dumb a person would be to spend money on a pet.

With friends and strangers alike, I make it very clear that my pets are like children to me.  As you know, we can't have children.  For reasons completely out of our control, we can never be considered for adoption or even foster care. 

Also out of our control, the amount of love that we have the natural need to share.  Without family around, that love gets poured into our pets. 

This is Gizmo. He's our big boy. At almost 4 years old, he's our most anxious but probably our sweetest.  He jumps up on our laps and demands attention after a long day of being kenneled.  He's probably our funniest and predictable too.  The only time he gets in a bad mood is when he's got a belly ache.  He's also our smelliest and gets bathed about once a week.  He definitely loves his toys and often carries them outside when we aren't paying attention. 

This is Lucy.  Our oldest at just over 5 years old.  She is our watch dog.  We are certain she will bark if someone slams a door two blocks away.  She is the only pet we've ever bought from a puppy mill and is the reason we will always adopt from a shelter.  She's our least healthy pet.  When she was spayed, the vet said some of her organs never fully developed.  She also has very malformed back legs and recently had a leg surgery.  She's our singer, howling on demand or as we walk in the door after being gone all day.

This is Kirby.  At almost 2 years old, he is the youngest and the only feline of the bunch.  He is minus his claws because even as a kitten, it was clear he would use them as weapons.  He is our biggest instigator.  If nobody is paying attention to him, he will go on the hunt for the first person or pup willing to play.  He loves to curl up in peculiar places.  In this picture, he is trying to stow away in a bag as we prepared to leave for vacation.  He has quite a personality and the longest legs I've ever seen on a house cat. 

This is Winnie.  She is the newest member of our family and the most timid.  She was a severely abused and neglected rescue dog.  She's afraid of men, but is a serious momma's girl.  All of 10 lbs, she's almost 4 years old and has amazingly given birth several times.  She sleeps beside me or above my head on my pillow and rarely leaves my side.  She's still a work in progress with Kent.  Even though he pets her and sings to her, she's still hesitant to warm up to him.  She's so little that her favorite toys are cat toys.  She's also our fastest runner and the only one who isn't big enough for a fair fight with the cat.

As you can see, my pets are a big part of my life and have an enormous place in my heart.  My 147 point IQ could potentially be used to refute the idea that I am dumb.  So, I unequivocally disagree with my acquaintance. 

I would and have spent a lot of money on my pets.  Just a trip to the vet costs at least $100 and we average $75 a month on food.  Our little Lucy just had leg surgery, which was a whopping $1600 process.  Yes, that is money we desperately needed to finish our bathroom.  But, I wasn't heartless enough to leave my pet in pain, no matter how badly I want to take a shower in a tub that doesn't leak or how much of a mold problem I have. 

Unfortunately, my day got worse for several reasons I can't really go into.  This evening, like I've only done a few times before, I fell to the floor in a weeping mess. 

When I finally pulled my head from hands and wiped my eyes enough, I saw a half circle of animals sitting around me.  All with varying looks of concern, they stared at me intently.  Every time I can remember sitting on the floor crying, they've come to my side.

Dumb?  I don't think so!

Crazy?  Maybe!

When I fall to the floor in disbelief, sobbing over the friend who hurt me deeply or took advantage of me or turned their back on me, they are always there.   They don't judge me for my faults.  I never have to worry about them sharing my darkest secrets.  They are easy to please.  I never have to worry about their compassion or love being given on a contingency.  They never disagree, but in an odd way their simplicity makes me want to do the right thing.  I never have to pretend I'm happy or something I'm not around them.  They never hurt me and they leave. 

Sure, they live their natural life span and it is always far too short.  But who could call that dumb?  

I kind of wonder if maybe I'm not dumb at all and this was just the plan for me...

Maybe, it's just what's in my heart!

Innocent Ignorance

Everyone has really tried their best to either dance around the mother's day issue with me or get me to admit that it was a wretched day.  Neither of those things have been overly helpful, nor have they swayed me one way or the other.

Maybe it's because I have been emotionally flat or maybe it's because I have just finally accepted the way life is for me.  I am not a mother, nor do I have a mother who loves me.  There's nothing anyone can say or do which can ever change either of those things.  Any tear shed would be wasted.

Today as we headed back to see my husband's mom, I still clung to "this is just another day" feeling in my gut. 

Don't get me wrong, anytime I head back to the area, it is like heading back into the belly of the beast.  I did everything I could to get away from there and going back always sucks.  About an hour away, I begin to have that tight feeling in my chest and am ready to head back home.  My whole body and mind become consumed by fear. 

I have to deal with the pressure of how my in-laws will act and react with me.  I have to constantly be on guard, watching for family members that I don't care to see.  I have to be weary of my husband's emotions as he deals with his family.  All systems spend the entire time there on overload. 

It's also just a different world there. 

My mother-in-law was without a doubt quirkier than normal.  It was awkward, yet brief visit and I was ok with that.  I still felt not much emotion and certainly nothing that tied me to mother's day.

After a couple hour, we headed home.  As a treat, we stopped at a BBQ place once we were closer to home.  The restaurant was busy as normal and yet it still wasn't registering that there were tables full of families celebrating moms.

As I stood waiting for them to finish our order, the cashier said "Happy Mother's Day to you." 

I can tell you exactly what went through my head and thankfully never found it's way to my lips.  "What the hell!  You stupid ass, why would you just assume I am celebrating Mother's day? Do I just look old enough to be a mom, so I must be? Are you kidding me? I want to crawl over counter and smack the piss out of you and cram the word mom back down your throat!"

Wow, yep!  Innocent ignorance finally set me off.  It didn't make me cry.  It didn't make me sad.  It didn't even make me angry.  It made me wish people wouldn't make assumptions.

I had just about escaped the day without feeling much of anything.  It didn't last long, whatever it was that I was feeling. 

Whatever it was, I am glad it's over and hopefully I don't have to be reminded of it for another year.

It's a Hallmark Moment

Have you shopped for your Mother's Day card yet?  It's just a few short days away, so if you haven't then you should get yourself on out there.  You don't want to miss out on finding that perfect card for your mother or wife or even daughter.

I, on the other hand, will not be shopping for or be the recipient of any card this Mother's Day.  I'm just fine with that.

Hallmark seems to cover so many occasions, but it just doesn't ever seem to cover Mother's Day for me.  Oh, it's a Hallmark moment for certain.  They just don't have the right cards.

I used to buy a Mother's Day card, but not for my mom.  It was always a time of year that I honored my mother-in-law.   Not because she was so incredibly awesome towards me, but because she raised the man I love.  She is one half of who my husband is and that makes her pretty special, regardless of how I feel about her at times.  They just don't make cards that would really be appropriate this year.  I would need a card that somehow reminded her of who I am and explained to her how thankful I am for a son who she's likely forgotten how she raised him.

They have lots of lovely cards for mothers.  Some are funny, capturing the mothers with a sense of humor or from the child who has that kind of relationship with their mom.  Some are sappy, sweet and share simple thoughts that a child wants to express to their mom.  Some share gratitude for a job well done. 

But they just don't make one that says what would be appropriate for my mom.  It would need to start with a congratulatory, "Thanks for being the worst mother anyone could ever have."  I envision the inside would be filled with a list of the attributes that keep her from being mother of the year.  You turned your back on your daughter; allowed your daughter to be beaten and raped; encouraged your daughter to be used as a prostitute for extra cash...just to name a few.  I think the conclusion would be a quaint, "I hope you choke on it."  That was my mom's famous line any time we asked for food or drinks as children.

Oh and I certainly won't be receiving any cards this year.  That's not a stretch, I've never gotten one and for good reason.  I'm not a mom.  I might care for, feed, bathe, comfort when sick and dress wounds, but it just doesn't count when the little ones walk on four legs.

They don't make cards for people like me.  I have never seen a card that conveys a heartfelt message about what a good mom I would have been if it hadn't been for the untreated, massive infections caused by years of horrific abuse.  Nobody has ever made a card that tells you that you would have made a great mom if your body hadn't decided to naturally abort them.

I may have found my next profession, greeting card writer.  I would definitely cover the areas that you can't seem to find anywhere.  Ok, maybe not.

Bible Story Book

One of my first blog posts back in early 2009 was about a Bible story book I had been given by a neighbor for a birthday in early elementary school.  I invite you to go back to that post for a bit of background on the book.

With Mother's day approaching, I was searching deep to find something about my mom to be thankful for.  It was a huge stretch, but I found something.  After being beaten for holding onto this Bible story book as a kid, I thought I had lost it for good.  Years later as an adult, I bought it back from my mom at a garage sale for $2.00.

I'm thankful that it was never actually destroyed, even though it had been taken away from me years ago.  I'm thankful in her craziness, she put it in a garage sale. 

I want to share the pictures of this tattered book and a few stories behind it.

This is the book. When I got it, the cover was bright white.  It is heavily stained from being thrown in the trash.  I remember many times of digging it out and wiping coffee grounds off the cover.  I'm sure my tears added to the stains as I held it tight while being beaten for not wanting it taken away from me.

You can see the white spots where I ripped the dirt away as I pulled the $2.00 garage sale sticker off the edge.  My only regret is not leaving it on so that it would be a reminder to me of the day I bought it back.

As you can see here and in the first photo, the lower edge is tattered and ripped.  I remember the day that happened.  I opened my closet to make sure it was still safely hidden and found a mouse gnawing on the edge.  I may not have really known why I so highly guarded this book, but I was certain it meant more to than to allow a mouse to make a nest of it.

The book is certainly old.  Published and printed in 1968 and landing in my hands in the early 1980's.  I didn't know then, but I understand now that my kind neighbor was a Christian and this was one of her many attempts to share her love of Christ with myself and my family. 

I didn't have much of an imagination as a child, but most of what I remember came when looking at this book.  I didn't know who Adam and Eve were and I certainly didn't understand the story of Noah.  What I did know was that a big boat with a bunch of animals seemed like a lot better place to be than my house.

This was the picture that I tried to recreate every year when our teachers made us draw our favorite bible story on a poster for our annual bible celebration.  I don't know about favorite story, but it was the easiest thing for this little girl with no artistic ability.  It also helped me get through those dreadful days of making posters without being made fun of.  Since I was one of the very few unchurched children, it was humiliating having to ask the teacher what a bible story was.

For a little unchurched girl who was already experiencing hell on earth at home, this picture wasn't about Abraham's obedience to God.  It looked like some guy who was going to kill a bad man and I often wondered if some man would ever do that to my dad.

This picture looked like nice angels coming to get a little kid while they were sleeping.  It's sad to think that as early as second grade, I was wishing for nice angels to come rescue me while I slept.

This was my absolute favorite of the bible story pictures.  I knew my parents didn't want me.  So, I always wished they had left me in a basket somewhere.  That way a nice lady would have found me and I could have had a mom that really wanted me.

Again, I had no idea what the story was really about.  I saw a big man who looked like he could protect me and that's all I longed for most days.

A little bit like the angels, I often wished somebody like this would come along and carry me away.

I know now this depicts God talking to Jeremiah.  Without having a clue that's what was happening, I created my own caption.  It was a much bigger, meaner person than my dad pointing at him and telling him he was bad and needed to stop hurting me.  Sad, but true. 

I had no idea that this was Jesus' birth.  What I saw was a baby that was so loved that people couldn't wait to see it.  I realize now that was true and should be true of every child.

Again, a bunch of people oogling over a baby.  I used to pretend that it was my baby picture and that's how much everyone loved me.  Goodness, I never would have thought at that age how special that baby would really be.

The way this mother held her child, it looked like she was shielding it from everything bad.  That's what I wanted for myself.  I desperately wanted a mom to hold me, protect me from the world and love me forever.

This was one of the more confusing pictures for me.  As I got a little older and could identify this person as Jesus, it led me to begin believing what my dad said.  He said God was mean and hated people.  He said God hated me because I was a bad girl.  Since I didn't know the story at the time, then this highly resembled all the times my dad had come at me with his belt.

But I found so many places where there were good things.  I often wondered what was really true.  Just pages apart, I saw the picture above and then I would see this one.  A bad person wouldn't rescue a sheep, right?  That was the perpetual confusion my dad created for me by using by curiosity about God against me.

Another place where I saw someone do something bad, but another person do something good.  I didn't understand what a good Samaritan was when I was little.  I certainly never saw enough of them in my life.  This was one of those pictures that didn't seem real to me.  I never thought anyone would ever want to help me.

This is one of the many pages that got stained inside.  This particular stain came from me.  In a fight to hold onto my book, my dad had hit my face hard enough that blood from my nose splattered everywhere.

This is another picture of what I dreamed of for myself.  A kind person who would come to my room during those couple hours while my dad was asleep and rescue me.

 

Also a confusing picture, I really believed that my dad had to be right.  This person was a bad person who was mean.  That had to be why they killed him.  That's how I thought as a kid.

Another picture I couldn't reconcile as a child when I knew this was Jesus.  I couldn't understand why if he was a bad man that was killed, then why would he be alive again.

There's no doubt that I had a very warped idea of what the pictures meant and I certainly didn't understand the stories. 

I guess I really didn't find a reason to be thankful for my mom.  I really found a reason to be thankful for God.  I found yet another reason to be thankful for what Jesus did on the cross.  I am incredibly thankful for those people who have explained some of this to me and worked so hard to correct what my dad made wrong.

Fat and Ugly

For the past several years, the ring tone I have set on my phone for my husband has been the same. I invite you to listen to the full song as you read this post.

We had the opportunity to go to a meet and greet with the singer/songwriter of this song.  He shared a sweet story about how his wife's self esteem led him to write this song. 

Let me make something very clear, I know my husband loves me.  He just doesn't have the kind of personality that is especially complimentary.  The only time he makes a comment on my hair, clothes, personality or physical appearance, it is usually in a corrective or critical way.  Maybe it's because I've lived with this for so long or maybe because I just want it to be so, I don't believe it bothers me much any more.

I am realistic.  I am an overweight woman who is not attractive.  I don't have a super sparkling personality.  Knowing all of that, I know my husband isn't like that to me just to be hateful.  And because I don't get those kind of compliments from anyone else, I'd probably not believe he was sincere even if he was to be complimentary.

Even though my head reminds me that I just don't care about this, my heart sometimes kicks me and tells me otherwise.

I think that's why I chose the song, More Beautiful You, as my husband's ring tone.  If he won't say, then I at least get told that by a stranger every time he calls.  How sad is that, right?

Why is it that even the most secure women need to overtly be told that they are attractive?  Good grief!  What was God thinking?  Wasn't all of our girly problems enough to strap us with?  Did He really have to throw in a good dose of insecurity for us all?

Last week, I saw several people on news programs talking very boldly about "ugly" or "fat" people.  They weren't being kind either.  They were being hateful and I couldn't believe how offensive they were.

I have several friends who struggle daily with self-esteem.  Some of them have gone to great lengths to change their appearance.  Not all, but most of them have done so because they didn't believe they were good enough in the eyes of another person.  It breaks my heart to see it.

Even I struggle with that.  I don't take it to extremes like yo-yo dieting fads.  I think for me it goes really does go back to that unspoken desire I have to be attractive to my husband.  Although, dieting would change my size, not my face.

Those of us who do dislike how we look or struggle with self-esteem really are harder on ourselves than anyone else ever could be.  So, I wonder why people think they need to be hateful and hurtful to those who aren't size 6 and Barbie beautiful.

I am even saddened by the number of Christian friends I hear being overly critical of others' appearances.  It makes me wonder how they reconcile that to how God sees that person or even themselves.  Does God look down on us with those same eyes?  Does he stand there, pointing and saying look at her, she's got a big, cottage cheese butt?  Does he laugh as he sees the lady standing at the make-up counter and comment that she must have been smacked by the ugly stick?

Do people really not believe Psalm 139:14, I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well.?  I don't think that is meant solely for the person reading it, but for each and every person who believes in a creator who doesn't make mistakes.

I wish I knew how to exchange the hatred and judgement of the world on physical appearance for all of that verse.  Believe me, I'm not there either.  I'm not so much on the being hateful side of things as I am the receiving side of the hate. 

Truly, I believe I would find great happiness in seeing each and every person I know treating everyone they know as if they really believe each person was fearfully and wonderfully made.

A Different View

It's a rare occasion for me to go to church and unheard of for me to go to church and sit in a different spot.  But today, I did just that.  It gave me an opportunity to make some insightful observations.

1.  It's way harder to pay attention sitting on the back row.  I've always had a problem with this, but it was way harder today.  I think it's because people watching just got so darn interesting.

2.  The iPad is a great tool for bible search and making notes during church.  However, I am not the only one who thumbs through email, scans facebook or even places a competitive online game during a sermon.  And here I felt guilty about doing that, like I was the only one.  Who knew?

3.  Speaking of not feeling guilty about something...my husband is NOT the only person who falls asleep during church.  I really did see a guy nearly bang his head on a pew in front of him.  That must have been a good nap!  He wasn't the only one either.  I'd say the average is at least one per row and that's just the ones who have yet to master the ability to sleep while looking wide awake.

4.  Some of the younger ladies in our church need a serious lesson in modesty.  With all the shirt skirts/dresses and low-cut tops, I saw far more than I wanted to of our congregation today.  Good grief, dress like you would if Jesus were going to be sitting right next you!

5. The family atmosphere in our church is very sweet.  Because I sit up front, this is an aspect of our church that I often miss.  Seeing families sitting together is such a precious sight for me.  What is really awesome is to see children, parents, grandparents and even aunts and uncles sitting together.  It warms my heart to know that really happens.

6.  My pastor and God are super tight!  The past two weeks there has been thunder or lightening at particularly interesting moments during the service.  They provided an exclamation to the point he was making and happened exactly on cue.

7.  From my seat, I could see our drummer during the music.  I must say, he is fun to watch.  I go to a Baptist church, so you might not think the drummer would necessarily be kickin' it.  But he was!  It was so much fun to watch him really enjoying the music and enjoying his part of the worship team.

8.  When you change seats, you maybe mistaken for a visitor.  I've been at this church for over 5 years.  In fact, I've volunteered in the church office for over two years and spoken at a women's conference.  However, I was welcomed to the church by a member.  I know it's my photographic memory, but I've met the person several times.  I smiled and said thank you. 

9.  I got to see a completely different  group of people.  It isn't that the people I normally sit around are bad at all.  I think it's funny how most people have their section of the church and never journey far from it.  The awesome part of it was that I got a few hugs from people that I normally wouldn't ever see in church.  A few of them were particularly meaningful to me.

And drum roll please.....

10.  My biggest observation is that some people need to seriously update their facebook photos more often.  I'm friends with a large number of people from our church.  However, I barely recognized them because the photo that pops up every time they post something on facebook is a few (quite a few in some cases) years old. 

Ahhh....the joys of a different view.

Pretty in Peach

Today was my girlie day. See...

I have matching toes too.  But you won't see a picture of them and certainly not any closer up of the fingernails.

Why is it that everything I do seems to be cluttered with peculiarity?

My wonderful husband gave me a birthday gift card specifically for a mani-pedi.  I was so excited!  I only get to have a pedicure about twice a year.  Because I don't grow fingernails out long enough, I have only had one manicure in my life.

I got to the salon a few minutes early.  To my surprise, I ran into a friend and had a few minutes to chat.

My nail tech summoned me to the nail portion of the salon.  She didn't really introduce herself or say much of anything besides my name.  In fact, she may have done little more than grunt. 

Keep in mind, this is one of the classier salons.  It wasn't one of those quickie nail salons where nobody speaks English and the only guarantee is that you will get a rip roaring infection that will eat away your toenails for six months.

With a swirl and additional grunt, she pointed to my throne.  Ahhh...there it set, ready for me to crawl in for an hour of relaxing.  The massage controls were there all shiny and inviting.  I already had a plan.  Roller massage for 15 minutes, vibrating massage for 15 minutes, shoulder massage for 15 minutes, and finish it off with another 15 minute vibrating massage.

I settled in quickly and hit the controls.  What?  Nothing!  I pushed every button and got nothing.  I asked the tech if the chair was broken.  Not by her grunt but by the nod of her head, she told me that it indeed was broken.

Ok, not the end of my fun spa time, right?

My chair was leaning back about 45 degrees and was hurting my lower back.  I asked the tech if there was a way to sit it more upright.  I thought it was a reasonable request given that all the other chairs were upright.  I pretty sure that grunt meant it was broken in that way too.

I can take it, I'm tough!

As she scrubbed, snipped, soaked, and girlified my feet, I sat quietly playing a game on my phone.  It was my attempt to still make the most of my time there relaxing even though nothing I counted on had been so.

In my own little world, I started to really enjoy the leg and foot massage but something felt a little odd.   As I looked down, I was a bit mortified.  My tech was a heavier woman and was wearing an extremely low cut orange t-shirt.  Not because of the angle I was sitting but her shirt, I was exposed to her stretch mark covered jumblies. 

Ugh...she had my foot lodged between her two grapefruit filled gym socks.  Every time I tried to pull my foot away from them, she tugged my leg closer to her like she was hungry and it was a pork chop. Finally that was over!

In the only full sentence she spoke thus far, I was told I hadn't picked out a color before sitting down.  Ooops!  I asked for pink and she brought 7 choices of orange.  Ok, maybe she was a little color blind too.  Light coral it would be then.

Finally, she finished my toes.  I will admit that my callused feet are a bit smoother.  However, my toenails are the same shape and length they were when I sat down.  She didn't trim or do much to my toenails besides slop some paint on them.  And that is with heavy emphasis on slop!

Onto my manicure we would go.  Deep breath!  I would be face to face with her and maybe she would be forced to be a bit more personable.

Again with a grunt, she pointed me to the chair and table.  I sat down and immediately shared with her that my nails are fragile and super thin.  I also asked if she recommended anything for brittle nails.  Without a grunt or word, she sat a bottle in front of me.  I suppose I could have read the info off the bottle, but I wasn't much into her suggestions by that point.

Disclaimer:  I can't make this stuff up, I'm not that creative.  She flopped her jumblies up on the table, leaving me barely enough room to put my hands down flat without touching her.  That was a bit too close for me.

She grabbed my hands one at a time and worked them over with a nail file.  Remember I said repeatedly that I have brittle nails. 

By the time she was ready to again slop paint on them, she had ripped two of my fingernails in the center of the nail.  They aren't rounded or even or even smooth. 

In the only other sentence she spoke, she told me her fees were $74.  I told her my husband had bought a package and that I had made that very clear when I made the appointment.  Can you guess what response I got from her?  That's right, another grunt.

As she was painting my nails, she seemed to have a problem with lint or some kind of long white strings sticking to my nails.  She picked one off, but never fixed the polish.  She wasn't as diligent with the others and just left them, painting over them. 

She added the clear coat and left me to sit.  She came back with the charge ticket and laid it beside me.  I asked how long I needed to sit before leaving.  Again, no answer.  Just a grunt and hand thrown in the air.  I'm guessing she meant five minutes and wasn't waiting for a high five.

I left extremely disappointed.  There just wasn't much pleasurable about that.  I mean I am so thankful for the gift my husband gave me, but it wasn't that fun.

When he got home and I shared with him my experience, he said I should call the salon about the service.  I think that is all I needed to hear.  He hadn't gotten the service he had paid for and wasn't happy about it. 

After a five minute call, it was determined I would get a new manicure.  I'm just not that excited to go back.  And now, I have to wait for my two nails she split to grow back out.

Getting two manicures for the price of one is ok.  Honestly, I'd rather have just had one done right. the first time.  Oh well, I won't turn down another day to be girlie.

My Beach Ball

Sometimes acting tough and wearing that forced smile is a hard job to do.  I had a moment today where my tough, nothing is wrong with me exterior cracked and my heart ached.  Sure, I have emotional breaks where I unload my frustrations on here, but that's a little different than what happened today.

Recently, our cat went through a short period of urinating before he got to his box.  I think maybe he had an infection that he has since worked out of his system.  The urine stained carpet on the stairway had been shampooed and treated, but still stunk.

As I sat in my chair this morning, I could not get that awful urine stench out of my nose or head.  For me, it is more than just a bad smell.  Smelling urine for an extended time will and does hurl me into full blown flashbacks of abuse. 

One of the more standard things my dad did to me was urinate on me.  He must have found great pleasure in it, because I can recall dozens of times when he did it.  Smelling urine will mentally remove me from present time and transport me back to one of those many times. 

If you don't understand what a flashback is like, let me explain.  For me, they come in a few different ways.  One is where I feel, see, smell, hear everything as if it were happening right then.  Another is like mentally watching the event happen as if it were a real movie scrolling in my head.  Another is to physically feel the pain of whatever was happening, often accompanied by smells or sounds.  Flashbacks are very common with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which I do have.

I believe an hour passed this morning before I realized I had been consumed by one flashback after another.  The same had happened last night. 

It was my ability to remain calm and let the adrenaline leave my system that had escaped me.  I went to the garage, grabbed a pry bar, screwdriver, hammer and pliers.  And away I went to the stairs. 

I ripped the carpet up first.  Then began to work on the tack strips and padding and staples. 

Maybe it was the outbursts of cussing at people who were no where near me or the intermittent bouts of bawling that kept me from realizing how many times I had smashed a hammer into my finger or the blisters that were already forming on my thumbs. 

Needless-to-say, I was far outside my skill set and didn't have the least bit of care.

At some point, I know I knew I could go no further.  I had nothing left in me,  physically or emotionally, to finish the job. 

With sweat pouring off of me and in a urine soaked haze, I laid down on the floor and put my cheek down on the cold wood.  The wind was blowing outside and for a few seconds, it seemed to be carrying music.  That's where I cracked.

What started as  momentary rest had turned into a face planted on the floor petition to God.  For someone who struggles to believe that prayer is necessary or real or works, this was outside of normal for me.

It started with a simple plea, that soon became a long-winded session of begging and pleading.  As I sobbed, I begged for repair.  I had reached a point where I understood that things were too broken for me to fix.  I begged for help.  I realized that nothing was getting done to improve our living conditions and that there is no end to that in sight.  I begged for change.  I finally accepted that without intervention in my life and heart, my life is going to be short and constantly full of pain.  I begged for rest.  Without it, I know I can never move forward.

Of course a few hours later, my skepticism has set in and I question why God would listen or answer any of my prayers.

Having been in counseling for a few years now, I have heard this several times.  Maintaining a life that looks to be normal for me is like trying to keep a beach ball under water.  A beach ball full of air is hard to hold underwater.  Try it sometime.  It's a fight to keep in submerged, always having to readjust or use your legs when your hands get tired.  When you have exhausted every resource, you finally lose control and the beach ball goes flying out of the water.

To most of the world, I've managed to keep my beach ball firmly underwater for several months now.  I must admit, it's been difficult at times.  In fact, unless you are a regular reader on this blog, you would never know I've had much emotion at all the past six months.  I might even look a bit "normal" to you. 

But I'm tired.  All of my internal resources are exhausted.  I have nothing left to hold it down any longer.  I'm afraid my beach ball is about to shoot out of the water like a rocket. 

Girlyness

It's funny, I used to think a mani-pedi was something bad.  By bad, I mean something like a bikini wax kind of bad.  Funny how you think a certain way when you have no idea what something is.

In my entire life, I've only had one manicure.  Why?  Because up until a few years ago, I never liked "girly" things.  I also am a self-convicted nail biter.  It's pretty subconscious thing.  My fingernails are really flat and super thin.  That means they tear easy and not much fun to grow out anyway.

But I learned what a pedicure was several years ago and boy did I love it.

The first time I had one, I was so nervous.  I was scared to have anyone touch my feet.  It was a fear that I didn't understand, but it would stress me out.  After my first dozen or so pedicures, I would go directly home and cry like a baby.  By the next day I would be so happy with my pretty toes and soft feet.  Yes, I had developed a secret love for the girlyness of a pedicure.

To most people, that wouldn't sound like that big of a deal.  For me, it was.  It took me a long time to really understand my crying, fearful reaction to having something done to my feet that I really did enjoy. 

When I was in grade school, my dad tortured my brother and I one day in a fit of rage that I still don't understand.  He stripped us of our clothes and sat us on the concrete floor of the garage.  One by one, he pulled our toenails off with a pair of pliers. 

I think my reaction to having anyone touch my toes was probably understandable.  As much as I love pedicures, I still get tense and can get teary-eyed afterward.

But....this is one, maybe the only one, little thing that I haven't let him steal every bit of joy out of.

My birthday was low-key this year.  I received one gift.  A gift certificate for a mani-pedi.  I going to go use that gift certificate.  I may get stressed and hate it for a moment, but I'm going to enjoy it afterward.  I'm going to enjoy a moment of girlyness.

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.